13. Santa Barbara
SANTA BARBARA
Jordyn
Was this all a dream? All on a glorious Friday? One hundred and fifty days—yes, I’d counted. I’d even started a countdown to Christmas like a kid waiting for magic. But this was my real celebration: five months of freedom. Five months of not being forced to do acts that made me hate myself.
And today? I’d greet the sunrise like an old friend.
Jamie’s house sat on the southern curve of the coastline that boasted views of sunrise and sunset, which not many places on the Pacific Ocean offered.
I often caught both, the first light of day and the fading thereof, while Jamie and I listened to some of our favorite audiobook characters.
That had become our thing over the months.
“Rebel,” I whispered, rousing the Rottweiler who slept at my side. “Don’t you bark, you hear me? Not even a whimper.”
The girl nudged her wet nose into my hand.
Quietly, she and I left the bed, being cautious not to wake Jamie. Muscle memory carried me past his warm, still body asleep on the floor. Poor guy. Thought he had to jog with me every morning. Never once complained, but I could tell he wasn’t thrilled and often worked out again in the gym midday.
Without turning on a single light, I brushed my teeth in the dark and washed my face.
I ran a hand over my hair, now in one layer of cornrows.
No need to change clothes. No run today.
Not on this day. I’d remain in my silk pajamas.
Long sleeves. Long pants. I wanted to feel …
soft. Like peace finally touched me, even if Jamie wouldn’t.
Because today I was free. Truly. Not hunted. Not haunted.
Aleksandr Chelomey must’ve given up on me . Sliding into tennis shoes, I wrapped my matching silk robe tighter, opened the door to our room, and stepped out into the fragile, hushed morning.
Outside, the air kissed my skin, salty and cool. I sat in the sand with Rebel snugged against the side of my thigh. When she looked toward the house, I did too. My home . Gratitude swelled in my chest. I turned back around, allowing the soft sea-salt air to brush over my skin.
I opened my journal. The first page included a few lines filled with shaky handwriting. Over the months, I’d written more, and my penmanship had become more confident. Now, the journal steadied me because it dictated how I’d stopped allowing my past—my pain—to define how I loved someone.
That someone was me.
And if I was being honest …
Jamie too.
Somewhere along the way, I’d forgiven him for not telling his parents.
I forgave him without us even having to talk about it.
That was a true testament because I know some people have to learn to forgive a person and they were dead and gone, or worse …
that person wouldn’t offer the faintest apology, anyway.
But I knew Jamie wanted his parents to save me .
Over the months, the alluring woman I assumed I had to be to stay in his good graces, his home, his life, had slowly faded. Then, I noticed that I traded seductive antics for attempting to be useful.
Cooking. Cleaning.
Cleaning the bathroom? Disaster. Jamie had a drill-sergeant voice when explaining toilet bowl etiquette.
Since I was never in the military, I came to a compromise: he could shine all the toilets he wanted, and he stayed out of my kitchen.
He wasn’t allowed to boil water. I didn’t let him lift a finger. I took care of it all.
I smiled at Rebel, then exhaled as the first orange sliver of sun bled across the ocean.
My thoughts turned back to Jamie touching me—his gentle, reverent touches—they weren’t out of obligation.
They were intentional. Slow. Meaningful.
But it was like pinching yourself to confirm you weren’t dreaming.
And that hard pinch came when he didn’t follow through with what my body craved.
“But I know this isn’t a dream …” I whispered. Rebel tilted her head, staring at me curiously.
I fell back into the sand with a groan. “I’m in love with a man who could never love me!”
My body went through the motions of a jerky toddler I’d seen in Wal-Mart while Jamie and I chose Christmas lights.
Here I was, staring at the transitioning sky, stomping my feet and thrashing my hands at my sides in perpetual torture.
Then I froze. The chill of sand against my back suddenly dropped below zero.
Icy. Threatening. My body tensed as Rebel issued a low growl. A shadow passed in my periphery.
A man.
I scrambled to my feet, just as alert as the hairs on Rebel’s spine.
She glanced at me, then glared at him, ready for a command.
I looked up at the man, wide-eyed. Tall.
Built like carved muscles from marble. His skin was smooth and brown, his eyes unreadable.
What was worse? He didn’t seem concerned about the dog’s subdued snarl at my side .
