Chapter 9
By the time I get home, the Nevada sun is high and unapologetic, heat shimmering over the cracked sidewalk. I'm not waddling — not exactly — but I'm definitely moving slower, sore in places I didn’t know could be sore. It feels like a secret under my jeans, a private echo every time I move.
I slip my key into the lock and step into our small, slightly shabby house.
The TV is on, volume low. Dad is at the kitchen table with a mug of coffee and the newspaper spread out in front of him. Drew leans against the counter, munching on dry cereal.
They both look up at me at the same time.
Crap.
"You're late," Dad says mildly, which is how I know he's actually furious. Bobby Wells doesn't yell. He weaponizes quiet disappointment like a professional. "You were meant to be home two hours ago."
I stay by the door, dropping my bag at my feet. "Morning," I say, willing my legs not to wobble. "I texted. The night shift ran over and Madeline called in sick, so I had to work the grill until Murphy could get in."
Drew snorts into his cereal. "Night shift, huh? You’ve been getting quite a few of those. Every other Friday, it seems like."
I shoot him a look. He lifts his spoon in a lazy salute to the lie I just told.
Drew knows something.
Dad folds his paper. "Sabrina."
Uh-oh. Full-name voice.
"Yes, Daddy?"
He studies my face like he's inspecting a painting for flaws. "You think I don't know you've been sneaking around with that Farrington boy?"
Double crap. Here we go.
I take a few steps into the kitchen, gripping the strap of my bag. "His name is Jordan, Daddy."
Drew makes a low, ominous sound. "Yeah. The demon pervert with the perfect smile."
"Drew," I warn.
"What? I’m just saying what your old man’s too polite to. A full-grown man rolls into town with money and charm, and goes straight for his foreman's daughter? That’s the beginning of someone’s cautionary tale."
"Drew," I grind out. "He’s not like that."
"Of course not," Drew says dryly. "They never are. Till they are."
Dad shoots him a look, then returns his eyes to me. "Why him? There are plenty of other nice boys your age—"
"I don’t want anyone else, Daddy."
He curses under his breath. "He’s not good for you."
My chest tightens, but I lift my chin. "That’s too bad. Because I love him."
Silence crashes over the kitchen. The TV hums in the background, canned laughter playing over an infomercial.
"You love him?" he repeats. "You love him! Does he love you? Listen to you? Value your opinions? Or is he just more interested in sleeping with you?"
"Daddy!" I gasp.
"I bet he reminds you every 'night shift' how lucky you are to have him," he spits, red-faced.
"You’re so wrong about him, Daddy!" I yell. "He treats me with respect."
"Oh really?" Dad scoffs. "Even though you're from the wrong side of town?"
"Absolutely. He's humble and kind. And he's been nothing but a complete gentleman with me."
Even as I say it, this morning flashes through my mind—in the shower, him driving into me from behind, his teeth grazing my neck, whispering filthy things while I clawed at the tile, boneless and sobbing for more.
I look away, cheeks burning.
Drew snorts. "There's something diabolical about that boy. And too old for you. He's got to be least thirty."
"Oh, come on, Drew," I snap. Drew's always been one hex short of superstitious.
"What, he had the unionists eating out of his hand in the space of a single meeting!" Drew mutters. "Remember Bobby? How we all agreed on terms, and next thing we know, they sit with that boy and he's sweet-talking them into a deal!"
Shit. I almost forgot Jordan is technically their boss.
Drew’s on a roll now. "And now, his fooling around with you is coincidental? You're his foreman's daughter. Don't think it means something?"
"Jordan’s relationship with me has nothing to do with work," I say. "And besides he’s just interning with Tim Hadfield, the COO. He's not staying long."
"Which is what worries me, Sabrina." Dad retorts, his hands balling to fists. "How old is he, anyway?
I swallow. "Twenty-three."
Dad's eyes widen. "You're telling me that boy is only twenty-three years old?"
"Yes." I sigh, knowing Jordan can come across as much older because of the responsibilities he carries. "Daddy, I'm telling you, he's is a regular guy."
He just stares at me. "Sabrina, there is nothing regular about Jordan Farrington."
"What do you mean?"
Drew answers before Dad can. "His father’s not a good man, kiddo."
"This isn’t about his father. It’s about Jordan."
"It’s never just about the son with men like that!" Drew shoots back. "Farringtons don’t do anything unless it looks good on a balance sheet. Tell me, kiddo, what do you bring to their financial table?"
Rage flares hot in my chest. "How can you judge him when you don’t know anything about him."
"I know enough," Drew shoots back. "I’ve seen how he controls the men on the plant. It’s not normal. No wonder he's got you all wrapped up in him. He's brainwashing you."
Oh here we go. Drew's on his cryptic conspiracy arc again.
"Drew," Dad snaps. "I'd like to talk to my daughter. Alone."
Drew stiffens like he’s been slapped. For a moment he just stares at Dad, his jaw working. Then, without a word, he slams his cereal bowl on the table and stalks out the door, letting it bang shut behind him.
I look between my dad’s ashen face and the still-trembling door. The two men who raised me. My quiet, principled father. Drew, with his fire and nonsense and loyalty.
I sink into the chair I’ve been gripping, suddenly exhausted. "Look, I know what you’re thinking, Daddy. That I’m some dumb girl dazzled by shiny things and fast cars."
"That thought has crossed my mind, once or twice," Dad mutters.
I glare at him. "That’s not what this is about. Jordan’s a good man. A great guy, Daddy, He’s principled. Ambitious. And he’s in love with me."
Dad’s eyes soften. "Of course he’s smitten. You are amazing, Bree. But that doesn’t make him the right man for you. Actually, he's very wrong for you."
"I don't care."
His fist slam onto the table. "You can’t see him anymore, Bree."
I stare at him. "Why not?"
"I just told you why! I forbid it."
"You forbid it? Well, I'm sorry, that’s just not good enough."
He narrows his gaze. "You’re telling me you won't stop seeing him?"
"I won't."
He’s quiet for a long time. Then he sighs, the grooves bracketing his mouth deepening. "Then bring him here."
"What?"
"Enough sneaking around. It’s turning my stomach. Invite him to dinner. Tomorrow."
I leap out of my chair. "T-Tomorrow? Really? Daddy!"
He nods, and I throw my arms around him but he doesn't hug me back. When I pull away, his expression is still troubled.
"Just… know this. Men from powerful families like that—they may not mean to hurt you. But they will hurt you."
I roll my eyes. "Jordan would never hurt me, Daddy."
And that belief feels as solid and unshakeable as the ground beneath my feet.