Chapter 2
"He wants one slice of pepperoni pizza, a coffee with four sugars, and you," Molly announces.
I straighten. "Me?"
"Yep, asked for you again. Go."
I groan, my heart racing. "He ordered a single slice of pizza? We never sell pizza by the slice."
Molly shrugs. “Who cares? Just go give the man what he wants.”
I make his coffee, wondering why anyone needs that much sugar, then grab a paper plate and slide the pizza on top.
My feet feel like they’re made of wet sand as I cross the floor toward table four.
The man stands the moment I’m within three steps of him.
Freaking stands.
Which is wild, because no guy has ever stood for me. Definitely not the boys at Dyson High.
His long, powerful body unfolds from the chair, and suddenly the pizzeria feels too small to contain him.
“Hello,” he says with a shy smile. His eyes are anything but. They blaze—blue and bright and are devastatingly focused on me.
My hand trembles as I set the coffee and plate down. “Pepperoni,” I announce, because apparently that’s all the vocabulary left in my brain.
“Thank you, Sabrina.”
My name in his mouth does something traitorous to the backs of my knees.
The moment I step away, he gestures toward the seat across from him. “Will you sit with me for a moment?”
“I—I’m busy. Working.”
He glances pointedly around the near-empty pizzeria, then toward the counter. Molly is standing there with a death scowl as she slowly drags her thumb across her throat. Sit or die.
Oh for Chrissake.
I sit.
He waits until I’m settled before easing back down, all controlled grace. His forearms flex subtly as he rests them on the table.
“You weren’t here this morning.”
My stomach drops. He came here earlier today. Again? Stalkery much?
“I was at school,” I say.
"School?" He asks with a frown.
“Yeah. I’m in high school.”
He blinks as if shocked, then recovers smoothly. “Senior year?”
I nod. “Yes, I graduate in four months.”
He leans back on his chair, his expression going pensive. “I see.”
He says nothing, sipping his coffee, and something tells me he's disappointed. I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and push past the awkward pause. “You, uh… are you in college?”
“Not anymore.” He says tightly. “I graduated.”
I knew that. I just hope not too long ago. "When?"
He holds my gaze, fully aware of what I’m really asking. “I’m twenty-three, Sabrina.”
Twenty-three.
“You—you’re old,” I whisper.
“I know.” He searches my face with something too gentle to be dangerous, but my heartbeat still kicks into overdrive anyway.
“What do you do?” I blurt, desperate to redirect before my brain leaks out of my ears.
His expression shifts. He looks… reluctant. “I work for my father. At the oil rig.”
Something inside me drops. Hard. There are a few oil rigs in Henderson, but surely—surely it’s not the same one. “Apex Energy?”
He straightens. “How did you know?”
Oh, crap. It is the same company. I shrug, feigning innocence. “Lucky guess.”
"Huh." Jordan tilts his head to study me and I feel it like heat on my skin.
“What’s your last name?” I blurt, though by some instinct I already know.
His face darkens. “Farrington.”
Double crap. He's Brendan Farrington's son. The supervisor my dad and his buddy won’t shut up about. The “rich kid” who, according to them, couldn’t tell a drill from a doughnut. And landed the job only because his daddy owns the place.
“My dad works as a foreman at Apex Energy.”
His brows lift. “Really? He must be one of the contractors.”
“Yes. He only started this summer.” My mouth runs ahead of my good sense. “You’re—you’re my father’s boss.”
“Not exactly,” he says, lips twitching. "Right now I’m just another employee.” His gaze burns into mine. “Is that going to be a problem, Sabrina?”
A problem? Other than my father burying me alive if I even look at this man?
I blink hard—mostly to suppress a nervous laugh. “A problem. Why would that be a problem? Everyone’s welcome here at Pizza Fiesta.”
Jordan freezes for a heartbeat, then flashes a grin so lethal I forget how to breathe. “Great. I’ll take that as a no.”
