6. Jessica
JESSICA
The laptop screen glows blue in front of me, reflecting off the floor-to-ceiling windows behind it.
Ten rejection emails. Ten perfectly polite form letters that all say the same thing in slightly different corporate-speak: Thanks for your interest. We've decided to pursue other candidates.
We wish you the best in your future endeavors.
Translation: your resume isn't good enough.
I lean back against the couch cushions and stare at the last one. This company seemed promising—startup energy, decent pay, actual benefits. I wrote a cover letter that took me three hours because I rewrote it seventeen times trying to sound like someone who belonged there.
They didn't even call me for an interview.
"What's wrong?"
Jordan's voice comes from the kitchen. He's been making protein shakes for the past ten minutes, the blender whirring periodically like background noise I've gotten used to.
Now he's leaning against the counter, arms crossed, gray eyes locked on me with that specific focus that says he already knows something's off.
I gesture at the laptop. "Just the usual. Ten more companies telling me I'm not what they're looking for."
He walks over, drops onto the couch beside me. Close enough that his thigh presses against mine, warm and solid through his sweats. "What are they looking for?"
"Someone whose resume doesn't scream 'graduated early but barely.
' Someone who had time to do prestigious internships instead of working two jobs to pay rent while taking eighteen credit hours.
Someone whose employment gap is 'traveling Europe to find myself' instead of 'the company went bankrupt and took my livelihood with it. '"
The bitterness surprises me. I don't usually let it out like that—sharp-edged and real instead of wrapped in a joke.
Jordan studies my face. Doesn't say anything right away, just looks at me like he's reading something written in small print.
"You've been working since you were sixteen, right?"
"Yeah."
"Jobs through high school. Through college."
"Yeah."
"Never stopped."
"Nope." I close the laptop, set it on the coffee table. "I'm very good at hustling. Apparently I'm not good at convincing corporate recruiters I'm worth hiring."
He's quiet for another beat. Then: "If bills weren't an issue, what would you want?"
I laugh, but it comes out flat. "What, like my dream job?"
"No. Not your dream job. Just—what would you want if money wasn't the thing driving the decision?”
The question catches me sideways. Nobody's ever asked me that before. Every choice I've made since I was sixteen has been about money—getting it, keeping it, stretching it far enough to survive until the next paycheck.
"Honestly?" I turn to look at him. "If bills weren't an issue, I'd just want to rest for the next few years. I've been going since I was sixteen. I'm tired."
I say it like a joke, but it's not. Not really. The tired sits in my bones, in the space behind my ribs where the hustle used to live. I've been running for so long I forgot what it felt like to stop.
Jordan doesn't laugh. Doesn't soften it with sympathy or tell me I'm too young to be tired or any of the things people usually say when you admit you're struggling.
He just says, "Then rest. I got you, baby girl."
Five words. No hesitation. No qualifier. No we'll figure it out or maybe we can work something out or let's see how things go.
Just: rest. I got you.
My chest tightens. Something enormous moves through me, too big to name, too real to deflect with a joke. Nobody has ever told me I could stop. Nobody has ever offered to carry the weight without making it feel like debt or charity or something I'd have to pay back later.
"You can't just—" I start, then stop, because I don't know how to finish that sentence.
"Can't what?"
"Tell me to stop working. Take care of me like I'm?—"
"Mine?"
I swallow. "Yeah. That."
"Why not?"
"Because we just met. Because you're technically my stepfather. Because this whole situation is insane and I should probably have more boundaries than I do."
"Do you want boundaries?"
"No."
The admission slips out before I can stop it. Raw. Honest. The kind of truth that makes my face heat because it reveals too much.
Jordan's mouth curves. Not quite a smirk—something softer than that, warmer. "Good. Because I don't want them either."
He shifts closer, his hand finding my thigh, thumb brushing lazy circles against my jeans. The touch is light, casual, the kind of thing couples do without thinking. Except we're not a couple in any normal sense and the casual intimacy of it makes my pulse kick.
"If you could go to any country," he says, "where would you go?"
The subject change gives me whiplash. "What?"
"Any country. Anywhere in the world. Where would you go?"
I blink at him. "Why are you asking me this?"
"Humor me."
"Italy," I say after a beat. "I love pizza."
He stares at me. Then laughs—an actual laugh, low and rough and surprised. "Italy. Because you love pizza."
"It's a valid reason."