Was he Bratva? One of Alek?—
“Are you okay?” he asked, an Arabic accent soft but firm.
I nearly collapsed with relief. Not a Russian Bratva enforcer.
“Yes. Just waiting for my husband.” I shook my hand through my hair. Tiny granules fell as I nodded toward our house. “There he is now.”
The man jogged off without a backward glance. Smart move .
Jamie ran onto the shore, shirtless and in basketball shorts. That body should’ve come with a warning. I turned away, but not before my heart did a stupid thump . Torture. Daily, friggen torture.
“You left the house.” His voice was low, but fire stoked in his eyes. “Jordyn, why would you just leave without telling me?”
“I—”
“And who was that?”
“I don’t know.”
“He could’ve been a scout. You exposed yourself out here, Jordyn. Alone.”
Dang , I preferred JorJor these days.
“How could you just sit out here by—” And then, his voice cracked. All the fury faded into fear. “JorJor, you showed them a weakness.”
“He saw me have a meltdown. He asked if I was okay. People do that, soldier.”
Jamie tugged me into his arms, and I melted.
Just like that. A puddle in his arms. Weak within his clutch as whitecaps rolled toward us on the shore.
I remembered my first day of freedom, allowing the ocean to push, shove, and tug, thinking that was the last time someone or something would move me.
Could move me. But this man moved my heart every day.
He brought my pulse to a frenzied crescendo more than any ecstasy I’d ever felt.
He stirred something more dangerous than lust. In the five months that I’d gotten to know him, Jamie made me fall in love.
Then he’d made my heartbeat stop dead in my chest because he didn’t want? —
Jamie’s calloused, large, trembling hands framed my face. “You’re fine,” he said, but it sounded like he was trying to convince himself more than me.
The man didn’t realize what he was doing to me.
He was reviving my heart and shattering it by not loving me the way I needed .
But you owe him, Jordy. He saved you . And I loved him with all of me.
So, what gives? I mumbled, “Let’s just go inside.
Shower. Breakfast? I’m not in the mood to run today. ”
Jamie took my hand, his fingers stitching into mine, and he walked with me along the sand back into the house. “Before you get that shower,” he said.
I stopped near the staircase, facing away from him. “Mm-hmm?”
“Can you turn around?”
No . After a beat, I did as told. I owed this man my life. A smile formed on my face. One of those smiles I offered arrogant men to placate them. I felt sick. I wanted love.
Jamie held something behind his back. Despite his linebacker build and strong features, his nerves were charming. I wanted to kiss the hesitance off his lips.
“What do you have there?” If it were a 5000-dollar pair of shoes, I might hate myself for the enticement. The man could work my mind and my body without touching me already. He better not give me lavish gifts.
“Oh, nothing much.” He revealed a large Amazon package and passed it to me.
As I peeled open the bag, the familiar scent of mango and cocoa butter rose from it. Hair grease. Hair cream. Shea butter. My heart stopped.
“It’s uh …”
Tears met my eyes.
“Well, it’s not a big deal.” He fumbled with his words. “I saw you spritzing olive oil in your hair a few times. You could’ve asked, JorJor.”
I swiped another tear. All Black people staples. This guy got me. But did he really? I shoved away the thought and focused on gratitude. “You- Googled this?”
“Fell into a rabbit hole too. Pretty sure I saw a video about deep moisturizers. And shrinkage. Still don’t get it. But the women seemed to hate shrinkage.”
A laugh-sob escaped me. Why was he this perfect guy? How did he get me? But still not get me.
“Oh, if you think that’s funny, then get this. The only form of butter I once knew was Irish butter. Big Br … Dad always muttered about getting into a fight with an Irishman while drowning his pancakes in pure Irish butter. Silliness aside, I enjoy learning about you, JorJor.”
“I love you,” I murmured without thinking.
And so, it begins . The downfall of Jordy because she couldn’t keep her feelings in check.
I slipped into the small space between us and kissed him.
Not just a peck but a kiss. Deep. Real. On my tippy toes, hands behind his neck to bring him close, I sucked his bottom lip into my mouth and tasted tenderness and restraint.
Jamie groaned—a sound so raw I didn’t know if it was desire or agony. But he didn’t pull away.
When we came up for air, I inhaled just enough oxygen to go back in and drown on him again. Because maybe, just maybe … this wasn’t a dream. This was love. Messy. Slow. Healing. And mine.