Chapter 3
Molly stands at the kitchen doorway like a linebacker.
“Molly,” I whisper-shout. “Duck! You’re going to make it obvious.”
“He already saw you dive behind the soda fridge,” she replies dryly. “And he’s looking at me right now, so… it’s too late to salvage your dignity.”
I groan. I dove. Like a startled cat with zero self-respect.
But what am I supposed to do when Jordan Farrington insists on driving across town every day for a single slice of pizza and a cup of diabetic coffee?
Molly peeks again and sighs. “Jesus. Mary. Joseph. That man looks…”
My heart does this stupid galloping thing. I press my back against the stainless-steel fridge and—God help me—give in to the shameful urge. “Describe him.”
Molly beams like Lucifer just gave her a promotion. “You already know he's built like a decade of gym memberships. But what you don't see is today's hair. It's giving I-haven't-slept-because-supermodels-were-climbing-on-me-all-night.”
I instantly regret asking.
“Now, he’s wearing a leather jacket, a sinfully tight white tee, and jeans that are working very, very hard right around the crotch area. Based on the fit, the rumors about big feet? Confirmed.”
“Molly!” I glare at her.
“What? You asked for details. Anyway, he's heading to his usual table. It faces the kitchen—of course—all the better to see you. Murphy’s gone over there. Taking his order. Or trying to. Uh oh. Murphy’s puffing up now. This won’t be good.”
I groan again.
Murphy—Pizza Fiesta’s heir and self-appointed alpha—has the social skills of wet cardboard and the ego of a small dictatorship. He has also been “inviting” me to lunch for six months, as if that’s not what we already do on shift.
Molly’s eyes widen. “And they're arguing now. You better go rescue your man before Murphy tries to arm-wrestle him.”
“He’s not my anything,” I hiss. “And I can’t go out there.”
“Why not?”
“Because!” I gesture helplessly. “Jordan will… he'll look at me. And make me sit with him. And…” My voice drops to a pathetic whisper. “He’ll ask me out again.”
Molly cackles like a witch in heat. “Exactly why you should go! Murphy needs a tutorial on how a real man treats a woman he likes. Go get your man, girl.”
My face bursts into flames. “Molly, stop,” I hiss. “You know he’s too old for me.”
Molly rolls her eyes so hard her entire head moves.
“Sabrina Wells, you've paid half the bills in your house since you were fifteen. You run this place better than Murphy’s dad.
You're far wiser than boys your age and handle responsibility like a forty-year-old woman with a mortgage. An older, loaded man is exactly what you need.”
I can only stare. “That wasn’t the least bit flattering, Molly.”
“Hell, yes it,” she deadpans.
“It wasn’t! And I’m not seeing Jordan today.”
Molly narrows her eyes. “Fine! Be like that, then.”
She walks toward the grills and bellows, “Madeline!”
Madeline—our grill worker, with just-turned-twenty-one confidence and a habit of flirting with every UPS driver—looks up. “Yeah?”
“Take off your apron and go look after table four. Bree’ll be covering the grill for a bit.”
“What? Why?” Madeline asks.
“There’s a hot guy who needs rescuing from Murphy. Let’s just say—you’ll thank me later.”
Madeline strains her neck to peek into the diner, then squeals, rips off her apron, shakes out her hair, reapplies lip gloss, and grabs a clipboard like she’s auditioning for The Bachelorette.
I gape at Molly. “You did not!”
“I sure did. And why not?” she taunts. “Madeline’s Jordan's age anyway. And she looks like you if you were older and blonder.”
Her gaze drops—pointedly—to my chest. “Same… proportions. I wonder if Jordan’s into blondes as well as brunettes?”
My jaw drops as something hot and violent twists low in my stomach.
“Oh look now,” Molly rubs her hands together gleefully. “Madeline's over there fluffing her tits. Jordan's a goner, for sure!”
“Molly—” I gasp, horrified, but I can’t help it. I step out from my hiding place and look.
Madeline saunters toward table four, her cleavage leading the way, hips swinging with Broadway confidence.
My pulse stutters as she puts one manicured hand on the table and leans over Jordan.
Jordan looks up. His expression perfectly polite. Charming, even. It’s nothing like the way he looks at me—that mixture of respect and degradation. Restraint and hunger.
Still, he’s smiling at her. Speaking to her. Nodding at something she says. And freaking breathing the same air as her.
I want to claw her eyes out.
Madeline tosses her head back and laughs at something—probably a sentence with no punchline. The sound scrapes down my spine like nails on a chalkboard.
My throat burns before I feel the moisture in my eyes.
Hell no. I refuse to cry over a man I’ve only spoken to twice.
Just then, Jordan’s gaze shifts over Madeline’s shoulder straight to me. The moment our eyes lock, his expression changes, almost like someone struck a match inside him.
Polite charm switches to scorching heat. My breath seizes.
I panic, instantly turning my back on them, reaching blindly for the jar of hazelnuts, sifting through the contents like a deranged raccoon while Molly cackles like a demon. It’s no use. I can still feel his stare on the back of my neck.
Damn him.
Damn. Him.
Madeline returns a few minutes later, flushed and glowing. “Oh. My. God. Molly. He is so hot! And such a gentleman, too. And would you believe he has the cutest sweet tooth? He’ll be back again tomorrow. Sabrina, we should swap again—right? You don’t mind?”
“Whatever,” I say, voice thin. “He’s yours.”
Madeline’s grin widens. “Thanks! You’re the best.”
I swallow hard—fighting the sting in my eyes as Madeline floats back to the grill.
Molly sidles up beside me, smug. “So? What do you say? Is the man yours or what?”
“I’m going to kill you,” I whisper.
She pats my cheek like a proud villain. “I’ll die a happy woman.” Then she walks away, whistling.
Quiet settles over me like the end of a performance, when the curtain’s come down but the lights haven’t yet.
I step back and lean against the fridge, eyes burning, and stare at the ceiling like it holds answers.
I don’t know what’s worse—that Jordan didn’t stop Madeline from flirting with him. Or that he looked at me like he wanted to punish me.
I press a fist to my chest. "Just breathe, Sabrina. It’s only Tuesday. He’ll be back tomorrow."