Finding Love /Jordan Knight FanFic/NKOTB

XVI

Caroline

IT'S BEEN THREE days since Jordan and I went to the festival and out to dinner, and we haven't seen any pictures of us emerge on any websites. That's not to say they aren't out there or aren't being saved for later, but for now, life seems to be moving along uninterrupted.

Last night, I dreamed about when Clare and I were kids. It's funny how dreams work. We have a lifetime of memories, but in my dreams I always find us in the same place doing the same thing. We're lying on a blanket in the field behind our parents' home, blowing dandelions and watching the clouds roll over us. Some days I miss the field; other days it's more nightmare than dream.

"What are you doing?"

Jordan's voice startles me from the memory and I jump. He's leaning against the sliding glass door; I didn't even hear him open it. I also didn't realize how late in the afternoon it is—the sun has already started to drop, and the temperature is cooling off.

Standing up straight, I brush the dust off my shorts as his eyes travel the length of me once before scanning over the mess I've made of his balcony. I'm wearing a pair of cutoff shorts Patrick always hated, but watching Jordan's eyes flare slightly, I know he doesn't share the same sentiment. I also realize I don't care if he likes my shorts or not, because I do. I'm not trying to impress him, I'm just being me, and after the incident at the marina restaurant, it feels good knowing I'm taking baby steps. Mentally, I pat myself on the back.

"Don't worry, I'll clean it all up," I say, feeling slightly embarrassed and awkward but smiling on the inside.

"I'm not worried, but what are you doing?"

I look around to see what he sees. The balcony is larger than what you would expect for a condo, stretching the full length from his bedroom down to the living room, which makes it the perfect workspace for me.

"Sanding down any of the finish that might still be left on the frame of the mirror while adding some texture so the new paint will adhere." Earlier, I took the actual mirror out of the frame and placed it against the far wall then pushed his furniture out of the way and laid the frame down on a drop cloth. Around it are rags, two sizes of scrapers, sandpaper, a toothbrush, varnish remover, paint primer, and dust—lots of dust.

"Where did you get all this stuff?" He waves his hand toward my materials.

"Amazon Prime."

"Prime," he mumbles to himself. "Wait . . ." He steps closer to me, frowning. "I never even considered this, but do you need money?"

"Money?" I stand up straight and turn to face him. "No, why?"

"I brought you here, you don't work, and I had this sudden horror that your family cut you off and I wasn't helping you."

This guy is something else, and affection for him blooms in my chest at his thoughtfulness. Isn't it just like him to continue to worry about me and all the details surrounding me too?

"No, I'm not cut off. I have a trust fund that was given to me by my grandfather. It's mine, and my father can't take it from me, but I also do make my own money. The weeks leading up to the wedding, I had a lot of time to work on several pieces. They are in stores throughout Savannah on consignment, and I make money when they sell."

"I see."

I see, too. Jordan is wearing a dark gray T-shirt with a worn pair of jeans that sit low on his hips, and he's barefoot. He looks freshly showered, and he looks so good.

Moving over to his furniture, he kicks one chair to face me and sits down in it. "Here, I brought this out for you." He sets down a bottle of beer on the table.