Chapter 6
“He’s here!” I say to Molly, already grabbing my bag.
My pulse kicks up hard. After four weeks of late-night calls, stupid math jokes, and hearing his voice drop to lulling whispers every time I yawned—Jordan’s finally back.
Molly winks the second I back toward the kitchen door. “Go,” she whispers, flapping her hand. “And tell that tall drink of water he owes me a week of tips for covering your shift.”
“I will,” I whisper back, even though I absolutely will not.
I pause just inside the doorway, suddenly too nervous to look out the back window to the parking lot where Jordan is waiting. I check my reflection one last time in the cracked mirror—smooth my fitted off-shoulder top, tug the hem of my short flared orange gingham skirt into place.
This is my most flattering outfit. A gift from my aunt Bea who lives in New York. Also something I’ve never actually worn before. It’s cute. Sweet. And a little frumpy for a glam party.
I hope I don’t stand out too much.
Until this morning, I had zero intention of going to Carol Peterson’s eighteenth birthday party.
I don’t do parties. I never have. But with Jordan back, I wanted…
something different. And if I’m honest, the thought of sitting across from him at dinner makes me so nervous I’m sure I’d spill something or say something stupid, or too flirty. Or not flirty enough.
A party feels safer. Louder. Less focused.
Carol’s party is the event of the summer—her boyfriend, the richest boy in our year, is hosting it at his parents’ mansion while they’re out of town.
With a steadying breath, I push open the back door to find Jordan leaning against the car hood.
He’s dressed simply—black T-shirt, dark jeans—but he looks like money anyway. It's as if wealth itself is stitched into his posture. His hair is a mess and his eyes scorch as they lift to me.
And then I notice the nondescript sedan. He rented a cheap car because knew that showing up at a high school party in his Aston Martin would embarrass me. My chest tightens painfully.
“Sabrina,” he rumbles. There’s so much longing packed into those three syllables it nearly knocks me over.
“Hi, Jordan.”
“You look beautiful,” he says, opening the passenger door.
“Thanks. Although the theme of the party is sparkly and naughty. I may be woefully underdressed, but it's all I could whip up.”
He reaches out, placing a hand lightly on my stomach, stopping me mid-spiral. “You take my breath away, Sabrina. Just the way you are.” he says softly.
My cheeks flame. Goosebumps ripple down my arms. My belly clenches.
Yes. Jordan is back.
***
The party is already loud when we arrive—string lights, pounding music, bodies everywhere, people grinding in corners like nobody has parents.
Murphy spots me first.
And the way he looks at me? Like I’m a buffet item.
It doesn't get much better with the rest of the boys in my year. Either because I've never worn anything remotely flattering. Or because with a hot older boy on my arm, they've suddenly taken notice of me and want to flex their territorial muscles.
What's most baffling, though, is Jordan's attitude. Every time a boy comes to speak to me, instead of staking his claim, he steps behind me. As if giving them room to chat me up. Like he’s my older brother who wants me to have fun while still making sure I'm safe.
Are you kidding me? I've been on pins and needles, dying to be near him for the past four weeks. And he's acting like he's about to fall asleep?
He doesn’t put an arm around me. He doesn’t hold my hand. He doesn’t even scowl at the boys throwing me compliments. He just greets them with this cool, professional nod.
I, on the other hand, am just about ready to kill the girls swarming him.
Older girls from community college, high school seniors, juniors and even sophomores get more daring as the night progresses.
Everytime one of them approaches I sidle closer to him, link my arm through his, interrupt them or ask him to go get me a drink.
One girl with red lipstick actually asks him out. Right in front of me.
“So, Jordan, are you like… free for a drink later?”
He flashes her a smile and tells her he's not free.
But he still smiles at her.
I want to scream.
When another girl touches his arm and giggles, “Wow, your eyes are unreal,” I nearly bite through my tongue.
Jordan stays respectful and ever so charming but every second of it scrapes at something raw inside me.
And the worst part?
He won’t even let me drink.
“Sabrina,” he murmurs, frowning when I take a red solo cup from a cocktail table. “You don’t know what’s in that.”
“I’m not a child.”
“I'm not saying you are,” he says calmly. “I just won’t watch you drink something random.”
He takes the cup and throws it out.
In front of everyone.
My humiliation burns through my veins.
I excuse myself to go to the bathroom.
"If he wants to be an ass, let him be an ass," I tell my red faced reflection. Maybe it's one of those things when people connect so intensely over the phone and the connection fizzles out in person.
I vow to avoid him for the rest of the night, choosing to hang out with Molly and Sam instead, but within minutes I find myself back at his side.
"I'd like to leave." I say suddenly. "Take me home Jordan."
He walks beside me to the car, still keeping that same respectful distance and I seethe.
How could he be so cool and collected, at a party where there's license to sin. And after four weeks apart. He clearly didn't miss me.
