Chapter 4
My shift ends at nine. I push open the back door, still seething—at Madeline for being blonde and bouncy, at Molly for being a menace to society, at Jordan for existing in my general vicinity, and at myself for caring at all.
I didn't glance at Jordan again after that humiliating scene with Madeline, and he, too, left without a backward glance.
Good, I tell myself.
But the lie barely lasts a second because when I step into the cool Henderson night, my pulse ricochets.
Jordan is leaning on a sleek black car. His jacket is gone, leaving the white T-shirt stretched across shoulders that have no business being legal in public. I absolutely refuse to examine his jeans.
He straightens the moment he sees me. "Sabrina."
I tighten my grip on my bag and avoid his gaze. "What are you doing here?"
"Waiting for you. I wanted to see you."
My heart lurches like a fool. I squash it immediately. "So you’ve been lurking here all evening?"
"No. I had work. I just got off."
"What do you want?"
"To walk you home," he murmurs. "If that’s alright?"
I should say no. I should point to everything that's wrong with this situation and ask him to leave.
Instead, I find myself shrugging, "I… guess. Whatever."
He exhales, as if relieved by my answer.
We fall into step on the quiet street.
"You ran again today," Jordan begins.
"I did not run. I was just… cleaning the refrigerator."
His laugh is a soft huff, warm and disbelieving. "Oh, that makes perfect sense."
My face burns hot enough to ignite the sidewalk.
He says nothing for several beats. "Your friend, Madeline, is an interesting woman."
Something hot and unpleasant rolls in my belly. "Molly sent Madeline out, not me."
"Alright. Did you like seeing her with me?"
"No!" I blurt. Then instantly regretting my admission, I snap, "Yes!"
"You did?"
"I mean… I don’t care. You don’t need—" I take a calming breath. "It’s pizza and coffee, Jordan. Anyone can serve you."
He stops. "And is that what you think I’ve been showing up for? Pizza and coffee?"
My throat tightens. "Maybe."
He takes a step closer. "Sabrina."
My name—low, rough, threaded with something that vibrates under my skin. "What?"
"The last thing I want is food." His voice drops an octave. "You're the one I want. And you know it."
My stomach flips violently and a traitorous thrill shoots through me. "I'm scared," I whisper.
His brows draw together. "Why do I scare you?"
"Because you’re—" I gesture helplessly at all of him. "You’re different. And intense. And your last name—"
"My last name," he interrupts gently, "is not who I am."
I scoff without meaning to. "Then who are you, Jordan Farrington?"
He looks away, his jaw tightening, then back at me with something stripped bare in his eyes. And again, as if all his layers are suddenly peeled away, I see Jordan and his incredible need to connect with me.
"I’m the first son, Sabrina. An only son," he says. "Everything I do reflects on a dynasty that treats life like a game of chess. Every move I make is audited and remembered." He exhales slowly. "I don’t get to be careless. I don’t get to want things that don’t make sense on paper. And I can’t afford to make mistakes. "
The words sound raw and rarely spoken.
Something in my chest aches—for him. Because I know what that weight does to you. I know how it feels to watch other people your age be stupid and carefree, to burn things down and walk away unscathed. I know how it feels to grow up too fast, to be responsible long before you’re ready.
"I know what you mean," I whisper.
His eyes sharpen. "You do?"
I nod. "My mom is—was sick," I say quietly. "Cancer. She’s beaten it into remission now, but she was sick for such a long time. My dad gets panic attacks but tries to hide it. He’s terrified the cancer will return and we'll have to watch her die."
My chest hurts, but I push through.
"He barely manages to work. He rushes back home every evening to be with her. Getting a second job is out of the question. But we have bills. My college fund went with medical expenses, but at least the debts are paid off. I handle rent so he can focus on food and utilities."
I hesitate—then say the part I never say out loud.
"Jordan, I’m tired of being responsible. I want to have fun. But I can’t afford to make mistakes either. My family wouldn’t survive them."
"Sabrina."
Suddenly I feel ashamed for vomiting all my problems. I shake my head. "I—I'm sorry. God, I don't mean to sound so ungrateful. I don't want you to think—"
Jordan cups my jaw, his gaze burning into mine like twin coals. "Baby."
My lids fall shut. "Don't," I whisper.
"Don't what? See you? Too late."
My hands rise on instinct, wrapping around his thick wrists. For long moments, we stay like that—his warmth imprinting into my skin, my pulse loud everywhere.
"Jordan," I whisper again, my voice breaking.
"I see you, Bree." He brushes his thumbs over my cheekbones, wiping the moisture away. "Your passion. Your selflessness." His voice lowers. "You're someone who understands what it costs to hold a life together. You are so much more than you realize. You're incredible."
For one suspended moment, the world goes quiet and there's just him and me.
Suddenly, headlights flare at the end of the street, too fast, too close. Jordan wraps an arm around me, spinning so he's between me and the road, pulling me into his body as the car rushes by.
Heat. Solid muscle. His cologne and something more, earthier. The scent of his skin.
The car passes, but he holds me for several moments longer.
"Are you okay?" he rasps.
I nod.
He releases me and steps back—but the damage is already done. Because now I don’t just know his deepest fears mirror mine—I know how it feels to be in his arms. And that terrifies me far more than anything.
We resume our walk in silence, the kind that holds meaning instead of emptiness. Two people from different worlds, somehow meeting in the same ache.
The fork in the road approaches too quickly.
