6. Jessica #2
The third boutique feels like stepping into a hushed vault—smaller, quieter, the air carrying that faint, expensive scent of cedar and fresh linen instead of the bright, synthetic bloom of the last two stores.
Everything here is arranged with deliberate care, each piece spaced like it belongs in a gallery, and the saleswoman vanishes after a murmured introduction, leaving only the soft click of her heels fading behind a velvet curtain.
I drift toward the back rack on instinct, fingers trailing over cool silk and crisp wool until they catch on this one: a black dress with long sleeves, deceptively simple on its hanger.
The fabric feels heavier than it looks, smooth and weighty against my palm, promising something that might actually fit the version of myself I keep trying to outrun.
I slip into the dressing room, the door whispering shut behind me. The mirror fogs slightly from my breath as I peel off my old tank top—still faintly damp at the collar from the morning’s unwelcome reminder of my body’s betrayal—and tug the dress over my head.
The material glides cool against my skin at first, then warms quickly, hugging the small of my back, the curve of my hips, the sharp jut of my collarbones. It’s fitted without suffocating, the kind of dress that makes you stand straighter just to live up to it.
My nipples tighten against the lining; the constant low ache in my breasts flares sharper for a second, a humid prickling that makes me clench my jaw. I breathe through it, willing the stress not to win today. Not here. Not with him waiting.
When I step out, the carpet is plush under my bare feet, muffling every movement. Jordan’s standing a few paces away, arms loose at his sides, and the second his gray eyes lock on me he goes completely still.
Not the slow-burning heat from the last shop—this is something sharper, almost predatory. His jaw flexes, that permanent stubble catching the low light, and his gaze drags over me inch by inch: shoulders, waist, the long line of my legs.
I feel it like a physical touch, rougher than fingers, hot enough to chase the persistent chill that’s lived under my skin. My pulse kicks hard against my throat.
Part of me wants to crack a joke, to deflect with something dry and cutting before he can see how much this unnerves me—how desperately I’ve been starving for someone to look at me like I’m not one bad week away from breaking.
But the words stick. Because underneath the sarcasm I armor myself with, something warm and terrifying unspools low in my stomach.
He’s looking at me like I’m worth memorizing. Like I’m not the broke, leaking, sarcastic mess who showed up on his doorstep with nothing but pride and a duffel bag.
My cheeks heat. My chest tightens with that confusing mix of defiance and relief I keep shoving down every time he buys another thing I can’t afford. This is dangerous, I think. He’s dangerous. And I’m standing here letting him stare because some traitorous part of me likes it way too much.
I shift my weight, the dress whispering against my thighs, and his eyes flick down to track the movement.
His hands curl once at his sides—those big, scarred hands that seem fixated on the way the fabric moves with me.
The air between us feels thinner, charged, like the moment before a storm breaks over the lake. I swallow and force my voice to stay light, dry, mine.
“Third time’s the charm, huh?”
"This one?" I ask, even though I already know the answer.
"Wear it out."
"What?"
"Wear it to dinner. Leave it on."
I raise an eyebrow. "Bossy."
"You like it when I'm bossy."
He's not wrong.
I pay for the dress—or rather, Jordan pays for the dress while I stand there holding the bag with my jeans and tank top—and then we're walking out onto the street. I'm in a black dress and heels I also didn't pay for, and the late afternoon sun slants through the buildings, warming my shoulders.
Jordan's hand finds the small of my back. Warm. Possessive. The touch says mine without him having to say it out loud.
"Where are we going?" I ask.
"Dinner."
"Now?"
"You're already dressed for it."
I laugh, the sound spilling out before I can stop it. "You planned this."
"I'm good at planning."
"You're good at getting your way."
His mouth curves. "Same thing."
The restaurant is the kind of place I've never been to.
White tablecloths, low lighting, the quiet hum of wealth and taste.
The host greets Jordan by name, leads us to a corner table near the windows, and the whole thing feels surreal—like I'm playing a part in someone else's life instead of living my own.
Except Jordan's hand is still on my back, warm through the fabric of the dress, and when we sit down, his knee brushes mine under the table.
Real. This is real.
The waiter appears, rattles off specials in rapid Italian-accented English, and Jordan orders for both of us without asking what I want.
Normally that would annoy me—the presumption, the arrogance of it—but he orders the gnocchi and cacio e pepe I mentioned earlier, plus a bottle of wine I've never heard of, and I realize he was listening.