He opens my door like always. I slide in, stiff with things I don’t know how to say. He starts the engine. The mansion fades behind us, music thudding distantly.
The silence in the car becomes unbearable.
After a full minute, he asks, carefully, “Do you really want me to take you home, Bree?”
“No.” I snap
He doesn’t argue. Another block passes before he speaks again, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Sabrina.”
There it is. That tone. Steady. Patient. Like he already knows the truth and is giving me time to catch up.
“I said nothing!” I snap.
He exhales roughly, then signals and turns down a quieter road.
“What are you doing?” I demand.
“Not taking you home,” he replies.
My chest tightens. “Yeah, but where are you going?”
“Somewhere we can talk.”
I cross my arms and stare out the window. “You obviously didn't want to be at the party.”
“That’s not true.”
“You wouldn’t touch me. You wouldn’t look at me.”
His jaw tightens. "Sabrina—"
“You let every girl in Henderson throw themselves at you like I wasn’t standing right there.”
The car slows. Neon bleeds across the windshield.
Henderson Fun Park. The Ferris wheel turns lazily against the night sky, lights blinking like it’s holding its breath.
Jordan pulls up in an empty spot.
“I'm so not in the mood for rides.”
“I know. Just wait here for me.”
The air smells like popcorn and hot asphalt and sugar. Kids laugh. Couples wander hand in hand. Everything is too bright, too normal, too soft for the knot in my chest.
Jordan disappears for a few minutes then returns with a massive cloud of pale pink cotton candy.
He opens my door, offering a hand. I don’t take it, instead glare at the cotton candy. Is he seriously trying to pacify me with spun sugar?
“It’s not for you. It's for me.” He says when he sees my glare. "Come on."
Allow him to pull me out of the car.
“I'm craving sugar tonight,” he says, holding my gaze, and there’s something in his eyes that makes my chest tighten.
I grit my teeth and look away, not ready to let go of my annoyance. "Whatever."
He steps closer, caging me against the side of the car.
“Talk to me, Bree. What did you hate most about tonight?”
I roll my eyes, then say it anyway. “Everything. But mostly because you acted like I was your kid sister. Like is that how you see me—”
His hand braces beside my head, leaning in. His voice is low and steady.
“Sabrina, if I didn’t act that way, I would’ve done something I can’t take back.”
“Like what?”
He tears off a piece of the cotton candy and holds it up to my mouth. “Eat.”
Without thinking, I open. It melts on my tongue. Sweet and sudden.
He feeds me another piece, slower this time. The sugar sticks to my lips.
“Bree,” he says, voice rougher now, “I spent the last month thinking about you. Your eyes. Your mouth. The way you laugh when you’re nervous. The way your breath catches when I get too close.”
My pulse stutters.
“And then tonight,” he goes on, “after weeks of missing you, I walk into a house full of boys who think they’re entitled to you because they’re drunk and loud and in high school.”
I swallow hard.
He leans in again, closer this time, until there’s no space between us but air and heat.
“If I’d held you tonight the way I wanted to,” he murmurs, “you would’ve been the only thing people talked about come Monday.”
“So instead, you just… ignored me?” I whisper.
“No.” He tears off another piece and feeds it to me. “I held myself back.”
“I thought you said this was for you,” I say around a mouthful of sugar.
“Oh, it is,” he says, eyes on my lips. “I’ve always had a sweet tooth.”
His gaze drops to my mouth. "And tonight, I'm starving."
“What are you doing?” I whisper.
He brushes the corner of my mouth with his thumb, collecting the sugar. Then he brings it to his lips and licks it off slowly. “Eating candy."
Jordan kisses me.
It starts as a brush—gentle, testing—but his hand slides to the back of my neck, pulling me in. His mouth moves over mine, slow at first, then deeper, hungrier, like he’s been holding this in for too long.
He kisses like he’s claiming something.
His tongue traces the seam of my lips, and when I open for him, the kiss turns molten. I rise onto my toes, my hands curling into the front of his shirt, needing something to hold onto.
He groans low in his throat and the sound slides straight through me.
His other hand finds my waist, anchoring me in place. He presses closer, and I swear I feel the full length of him against his thigh. Everything else—lights, sound, the world—fades. Without thinking, I surge against him.
Suddenly—he tears his mouth away and takes a step back, then he presses his forehead to mine, breathing hard.
“God,” he whispers. “I should not have done that.”
My voice shakes. “You should have.”
He lets out a broken laugh and rests his forehead against mine, eyes closed. “No. I really shouldn’t have. Because now I know how you taste. And it’s going to ruin me.”
He pulls back enough to look at me, his gaze lingering on my now-swollen lips.
“Tell me again that you’re seventeen.”
I lick my lips, chasing the remnants of sugar and Jordan's taste, then whisper. “I turn eighteen in just two months.”
His jaw clenches. “Christ,” he breathes. “This is going to be hard.”