"You have to stop here. My house is just a block down. My dad—he can’t see you."
Jordan’s lips twitch. "Why? Because I’m a scary customer?"
"No," I mutter. "Because he’ll skin me alive for even looking at his boss."
Jordan laughs—and God, the sound curls through me like smoke. Then he steps closer. To my utter mortification, my nipples tighten to achy points. Too confused and overwhelmed by the sensations coursing through me, I step back.
Jordan stops, his brow knitting at my sudden withdrawal. "You can trust me, Sabrina. You know that."
Yes, I know. But I can't trust myself around you.
"What do you really want from me, Jordan?"
He grins. "Other than a small slice of heaven?"
My heart skips at my own words thrown back at me. "Jordan—"
"Everything, Sabrina. I want everything. Eventually. But right now? I’d like for you to stop running from me."
"I—I don't know if I can do that," I whisper.
He smiles faintly. "You can't be friends with me?"
I shake my head. "Jordan… you don’t want to be friends."
He exhales once. "You're right, I don’t. But I'm willing to start with whatever you’re comfortable with. Dinner, maybe? Or lunch. Or a quick coffee on a Sunday morning. We'll only talk."
"I’m seventeen."
His laugh is low, warm, sinful. "Oh, Sabrina, I'm well aware of that. Then tilting the head back as if in supplication, whispers to the stars, "Christ, I’d love to hear her new excuse after she turns eighteen."
My mouth goes dry. He has no right to sound that confident. Like he's certain he'll be around at that time.
He steps back. "Thanks for letting me walk you home. I will miss you, though."
I blink. "Miss me? Why?"
"I’m leaving town tomorrow."
"But… Madeline…she said you told her you'd be back to see her tomorrow?"
He arches a brow and I want to crawl into a hole for even bringing her up.
Thankfully he doesn’t call me out. He just gives me a look that says, I know why you asked. And I like that you asked.
Instead, he explains, "I'm doing an internship. Grooming, if you like, for the CEO position. I have to rotate between multiple sites. Right now, it's the Henderson and Bakersfield rigs. I do two weeks at each, so I head to the Bakersfield rig tomorrow."
"Oh." Two weeks.
"I’ll be back before you miss me."
Two weeks of silence. Two weeks of wondering if he meant any of what he said tonight.
He studies me. "We'll talk when I get back… unless…"
"Unless what?"
"Unless you want me to call you."
Yes. Yes. God, yes. "It’s… yeah. Fine. Whatever," I say, masking the stupid joy flooding my entire body.
He holds out his phone to me. My hand shakes as I type my number slowly, pretending not to be eager.
When I hand it back, he shoots me a smile. "Thank you, Sabrina Wells."
"You’re welcome, Jordan Farrington."
His eyes drop to my mouth. My tongue darts out to wet my suddenly parched lips.
He takes a step forward. Encircles my arms in his strong hands. His breath brushes mine.
My lids fall closed as my knees dissolve. My lips part—
He inhales sharply and mutters a curse. Then he steps back like one more second near me might destroy something important.
"Go inside, Sabrina," he says, voice rough as sandpaper. "Now."
I run.
Inside, Dad asks why my face is all red. I mumble something about the ovens at Pizza Fiesta.
I get to my room, close the door, and press my back to it—hard—because my legs feel like they might give out.
My body is buzzing. Literally—alive, awake, aching in places I didn’t even know could hurt.
I can still feel him in the air around me. The way his breath brushed my lips. The way he stopped like he was physically restraining himself from devouring me.
God.
I press my palm to my sternum, but the pounding is lower. Deeper. A slow, throbbing heat nestled right between my thighs, pulsing like a second heartbeat.
"Jordan," I whisper his name in the dark. It makes the ache worse.
I stumble to my bed and sink down. My hands shake as I tug my uniform T-shirt over my head. My skin is too hot, too sensitive, every nerve ending remembering the exact moment he almost kissed me.
His voice—low, rough, reverent—won’t leave my head.
I want everything. Eventually.
My thighs press together. A delicious heat sparks between my legs. It's not enough.
I lie back, my heart racing as I slide my hand down my stomach. I’ve touched myself before. But not like this.
Not with this desperate, unbearable need.
I imagine his hand instead of mine—warm, calloused, big. I imagine the way he’d look at me. The way he’d say my name.
Baby.
My breath catches. My hips lift into my own touch.
My back arches. My thighs shake. Heat curls low and deep, tightening with every pass of my fingers.
"Jordan," I moan.
I picture his mouth hovering over mine. His breath mingling with mine. Him forcing himself to stop when everything in me wanted him to keep going.
Pleasure jolts through me, fast and bright.
I bite my lip, trying to stay silent, but my hips keep moving, chasing the feeling building under my skin like a wave rising too fast to outrun.
My hand grips the sheets. My legs tremble. The pressure builds—sharp, sweet, unbearable—
And then I fall.
My body breaks open with a soft, strangled cry, heat pouring through me in slow, rolling waves. My toes curl. My breath saws through my lips. Everything inside me tightens, clenches, releases—ecstasy blooming so powerfully tears prick my eyes.
I lie there shaking, breathless, heart thundering.
I’ve never felt anything like that. And the worst—or maybe the most dangerous—part?
It wasn’t me that did it. Not really. It was him. His voice. His breath. The way he looked at my lips like he was starving.
And even though I know I shouldn’t—I want more. So much more.