I thought he didn’t have hair on his legs because he was a runner, like it was some athlete thing. But, nowhere.”
The visual image that flashed through Jordan made her a little dizzy in a forget-about-eating kind of way. Also made her wish for a temporary case of blindness. “Wait, you mean, not anywhere on his body? Like, really none.”
“Yep.”
And—boom—there was the weirdness thing.
But for some reason Jordan couldn’t let it go. “Legs, arms and—”
“Nothing around his dick, either.” Elle started nodding and didn’t stop. “He shaved or waxed his private parts. Head-to-toe smooth like a baby. Try to imagine that.”
Jordan doubted she’d be able to stop thinking about it. “So, he basically looked like a Ken doll?”
“With a tiny dick. Exactly.”
Figures. “How tiny?”
“I don’t want to talk about him anymore.”
Jordan understood that. She had a line of forgettable dates behind her, but at least they all had the normal amount of body hair. She never dreamed she’d have to worry about that. Now she would. “Well, congratulations. He tops the guy I dated who stole my underwear.”
“Since that guy took your bikini bottoms only and a pair at a time, then stored them in a baggie in his freezer, no you still win the Creepy Dude prize.”
Jordan had blocked the freezer part. Huh, it all came rushing back now. “He was one giant nut bag.”
“One of many.”
“You do realize the last three guys I dated can be described as the guy-who-only-talked-about-his-dog, the guy-who-stole-my-underwear and the guy-who-lied-about-being-single.” And how depressing was that list of potential mates? “Maybe I should spend a little more time reading the site before I say yes to a date.”
“Or maybe a few nights with someone like Forest ‘Hot Between The Sheets’ Redder is the answer to your troubles.”
No way was Jordan diving into that conversation. She decided to start a new one and hope Elle somehow uncharacteristically came along. “So, did you get all the new status-report information entered?”
“Are we done with this topic?”
“I’m not sure how we even started it.”
Elle nodded in the direction of Jordan’s lap. “Did your mom text today?”
Jordan scooped up her cell and entered the unlock code. The thing had buzzed three times during the commute home. Jordan tensed as she read the most recent text. The stiffness eased out of her shoulders when she realized this one was G-rated. “She’s going dancing and will text tomorrow with a report.”
“Lucky you.”
Not that Jordan had a choice but to hear the after-date tale. Her mom texted every day and overshared. This week the topic was a guy named Lin. He’d taken her to the Bahamas to relax, though why her mom needed rest was a mystery. She didn’t work, unless you counted hunting down new men to marry as a job, which her mom did.
Elle gripped the armrest now. “Back up a second.”
“I don’t want to think about the Ken doll, or my mom, or my mom with a Ken doll.” The last one made Jordan want to discontinue her phone service.
“Forest. You’re saying you’re never going to see him again?”
“Not unless I get a temp job in his office or otherwise need to confirm a report, which sounds like—with all his rules—can only happen with the approval of the Supreme Court.”
“Think of working with him as an opportunity for desk sex.” Elle smiled as she said it.
Jordan knew she’d have that on her brain all night now. “Back to work.”
“Did you bring me dinner?”
Finally, a safe topic. No men, no mom, no underwear and no hair. “Already ordered. After all, we’re celebrating.”
“What?”
That one was easy. “Me never having to work for, let alone think about, Ryan Peterson again.”
Chapter Three
Subject Request for Nick Asher: Rumor is he likes to get drunk and pick up bridesmaids, even if he’s not invited to a wedding. Anyone have any information? —Member 339
Need to Know admin staff: Pending.
EARLY SATURDAY EVENING Jordan stood at the open bar and drank a silent toast to the bride, the newly minted Elizabeth Savory-West. Jordan could almost picture the personalized stationery. It would probably be in the same bright pink as the bridesmaids’ dresses.
Jordan had a harder time figuring out the bride, since Jordan had never actually met her. She stood now and watched Elizabeth swish around in her fluffy white dress, surrounded by tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of pink and white roses and her thirteen bridesmaids. Because that was a rational number. Jordan could barely come up with thirteen people she’d want at her wedding, never mind acting as bridesmaids.
She scanned the Highwater Observatory, the fancy room housing the reception. It was one of three ballrooms at the tony hotel on the edge of Georgetown. Jordan had to fight the urge to grab her phone and figure out how much the room rental cost. Something with skylights and “observatory” in its name couldn’t be cheap. Add in the paneled mahogany ceiling, glitzy chandeliers and rich golden fabrics and you had a very expensive few hours of dancing and cake.
She didn’t know one person in the room. That’s what happened when you crashed a wedding to scope out a groomsman. Word was Nick Asher enjoyed sleeping with bridesmaids—any bridesmaid—and sometimes skulked around weddings looking for sex partners. Sex, as in having it, then sneaking out before the hotel-room bill was paid.
He was a real classy guy, this Nick. Just went to show money couldn’t buy manners.
Right now she watched him move, circling a petite brunette and following her as she walked out the towering doors to the terrace. Jordan guessed it was time she got some fresh air, as well. She pivoted around one of the fancy columns at one end of the room and came eye-to-mouth with a guy.
At least it was a hot mouth, and the rest of the face...well, damn.
“How do you know Bitsy?” Forest stood there, dressed like James Bond, all sleek in a tux that fit him as if some dude stripped Forest naked and measured him for it.
Jordan felt all the blood leave her head. It had to be a reaction to the impressive outfit. No way was she responding to him. “What?”
“Bitsy.”
Clearly the rushing sound in her ears drowned out part of the conversation. “Is that a person or a thing?”