"You know Italy has more to offer than pizza, right?"
"Yeah, but pizza's the best part." I grin at him. "What, you're judging my travel priorities?"
"Not judging. Just making a note that I'm planning an international trip for a woman whose main criterion is carbs."
My heart stumbles. "You're not—wait, are you serious?"
"Then you better get a passport."
He says it like it's already decided. Like he heard "pizza" and started planning logistics in his head while I was still processing the question.
"Jordan—"
"What other Italian dishes do you like?"
I stare at him. His face is serious, no hint of teasing, and I realize he's actually doing this. Mentally booking flights. Researching restaurants. The man heard me say I was tired and immediately started planning a vacation.
"Gnocchi," I say slowly. "And cacio e pepe."
"Dress up. We're eating Italian tonight."
I look down at myself—tank top, jeans, bare feet. The wardrobe of a woman who packed a duffel bag and called it a life. "I don't have a decent dress. All I have are tank tops, tees, denim, and that one ratty dress I wore when I went to your arena."
Jordan shrugs, the movement easy and unconcerned. "Then we'll go shopping."
"Why?"
His smile shifts, edges into something darker, more possessive. The look he gets when he's deciding something and knows I'm not going to argue.
"Let's just say I like spoiling you, baby girl."
The first boutique is the kind of place that makes me want to check the soles of my sneakers for gum before I walk in. Everything is white—the walls, the floors, the impossibly thin saleswoman who glides toward us with a smile that says I know you can't afford this.
Jordan doesn't seem to notice. Or maybe he does and just doesn't care. He nods at the woman, says something about needing dresses, and then she's leading us toward a rack in the back like we're VIPs.
I pick up the first hanger, flip the tag, and nearly choke.
"This dress costs more than my rent."
Jordan glances over. "You don't have rent anymore."
"That's not the point."
"What's the point?"
"The point is this is insane. I can't let you buy me a dress that costs—" I check the tag again, just to make sure I read it right. "—eight hundred dollars."
"Why not?"
"Because it's eight hundred dollars for fabric."
"It's a nice fabric."
"It's cotton."
"Expensive cotton."
I glare at him. He smirks back, completely unbothered, and I realize I'm not winning this argument. He's already decided, and when Jordan decides something, it's done.
The saleswoman reappears with three more options draped over her arm. "These just came in. I think they'd be perfect."
She's looking at Jordan when she says it. Not me. Jordan, who's standing there in joggers and a hoodie, looking like he just came from the gym, except something about the way he holds himself—the controlled physicality, the quiet authority—makes it obvious he belongs here more than I do.
I try on the first dress. It's pretty—navy blue, fitted at the waist, falls just above my knees. I step out of the dressing room and Jordan's gaze drags over me, slow and deliberate, and the heat in his eyes makes my skin prickle.
"That one," he says.
"I haven't tried on the others yet."
"Try them on. We're buying that one either way."
By the second boutique, I've stopped checking price tags. It's easier that way—less math, less guilt, less of the voice in my head that says this is too much.
Jordan watches me move through the racks, picking things up and putting them down, testing fabrics between my fingers.
I'm starting to have opinions now—what I actually like versus what I think I'm supposed to like.
What fits versus what just hangs. What I'd wear more than once versus what I'd feel like a costume in.
I hold up a green dress, sleeveless, simple lines. "This one?"
Jordan tilts his head, considering. "Try it."
I do. Come out, look in the mirror, and catch his reflection behind me. He's standing a few feet back, arms crossed, and something about his expression makes my breath hitch. Not the heat from before—something quieter. Softer.
"You like it," I say.
"I like you in it."
"That's the same thing."
"No, it's not."
I turn to face him. "What's the difference?"
"The dress is fine. You make it look good."
The compliment lands somewhere under my sternum, warm and solid, and I cover it with a grin. "Smooth."
"I'm not being smooth. I'm being honest."
"Same thing."
He steps closer, fingers brushing the fabric at my waist. "We're buying this one too."
"You're buying everything."
"Yeah."
"That's a lot of dresses."
"You're going to need them."
"For what?"
"Dinners. Events. Italy."
Right. Italy. The trip he's apparently already planned in his head while I'm still catching up to the fact that I'm standing in a boutique in Chicago being dressed like?—
I don't finish the thought. Don't let myself go there. Because the second I start thinking about what this looks like from the outside, I'll panic.
Instead I say, "Next store?"