Chapter 5
TWO WEEKS LATER
Jordan: I'm sorry Sabrina, I can’t make it tomorrrow.
I stare at the text, my hands twitching around my phone with the sudden urge to scream.
I should not care. I should absolutely not care. I've kept it cool for the last two weeks, leaving him on read, letting him do the chasing, and insisting we keep our communication strictly to chats. The real reason behind the rule? I hate what his voice does to me.
I read the text again and something hot and ugly snaps through me. All thoughts of playing it cool evaporate. I'm dialing his number before reason has a chance to catch up.
“What do you mean you can't make it back?” I demand the second he picks up.
He sighs. "I know, Bree. It's more than a little annoying. The partner at the L.A. rig broke his wrist while golfing yesterday. I'm the closest spare so I have to take over for him until he's out of the plaster."
"I see." I can't exactly argue with that although irritation flares inside me. "When is that going to be?"
"He's looking at three weeks."
I gasp. "Three weeks!"
There’s a beat of silence. Then, softly—too softly, he chuckles. “Bree, you sound…quite devastated.”
I’m furious that he noticed. I’m furious that I care at all.
“I am not!” I lie.
He chuckles, a low amused sound that always slips under my skin. “Sure you’re not.”
Ugh. I hate him. And I'm in so much trouble.
Because somewhere between our first awkward texts and the nightly banter that last until my phone overheats, or I nod off, this man—this impossible man—has become the highlight of my day.
I didn’t even realize. Not until tonight, when the idea of not seeing him made my chest feel hollow.
We’ve talked every single day since he left for Bakersfield. He would text between meetings, send memes that make me laugh out loud and share pictures of his views, like he’s sharing his world with me.
I was scared he might push me, but Jordan has been nothing but appropriate with me. If anything, I was the one who enjoyed flirting with him while he would simply acknowledge and validate me, then gently steer the subject to safer ground.
That made me want him more. I couldn't wait to have him walk me home from work. To share almost kisses with. To talk about random things and have him get it.
And now I have to wait another three weeks.
They pass agonizingly slowly. Needless to say the chat only rule died an instant death.
We now talk several times a day. He even helps with my homework.
Turns out Jordan Farrington is a genius at calculus.
Great. Perfect. Just what every overwhelmed high school girl needs: a billionaire genius repeatedly saving her from mathematical humiliation.
“You know,” he says one night as I make him go over one derivative after another, “if I didn't know better I think you only want me for my brain."
"But what else is there to want?" I tease.
He deliberately drops his voice an octave, as if he knows what it'll do to me. "You know there's plenty more to gorge on."
“P—please,” I sputter. “You wish.”
“Oh, baby. Do I fucking wish." Then in a normal voice, he continues. “Anyway — back to problem number 10. As always, we take the outer function first—.”
My toes are still literally curling and I'm supposed to focus on the chain rule of calculus? How does he do that? Switch on and off?
Sometimes he's so carefree and playful, I forget I’m lying on my bedroom floor in a ratty tank and boy shorts. Other times, with nothing but a tone—an inflection—he has me blushing all over and diving under the covers.
And then sometimes… sometimes he is an absolute disaster.
Like the day he called me at seven in the morning, sounding betrayed by life itself.
“I don’t understand why Marina would just quit on me. We just needed to talk things through, that's all”
“Jordan… What happened with your cook?”
“Oversalting."
"What?"
"She's a little heavy on the salt. I had to say something. And all I did was ask how long it takes for a man to die from salt poisoning. She looked at me like I was the poison.”
"Ouch."
"I'm ravenous, I have a three hour meeting at nine, and it's the middle of fucking nowhere on this rig. The universe hates me!"
“Jordan,” I say slowly, trying very hard not to laugh, “can't you just scramble an egg or something?”
"Scrambled egg." He says, like it's a new word. "Yeah I suppose I could."
And it dawns on me. "Can you even make it?"
“Of course,” he answers, deeply offended. Then, after a beat: “...if the microwave works.”
