Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Forge
Jordan studies me across the table, her expression shifting through a dozen emotions—curiosity, skepticism, hope, fear—all flashing by in a heartbeat. She grips her cup tightly, but she doesn’t look away.
I set my small incident-report notebook on the table between us. Her gaze narrows instantly, sharp and assessing, as if she’s preparing for cross-examination.
“Random selection,” I say, flipping it open.
Her eyebrows rise. “I’m sorry, what?”
“We get to know each other using the time-honored tradition of dating.”
The attorney across from me straightens in her chair, already preparing an objection, so I hurry to explain. “Not ordinary dating, though. No one in charge. No pressure. Completely non-traditional.”
Her shoulders ease, just slightly, and I take it as permission to continue.
“We each write down ten activities. Nothing too intimate, nothing too expensive—just things we might actually enjoy together. Then we let chance decide where we go and what we do. No overthinking, no grand gestures. Just… seeing what happens.”
Jordan stares at the notebook as if it might bite her. “You want to plan our… whatever this is… using random chance?”
“Think about it.” I lean forward, warming to the subject now that I can see genuine interest flickering in her eyes.
“Random selection removes all the pressure. You can’t overthink the choices because you didn’t make them.
I can’t try to impress you with perfectly crafted dates because I don’t know what we’re doing until we pick.
We’re just two people spending time together, seeing if we actually like each other when there’s no agenda. ”
“That’s…” She pauses, and I can practically see the wheels turning in her lawyer brain. “Actually, oddly genius. In a completely insane way.”
“I prefer ‘unconventional.’” I flip to a clean page and tear it out, sliding it across the table to her along with my pen.
“The rules are simple. Ten activities each. Nothing that requires overnight travel, nothing that costs more than a hundred dollars per person. We’ll count each outing as one activity, regardless of how many stops we make. Beyond that, anything goes.”
She picks up the pen, then sets it down again. “What if we pick something terrible? What if we end up at a monster truck rally and I hate every second of it?”
“Then we’ll have learned something about each other.” I shrug. “Maybe you’ll surprise yourself and love the chaos. Maybe I’ll discover I have strong opinions about automotive entertainment. Either way, we’ll have a story to tell.”
“And if this doesn’t work? If we do this whole random dating experiment and discover we have nothing in common beyond good chemistry?”
The question lands sharper than I want to admit, like a splinter under the skin. I force my voice steady, even though part of me sags at her resistance. “Then we’ll know. And we can both move on without wondering ‘what if.’”
She’s quiet for a long moment, studying my face as though she’s trying to solve a puzzle.
Around us, the coffee shop hums with afternoon conversations and the hiss of the espresso machine.
The couple at the next table is arguing quietly about weekend plans, and I find myself hoping we never end up like that—quarreling over logistics instead of fighting for each other.
“You’ve really thought this through,” she says finally.
“I’ve had since that morning to think about it.” I scrub my chin with my palm, suddenly feeling exposed. “Long days of wondering if I imagined the connection between us, of second-guessing every moment from that night.”
“Forge—”
“I know you’re scared, Jordan, and I know jumping into something new feels dangerous. But I’m not asking you to jump. I’m asking you to take one step at a time, with no promises except honesty.”
She picks up the pen again, this time holding it like she means to use it. “How many dates are we talking about before we… reevaluate? Ten? Five? Until we get through all twenty activities?”
“How about we start with three?” I suggest, wanting to eliminate any reason she might use to back out now. “Three random selections, three chances to see if there’s something worth exploring. After that, we reassess.”
“Three dates to determine the fate of… whatever this is.” Her hand waves back and forth between us and goes on a beat too long as though she’s deep in thought.
“Three opportunities to get to know each other without the pressure of grand romantic gestures or relationship timelines.” I tap the empty page in front of her. “What do you say, counselor? Brave enough to let fate have the wheel?”
I’m betting everything on this crazy plan, hoping random chance will show her that we’re worth the risk.
The smile that tugs at the corner of her mouth is the first genuine one I’ve seen from her since I walked into the coffee shop. “You know, for someone who runs into burning buildings for a living, you’re surprisingly methodical about dating.”
