Add parsley, tomatoes, and tomato paste. Cook 5 minutes or until softened.
Add chicken stock, bring to a boil. Reduce heat to low and simmer until chicken is cooked through and gumbo has thickened, about 1 hour.
Melt remaining butter in a nonstick skillet. Cook okra until slightly crisp, 8–10 minutes, then add to gumbo. Cook gumbo additional 15 minutes. Discard bay leaf.
Serve over hot white rice.
TWENTY-EIGHT
BIANCA
When I emerged from the bathroom, Jackson was gone. A twinge of disappointment flattened me, but I perked up again when I saw what he’d left.
A gorgeous red dress beckoned from the bed. It was sleeveless, with a belted waist and a flared skirt, the better to conceal my abominable childbearing hips and accentuate my waist. When I ran my fingers over the fabric, it shimmered like silk.
Because it was silk. I looked at the tag on the neckline and made a loud, unladylike honking sound. How much had this cost? Probably less than the hunk of ice on my finger, I decided. All in all, getting married was turning out to be quite expensive for my future husband.
Husband. My nerves went all catawampus.
“Keep it together, Bianca,” I muttered, scooping up the dress. I headed into the bathroom to change and give myself a pep talk in front of the mirror. When finished with both, I had to admit I was looking rather well.
My eyes sparkled. The dress fit like a dream, and the color flattered my complexion. I was glad I’d worn strappy nude sandals instead of flats, because they were elegant enough to make the whole ensemble sing.
“Hair down.”
I jumped. Jackson stood in the open doorway, eating me up with his eyes. He made a gesture to indicate my updo held in place with its usual clip.
“Oh. Um. Okay.” I released the clip and shook my hair out. It fell around my shoulders in a swirling cloud.
Jackson looked like he’d been stabbed in the gut.
“Are you wearing that?” I asked, ignoring my thundering heartbeat.
“Yes.” He didn’t even glance at himself, he just kept staring at me with wild caveman eyes that did all sorts of unusual things to my body.
An idea started to gnaw at my brain, but I pushed it aside to concentrate on the situation at hand.
“Okay, I’m saying this only to be helpful, not judgy, but I think your old leather jacket and jeans might not be the most appropriate thing to wear to dinner with the parents you haven’t seen in years. Who live in a castle. And probably dine on solid-gold plates.”
When he didn’t respond, I added, “Also you clash with my outfit. Which I love, by the way. It’s beautiful. So . . .”
His gaze drifted slowly down my body, then back up again—one long, lingering sweep that was unabashedly lustful. I had to put a hand on the counter to steady myself.
He said, “Sure, I’ll change.”
Without moving from the doorway, he shrugged off the jacket and pulled his T-shirt over his head. Both slithered to the floor in a rustle of fabric and sat there, leaking air.
I sucked in a breath so loud it was almost a snort.
If I thought my silk dress was beautiful, it was a rag in a sewer compared to Jackson’s body. The fine trail of down I’d found so bewitching led up from his abdomen to his chest, where it flared out between his nipples, a dusting of dark hair that was both erotic and exquisitely masculine. I was so used to seeing male models in magazines and online who were waxed to a neutered, eye-watering shine that this almost looked pornographic.
Then there were the muscles. Lord, the muscles. He had them in places I didn’t know a person could have muscles, all sculpted and stacked and bulging, a pair of them shaped like a V from his hips to his crotch, like a neon sign advertising the way to his baby maker.
And don’t get me started on his skin. Men should not be allowed to have skin that glows. Skin so golden and perfect it looks sprayed on, like something out of an artist’s airbrush.
He was big, he was beautiful, and he was giving me a look like he was about to pull my dress up and bend me over the sink, and it was all too much for my poor little ovaries, who did the sensible thing and fainted.
“So this is what you do with all your free time,” I said, my voice a kitchen mouse’s squeak. “Work out.”
His eyes burning blue fire, Jackson said softly, “Would you like to pick out my clothes for me? Since you’re in the mood to be helpful?”
I tried to laugh but ended up sounding like I was attempting to expel a hairball from my throat. So attractive. “I’m sure you can manage.” I turned away, not trusting myself to walk past him into the room, and started fussing over my hair like the giant coward that I was.
Our eyes met in the mirror. He didn’t smile, but I got the sense he wanted to. I got the sense that he was pleased as punch with himself, so I sent him a frown.