Oh no. Why does it feel like I just agreed to something? Like I batted my eyes and flirted?
Because you did, Bree.
I panic-switch subjects. “Do you enjoy working for your father?”
He rears back, surprised. “Funny, no one’s ever asked me that.”
He rears back, clearly surprised. “Funny. No one’s ever asked me that.”
“Really?” Something warms in my chest at the color rising in his cheeks. Suddenly bolder, I give him a once-over, biting my lip. “Somehow, I’d think people would be begging to know everything about you, Jordan.”
He throws me a searing look—blush still lingering—and for a second, my heart stops.
“Hardly,” he says. “Most people are too busy nervously counting down the years until I take over as CEO and turn the company Democrat.”
I blink. “Turn Democrat?”
He shrugs. “My father supports Republican energy bills. He’s been CEO for thirty years.”
I get what he means. His views are more liberal compared to the company’s current architecture and policies. There’s tension in his shoulders now, despite his relaxed posture. Why can I feel it so clearly? It’s almost like I’ve already learned how to read him.
“So if you switch sides and turn Democrat,” I say quickly, trying to ease the mood, “will lightning strike the company dead or something?”
He laughs—a low, warm rumble that runs straight through me. Then he shakes his head, voice dropping. “On the contrary. We’d be all the better for it.”
I hold his gaze until I can’t. Now I’m the one blushing, and I have no idea why. We’re talking politics. Right?
“So back to your question,” he says quietly. “You want to know if I enjoy it?”
I nod, relieved he’s shifted the subject.
“To be honest?” He exhales. “It fucking sucks.”
The playfulness drops out of the moment and I realize two things at once. Jordan Farrington may be bigger than I thought, but he’s infinitely more human.
Something in me shifts. Like a flower tipping toward sunlight. Before I realize what I'm doing, I reach for his hand. “That sounds… exhausting.”
He slowly links our fingers. Tingles spread from his hand into mine, and I instinctively move to snatch my hand away.
He holds fast.
“It is exhausting,” he admits. “But I have to put up with it, you see. It’s my company. My employees. My family.”
I nod. I get it—the weight of responsibility on him. “That's true. But surely you could do better than just putting up,” I say softly. “Life sucks by default, Jordan Farrington. You just have to find your slice of heaven to make it worth it.”
He stares at me as if he’s never been spoken to that way before. Then whispers, “How old are you?”
I swallow hard. “Seventeen.”
His eyelids fall shut, and he curses under his breath. A moment later, he lets my hand go.
For a beat, I think I’ve ruined everything.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, eyes down. “I didn’t mean to lecture you. I just… I think people need to own their happiness. Be intentional about it.”
His voice, when it comes, is softer than before. “And what makes you happy, Sabrina?”
Something shifts. Something huge and quiet and terrifying. I look up. His eyes are darker now. Not dangerous — hungry. Starved.
My head empties of thought and as if drawn by a magnet, my gaze flicks to his mouth. And stays. His does the same to mine.
We stay like that for what feels like forever wrapped in something that feels like it has no name. Then Jordan leans back and takes a breath. “Before you run again, could I ask you something?”
“I didn’t run,” I say, too quickly.
He smiles. “Sabrina, you sprinted. Like a hare on espresso.”
I choke on a laugh. “Fine. What’s the question?”
His smile fades. “Will you have dinner with me sometime?”
My heart stops. Then lurches.
“No,” I say.
He doesn’t flinch. “Can I ask why?”
“No,” I repeat, already getting to my feet. “I just—I can’t. I—I need to go.”
“Sabrina—”
But I’m already halfway to the kitchen, pulse thundering, palms sweaty, legs unreliable.
In my head, every reason crashes at once:
He’s too rich. Too experienced. He influences energy bills and global politics, while I’m just trying to pass pre-calculus. He looks like sin wrapped in a gray sweatshirt. My dad will kill me.
And worst of all, I have never wanted any boy like this. Not ever.
So I do what scared girls do. I run and hide.