“Firefighting is all about calculated risks. You assess the situation, make a plan, and then execute with precision.” I gesture to the notebook. “This is just risk assessment with better coffee.”
“And if I say yes? What happens next?”
“We make our lists. Right here, right now.”
Jordan stares at the blank page for another moment, then looks up at me with an expression I can’t quite read. “This is either the most romantic thing anyone’s ever suggested to me, or the most ridiculous.”
“Can’t it be both?”
She laughs, real and genuine, and there’s something about it that’s almost like we’re sharing a secret.
The sound does something warm and dangerous to my chest. My pulse kicks up a notch, and I’m suddenly aware of everything about her—the way her fingers toy with her coffee cup, the slight tilt of her head when she’s thinking, the way the afternoon light catches the auburn highlights in her hair.
It feels like an eternity since I touched her, since I tasted that mouth, and my body remembers every detail with painful clarity. And damn if I don’t catch myself imagining what her mouth would feel like against mine right here in public.
“You know what? Fine. But I have conditions.”
“Name them.”
“No activities that involve heights. I’m talking rock climbing, skydiving, bungee jumping—none of it. I don’t care if it’s on your list or mine, that’s a hard no.”
“Noted. What else?”
“If we pull something that requires athletic ability beyond walking, you have to promise not to judge my coordination. Although I can argue a case in front of the Supreme Court, I once tripped over my own feet in a yoga class.”
“I once got my arm stuck in a vending machine trying to retrieve a bag of chips that didn’t drop properly. I think we’re even on the embarrassment front.”
Her laugh is easier this time, more natural. “Deal. One more thing—if either of us is genuinely miserable during an activity, we call it. No suffering through something terrible just to be polite.”
“Agreed.” I hold out my hand. “Partners in controlled chaos?”
She looks at my outstretched hand for a heartbeat longer than necessary, and I can see her deciding in real time. The moment she reaches out and takes my hand, something finally loosens in my chest.
“Partners in controlled chaos,” she agrees. The contact is electric—her palm warm and soft against mine, fingers slender but strong, her grip firm in a way that speaks of years spent negotiating deals and making promises she intends to keep.
My heart hammers against my ribs as memories flood back: these same hands gripping my shoulders, clutching my braids, mapping the planes of my chest with reverent touches. I force myself to let go before I do something stupid like lift her hand to my mouth and taste her knuckles.
When she pulls away and picks up the pen, there’s a new energy about her, like she’s stepped out of defensive mode and into problem-solving mode.
“Ten activities,” she murmurs, already writing. “This is either going to be the best idea you’ve ever had, or we’re both going to look back on this as the moment we completely lost our minds.”
I pull out my own pen and start my list, stealing glances at her bent head as she writes.
She’s biting her lower lip in concentration, the same expression she probably wears when reviewing contracts or preparing for depositions.
It’s unexpectedly endearing. And dangerous, because all I can think about is how those same lips looked flushed and parted beneath me.
“Question,” she says without looking up. “Are we talking L.A. area only, or is farther out fair game?”
“Anywhere within reasonable driving distance. We’re testing compatibility, not endurance.”
“Good. Because I’m putting down the Getty Center, and I want to make sure you’re prepared for several hours of art and culture.”
“I can handle art and culture.” I add ‘Vasquez Rocks hiking’ to my list. “Can you handle scrambling over fake alien planet landscapes?”
She glances up at me with raised eyebrows. “Are you testing my nerd credentials already?”
“Maybe.”
“I’ll have you know I own the entire original Star Trek series on DVD. Your move, firefighter.”
This is going to be interesting.
Five minutes later, we both set down our pens, fold our papers carefully, and then tear them into strips. The ceramic bowl from the middle of our table, now liberated from its sugar packet duties, sits between us like a vessel of possibility.
“Last chance to back out,” I say, holding my folded papers over the bowl.
“Too late for that.” She drops her papers in first, then watches as I add mine. “Now what?”
“Now we mix them up and see what fate has in store for us.” I swirl the bowl gently, watching twenty small pieces of paper dance around each other. “Want to do the honors?”
Jordan reaches toward the bowl, then pauses, her hand hovering over the edge. “Actually, wait. This feels too clinical. Too…” She gestures vaguely at the ceramic bowl. “Too much like picking names for jury duty.”