He's always listening.
"So," I say once the waiter leaves. "Italy."
"Italy."
"You're serious about that."
"Why wouldn't I be?"
"Because it's—" I gesture vaguely, trying to find the words. "A lot. For pizza."
"It's not about the pizza."
"Then what's it about?"
His gaze locks on mine, steady and certain. "You said you wanted to go. So we're going."
The simplicity of it makes my chest tighten again. No negotiation. No maybe or we'll see. Just: you want it, so it's happening.
I swallow. Look away because the intensity in his eyes is too much. My gaze lands on the table across from us, and my brain catches up half a second later.
That's—
Oh.
That's definitely a famous actor. And two tables over, a musician I've seen on magazine covers—someone I've scrolled past on Instagram more times than I can count. And near the bar, a woman in a crimson red dress, laughing with?—
"Eyes on me, baby girl."
Jordan's voice cuts through my wandering attention, low and rough, the kind of tone that bypasses my brain and goes straight to my nerves. I snap my gaze back to his, and the look on his face makes heat curl low in my stomach, spreading outward until I feel it in my fingertips.
"I wasn't?—"
"You were looking."
My mouth opens. Closes. He's right, obviously, but I wasn't looking looking. I was just—noticing. There's a difference. "I was just noticing?—"
"I don't want you looking at anyone else."
The possessiveness in his voice shouldn't be hot.
It should probably annoy me—the presumption, the audacity of thinking he gets to dictate where my eyes land.
Except the way he says it—the growl underneath the words, the dark heat in his eyes that promises consequences I'm not sure I'd mind—makes my pulse kick hard against my throat and my thighs press together under the table.
The dress suddenly feels thinner than it did a moment ago.
"Jealous?" I ask, aiming for casual and missing by a mile. My voice comes out breathy, which—great. Subtle.
"I'm possessive and territorial of what's mine."
What's mine. The words settle over me like a hand on the back of my neck—firm, claiming, impossible to ignore. I should push back. Say something sharp and deflecting, turn it into a joke before the weight of it sinks in too deep.
Instead, I lean forward, elbows on the table, mirroring his posture. "Am I yours?"
The question slips out before I can stop it. Direct. Testing. The thing I've been wondering since he milked me in his car and called me baby girl like it was my name, like it was the only name that mattered.
Jordan doesn't hesitate. Doesn't blink. "Without a doubt, baby girl."
The certainty in his voice makes my breath catch, snags in my chest and holds there. No qualifier. No maybe or we'll see or let's take it slow. Just fact, delivered the way he'd say the sky is blue or Chicago is cold in winter. Like it's been decided, and the decision was never up for debate.
I don't know what my face does, but something shifts in his expression—something satisfied and hungry and dangerously smug.
The waiter returns with our food, setting plates in front of us with a flourish I barely register. Steam rises from the gnocchi, rich and buttery, and the scent of cheese and pepper fills the space between us.
Jordan thanks him—polite, easy, the public version of himself sliding into place—but his eyes stay on me the entire time. The waiter could've set the table on fire and I don't think Jordan would've looked away.
The weight of his gaze makes my skin prickle, awareness crawling up my arms and settling at the base of my spine.
I pick up my fork. Take a bite of gnocchi that I barely taste because I'm too aware of him across the table, watching me like I'm more interesting than anything else in the room.
Like the food, the restaurant, the famous people scattered around us—they're all background noise, and I'm the only thing in focus.
Then I feel it—the brush of his foot against my ankle.
Subtle. Deliberate. The kind of touch that says I'm thinking about what happens when we get home.
I press my foot against his shin in response. A dare. A promise.
His jaw tightens. The muscle in his cheek flexes, and I watch the heat darken his eyes, turning them from gray to something closer to storm clouds.
We eat. Talk about things I'll probably forget later because I'm too focused on the game happening under the table—his foot sliding up my calf, mine hooked around his ankle, the tension winding tighter with every casual touch.
"When we get home—" he starts.
I interrupt, my voice light and daring. "You're gonna punish me?"
Jordan's face darkens. The shift is immediate—heat and hunger and something possessive that makes my stomach flip. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"
I lean back in my chair, let the smirk curl my mouth. "Guess we'll find out."
We stare at each other across the table. Both smiling. The promise of what happens next hanging between us, warm and charged and ours.