The One He's Been Looking For. Joanna Sims
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I’m afraid we won’t be able to be Facebook friends anymore.”
Barbara ignored her daughter’s teasing remark. “Your hair was so naturally beautiful, Jordan. Do you know how many women would pay good money to have hair like that? And look what you’ve gone and done. You’ve ruined it!”
“Mom. It’s hair dye. It’s not permanent.”
“Not permanent?”
“Okay, let me rephrase that...it’s not forever.”
“Your father thinks that it looks like a clown exploded on your head!”
“Uh...wow! I can’t believe Dad said that! I’m not going to tell Amaya. She can be very sensitive about her work. It wasn’t easy for her to get just the right blend of fire engine red, magenta madness and tangerine bliss.”
“Amaya? Amaya did that? She isn’t a hairstylist!”
“True,” Jordan said of her roommate. “But she is a trained ice sculptor, among other things. We figured they were related disciplines.” Jordan laughed as she stepped out onto the sidewalk.
After a short pause, Barbara added, “And here your dad went to all that trouble to get you an interview with the head of the art department at Montana State so you can finally finish your master’s degree. What in the world are they going to think of you with that hair?”
Jordan stopped in her tracks and looked up at the sky in frustration. “Oh, my God, Mom! We’ve already discussed this like a thousand times! I am not...and I repeat...I am not moving to the middle of nowhere Bozeman, Montana. I’d rather die a slow and painful death!”
“What’s wrong with Bozeman? It’s a college town!” Barbara seemed genuinely surprised. “And you can paint anywhere after all. What’s more inspiring than Montana in spring?”
“Mom. I have my first gallery show coming up. Do you know how insane it is that a gallery is actually willing to sponsor an unknown artist?” When her mother didn’t respond, Jordan added, “Mom. I love you. But you’ve gotta accept that I’m not moving back to Montana.”
Just as her mom was about to continue making her case, Jordan spotted a San Diego police officer standing beside her motorcycle. He was writing down her tag number.
“Hey! Wait!” she called out to the policeman. “Mom, I’ve gotta go. RoboCop is writing me a ticket.”
“Jordan!”
She made a kissing sound into the phone. “I love you. Give Dad a hug for me!”
Jordan tapped the end call button and jammed her phone into her pocket. “Officer, wait. I’m gonna move it right now!”
The man had naturally golden skin, coal-black hair and the muscular frame of a guy who spent most of his spare time in the gym. He looked up at her and she saw that his eyes were the rich color of a Kona coffee bean. “Is this your motorcycle?”
“Yes.”
“License, registration, proof of insurance.” He was all business.
“Officer, please. I was just about to move it. I was late and—”
“License, registration, proof of insurance, ma’am.” He was unmoved by her explanation, she could see.
Crap!
Jordan rested her helmet on the seat of her bike, pulled the license out of her back pocket and handed it to him.
The cop looked at the license and then said, “Registration, proof of insurance, Ms. Brand.”
“I don’t have it on me.” Jordan inwardly cursed her own carelessness. How could she have left the house without her wallet?
“Wait here,” the officer said before he walked back over to his own motorcycle.
Jordan followed him. “You don’t understand. I just got my license back—”
“Stay with your vehicle, ma’am!” The cop stopped in his tracks and made a gesture that let her know he wasn’t in the mood for any further argument or explanation.
Jordan took in a deep, frustrated breath as she walked back to her bike. She sat sidesaddle on the seat and stuffed her hands into the front pockets of her faded jeans.
As she watched the officer call her information in, all she could think of was the negative balance in her checking account. The money she’d just made selling customized tattoo designs to Marty needed to go into the account pronto if she had any hope of breaking even. It was a financial reality that occasionally selling tattoo designs and bartending on weekends at Altitude weren’t enough to keep her right side up. But by her calculation, all she really needed to do was keep afloat until the gallery show. Then she’d be in the black. Well, that plan was looking like a real long shot now that RoboCop was about to blow up her flotation device.
Jordan was still calculating how screwed she was financially when her eyes were drawn to a man walking with long, determined strides in her direction. He was tall with a lean build, broad shouldered, and he walked with the natural swagger of a successful man who was wealthy and knew he was good-looking to boot. Just the type of man Jordan avoided like the plague: cocky, egoistical, narcissistic and way too GQ pretty for his own good.
“Wolf.” The man spoke in a deep, authoritative baritone voice that was just as pleasant to the ears as his chiseled facial features were to the eyes. He didn’t look her way as he stepped off the sidewalk and strode over to the officer. “Logan Wolf?”
The officer looked up from his notepad.
“I thought that was you.” The well-dressed man didn’t bother to take off his amber-colored sunglasses as he extended his hand. “Ian Sterling.”
“Sterling Silver?” The policeman smiled and shook Ian’s hand. “It took me a minute to recognize you. How the heck are you?”
“I’m good. Scouting a shoot.”
“Around here? I’ve seen you on TV a couple times and I thought, ‘not bad for a guy the senior class voted as most likely to get arrested.’”
Ian smiled briefly. “If I remember correctly, you tied me for that honor.”
Officer Wolf laughed. “I was hoping you’d forgotten about that, in light of my current profession.”
Jordan listened to the exchange between the two men with growing impatience. She was tired, hungry and she wished that GQ and RoboCop would have their little frat-boy reunion on someone else’s time.
“Listen, I’m sorry if I made you get out your pad for nothing,” Ian said.
“What do you mean?”
She was just about to interrupt their little reunion party when Ian gestured to her. “She’s one of my models. I asked her to park here, and she shouldn’t get a ticket for something I asked her to do.”
“You asked her?” The cop sounded skeptical as he glanced over at her.
“That’s right,” Ian said smoothly as he tried, unsuccessfully, to read the name on her license. “And I’d really appreciate it if we could just call this a warning.”
RoboCop didn’t look totally convinced as he tapped his pen on the ticket pad. For whatever reason, this Ian character was attempting to help her beat the ticket, and she fully intended to do her part in order for him to succeed.
Jordan pushed away from the motorcycle, walked straight over to Ian and said, “You’re late, Mr. Sterling.”
GQ looked down at her and examined her from behind his sunglasses, just as if he was examining a bug trapped in a glass jar.
“I’m sorry about that. A conference call held me up,” he said. Jordan had the distinct feeling that giving an apology, even a fake apology, left a bitter taste in this man’s mouth.