Chapter 12 #2
"And your mother?" Mom asks. "Does she work with the company?"
Jordan's expression shifts—subtle, but I catch it. "She's an executive too, although prefers to defer her voting rights to my father."
A decision Jordan obviously hates. I file this information for later.
Mom and Dad exchange a look, but say nothing. By the time the dessert plates are scraped clean, the air in the room has changed completely. It's warm and easy.
Dad stands with a soft grunt, stretching his back. “Jordan, you mind helping with dishes?”
Jordan’s up before I can even blink. “Of course, sir.”
I start to rise too, but Mom lays a hand over mine. “Let them.”
I blink at her. Let them?
She gives me a small smile, but her eyes are following the two men into the kitchen like a hawk.
From my seat, I watch Jordan take off his blazer and roll up his sleeves. He takes the towel Dad tosses him and stands at the sink like he’s done it a hundred times before.
Dad washes and Jordan dries, the two of them working in companionable silence, until Dad speaks. “So, Jordan. What exactly do you want with my daughter?”
My heart stutters.
I can’t see Jordan’s face, but I hear his answer clearly.
“I’d like your blessing to be with her, sir.”
Dad sets a plate in the drying rack. “Be with her,” he echoes. “Meaning what, exactly?”
“Meaning having a serious, long term relationship with her.”
Dad finally turns to face him fully. “Sabrina’s still in high school and still figuring her life out. You don’t think it’s selfish, trying to plant yourself in the middle of all that?”
Jordan doesn’t flinch. “I think what would be selfish is if I don’t try to be in her life. To feel the way I do about her, to know how she feels about me, and turn my back on all of it because it's not pretty on paper.”
There's silence for several beats, then Dad sighs. “Look, you're older. Driven. Experienced in the ways of the world. Sabrina’s innocent.” Dad says.
Jordan’s voice is steady, but I hear the catch in it. “I hear what you're not saying sir. Your daughter is one of the most authentic people I’ve ever met, sir. She won't be overwhelmed by my world or anything I represent. If anything, she’ll be the one grounding me.”
I press a hand to my chest. Oh.
He pauses. “I respect her opinions. I admire her values. And I love her. Very much.”
Dad stops washing and dries his hands. "There's something else you left out. Sabrina is quite stubborn—always has been. Once she sets her mind on something, there's no talking her out of it."
Jordan chuckles. I know that, sir.
"Well, she seems to have set her mind on you."
Jordan goes still.
Dad steps to Jordan and growls. "Listen, Sabrina is my only child. She's my whole world. If you hurt her— Hurt her, and I don't care whose name you bear or how much money you have. I will bury you. You understand me?"
“I understand,” Jordan says quietly. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
A long, aching pause. Then Dad exhales. “Good.” He picks up the dish towel. "Let's finish these plates. Our girls are probably wondering if I've murdered you."
Our girls.
Daddy called me Jordan's girl. And just like that, permission granted.
An hour later, I walk Jordan to his car. The desert night air is crisp and dry, filled with the distant chirp of crickets and the faint hum of electricity in the air.
Jordan exhales like he's been holding his breath for hours.
"You okay?" I ask, bumping his arm lightly with mine.
He runs a hand through his hair, letting out a quiet laugh. “I feel like I just got knighted. Or hazed. Maybe both.”
I smile. “You did great. You passed the Bobby and Maria Wells vibe check.”
He raises an eyebrow. “I passed, huh?” His eyes dip to my mouth as he steps closer, hand settling at my waist.
"You know they're watching us, right?" I murmur, flattening my palm against his chest to slow him down.
"Oh, I know," he says, voice low. "Which is why I’m only doing this."
He leans in and kisses me. It starts out soft and chaste—the kind of kiss meant for front porches and curious parents peeking through curtains. But I can’t help wanting more. I rise onto my toes and slip my arms around his neck, pulling him closer.
His lips part against mine, and I deepen the kiss. His hand slides up to cradle my jaw, and I melt into him, the scent of his cologne mixing with desert air and apple pie. For a second, I forget everything except the fact that this man loves me—and I love him back.
Jordan pulls away first, breath uneven. “Go inside,” he murmurs, his forehead resting lightly against mine. “Before I forget where we are, too.”
I nod, flushed and dizzy, and stumble toward the door, heat still thrumming under my skin.
Inside, Mom and Dad are at the table, mid-conversation. I sag in relief. They didn’t see us kiss. Thank God.
“Well?” I ask, trying to sound casual. “What do you guys think of Jordan?”
“He’s not the pompous prick I expected,” Dad mutters.
Mom swats his arm. “Just admit you like the man, Bobby.”
He smirks. “Didn’t say I hate him.”
A grin spreads across my face. “I knew you’d love him!”
“Oh, Sabrina,” Mom says, her eyes sparkling. “He’s so charming. So self-assured. Kind, too. And the way he looks at you—”
“Yeah, I noticed,” Dad cuts in. “Which is what worries me.”
I roll my eyes, but I can’t even be annoyed. I’m too full of relief.
“In any case,” Dad adds gruffly, “I hope you two are being careful. And using birth control—”
“Ew, Daddy!”
“Bree, your father has a point,” Mom adds gently. “I had you at seventeen, remember? And from what we just saw out there on the porch...”
Crap. They did see.
“Mom.” I groan, burying my face in my hands. “That was... Look, we’re careful. Jordan is… super responsible, okay?”
They exchange a look that tells me they’re about to dig deeper, so I dart across the room and wrap them both in a hug, whispering a quick, sincere, “Thanks for giving him a chance.”
They soften and we fall into a post-dinner debrief, the way we always do after holidays or birthdays.
Mom talks about her pie, still flushed from Jordan’s compliments.
She’s convinced he hasn’t had a proper home-cooked meal in years.
Dad retells every line of their kitchen conversation like it was a poker match.
Mom wants clarification on everything—what Jordan meant by “learning more on the rigs,” why he seemed sad when talking about his mother. She’s reading tea leaves and rearranging syllables, already trying to figure him out. It’s overwhelming, a little embarrassing—and sweet.
Eventually, I claim a headache and retreat to my room, eager to talk to Jordan.
As soon as the door shuts behind me, I reach for the phone, delighted to see Jordan already sent me a text. I swipe it open.
Jordan:
I need you. Now.
My throat tightens. I press the message to my chest and then I'm stuffing my bed, then heading for the window.
I pause at the windowsill, guilt needling me. Less than two hours ago, my father, despite every instinct screaming otherwise, decided to trust that I'd be responsible. And I’m about to sneak out to spend the night with Jordan.
Still, Jordan rarely asks for anything. Rarely puts his needs over common sense or responsibility. But tonight he's aching for me. Tonight, I choose him.
I order an Uber and slip into the night, my heart hammering like it knows I won’t be able to do this forever.