TWO WEEKS LATER
Jordan: I'm sorry Sabrina, I can’t make it tomorrrow.
I stare at the text, my hands twitching around my phone with the sudden urge to scream.
I should not care. I should absolutely not care. I've kept it cool for the last two weeks, leaving him on read, letting him do the chasing, and insisting we keep our communication strictly to chats. The real reason behind the rule? I hate what his voice does to me.
I read the text again and something hot and ugly snaps through me. All thoughts of playing it cool evaporate. I'm dialing his number before reason has a chance to catch up.
“What do you mean you can't make it back?” I demand the second he picks up.
He sighs. "I know, Bree. It's more than a little annoying. The partner at the L.A. rig broke his wrist while golfing yesterday.I'm the closest spare so I have to take over for him until he's out of the plaster."
"I see." I can't exactly argue with that although irritation flares inside me. "When is that going to be?"
"He's looking at three weeks."
I gasp. "Three weeks!"
There’s a beat of silence. Then, softly—too softly, he chuckles. “Bree, you sound…quite devastated.”
I’m furious that he noticed. I’m furious that I care at all.
“I am not!” I lie.
He chuckles, a low amused sound that always slips under my skin. “Sure you’re not.”
Ugh. I hate him. And I'm in so much trouble.
Because somewhere between our first awkward texts and the nightly banter that last until my phone overheats, or I nod off, this man—this impossible man—has become the highlight of my day.
I didn’t even realize. Not until tonight, when the idea of not seeing him made my chest feel hollow.
We’ve talked every single day since he left for Bakersfield. He would text between meetings, send memes that make me laugh out loud and share pictures of his views, like he’s sharing his world with me.
I was scared he might push me, but Jordan has been nothing but appropriate with me. If anything, I was the one who enjoyed flirting with him while he would simply acknowledge and validate me, then gently steer the subject to safer ground.
That made me want him more. I couldn't wait to have him walk me home from work. To share almost kisses with. To talk about random things and have him get it.
And now I have to wait another three weeks.
They pass agonizingly slowly. Needless to say the chat only rule died an instant death.
We now talk several times a day. He even helps with my homework.
Turns out Jordan Farrington is a genius at calculus.
Great. Perfect. Just what every overwhelmed high school girl needs: a billionaire genius repeatedly saving her from mathematical humiliation.
“You know,” he says one night as I make him go over one derivative after another, “if I didn't know better I think you only want me for my brain."
"But what else is there to want?" I tease.
He deliberately drops his voice an octave, as if he knows what it'll do to me. "You know there's plenty more to gorge on."
“P—please,” I sputter. “You wish.”
“Oh, baby. Do Ifuckingwish." Then in a normal voice, he continues. “Anyway — back to problem number 10. As always, we take the outer function first—.”