I cackle so hard I fall sideways on my bed. “What about porridge?”
“Easy. There'd be instructions on the box.”
“Cereal?”
“Oh come on. I can pour things.”
My stomach hurts from laughing. “Jordan, what will you eat?”
“A tragedy,” he says solemnly. “That’s what I'll eat.”
I end up teaching him how to make scrambled eggs, then grilled cheese. He video calls me from the kitchen like a helpless man-child. “Is the pan supposed to hiss like that?”
“Yes, Jordan.”
“Are you sure?”
“Stop poking the cheese—let it melt!”
“This feels dangerous,” he mutters.
“You are literally cooking a sandwich.”
“For your information,” he says, “I manage energy plants across multiple states. I am not built for—ah—shit—Bree—the cheese is—Bree—it’s leaking—”
“I swear to God, Jordan, if you burn that kitchen—”
“It’s fine,” he says quickly, then adds, “But hypothetically, if there were smoke—”
“OPEN A WINDOW!”
“Oh. Right.”
By the end of the week, he proudly reports, “You'll notice I made breakfast today without an intervention.”
“Oh wow,” I tease. “What culinary masterpiece did you whip up?”
“Toast.”
“With?”
He pauses, like he knows how pathetic it sounds. “Avocado.”
I laugh every time I think about it. And between the laughter, between the dumb things and the smart things and the tender things, I start to get attached.
Too attached.
It’s the little conversations that ruin me.
Like when I ask about his workers and he says, “Would you believe I just gave the L.A. workers a raise, as well as fucking arm and leg in union demands.
"Really?"
"I don't know what I was thinking."
“What will your father say?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
There’s a pause on the line.
“Oh, he's going to be tickled all shades of purple,” Jordan says, sarcasm laced through every word. Then, quieter: “He thinks raises make workers lazy. That rewarding loyalty is a weakness. He’d rather fire someone than listen to them.”
My teeth clench. I’ve never even met the man, but I already dislike him.
Jordan exhales sharply. “Doesn’t matter. I averted a full-blown union strike. And screw what he thinks. It was the right thing to do.”
I look at my phone like I can see him through it. “And that right there, Jordan Farrington, is the man you really are.”
Silence. Then, “Christ, Sabrina. You… fucking ground me, you know that?”
I blush hard as my heart flips over. That might be the sexiest thing anyone has ever said to me.
A few days later, I mention Murphy offering to take me to see the new release in my favorite Marvel series. He goes silent.
"Jordan?"
"You're joking, right"
No. I've been waiting two years for this sequel. Everyone at work knows I'm obsessed with it. And now it's finally out
“No,” he says. “You can't go with him.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“I’m not sharing you with some teenage fool who wants to score cheap shots by giving you something you've been excited about for months.”
“Jordan, he's just a friend who's doing something nice for me.”
“He's not your friend. Besides, if you want to go, I should be the one to take you.”
“You should be the one to—-why are you acting like—”
“Like you're mine?” he says, “Because you are.”
My jaw goes slack. Everything inside me goes hot and shaky.
“I’m… I'm not yours, Jordan,” I manage.
“Yes, baby,” he says simply. “You are.”
I hang up on him because I suddenly can’t breathe.
He calls back immediately. “Did you just run?”
“I have homework!” I squeak.
“You’re terrified,” he murmurs, sounding way too pleased.
“No I’m not!”
“Good,” he says. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”
I hate him. I hate him. And I’m completely, stupidly hooked.
By week four, I can’t pretend anymore.
The ache of missing him is constant. He’s been gone too long—and every day without him scratches something raw inside me.
So when he texts:
Cast came off a week early. I'll be in Henderson later today. Any plans?
I scream. And without thinking, I type back:
There’s a school party tonight. I didn't want to go, but maybe come with me? As… you know. A friend. Not a date. Not really. Anyway, just come.
His reply comes instantly.
Pick you up at eight. And Sabrina?
Yes?
It’s a fucking date.
My heart absolutely detonates.