I hope I don’t stand out too much.
Until this morning, I had zero intention of going to Carol Peterson’s eighteenth birthday party. I don’t do parties. I never have. But with Jordan back, I wanted… something different. And if I’m honest, the thought of sitting across from him at dinner makes me so nervous I’m sure I’d spill something or say something stupid, or too flirty. Or not flirty enough.
A party feels safer. Louder. Less focused.
Carol’s party is the event of the summer—her boyfriend, the richest boy in our year, is hosting it at his parents’ mansion while they’re out of town.
With a steadying breath, I push open the back door to find Jordan leaning against the car hood.
He’s dressed simply—black T-shirt, dark jeans—but he looks like money anyway. It's as if wealth itself is stitched into his posture. His hair is a mess and his eyes scorch as they lift to me.
And then I notice the nondescript sedan. He rented a cheap car because knew that showing up at a high school party in his Aston Martin would embarrass me. My chest tightens painfully.
“Sabrina,” he rumbles. There’s so much longing packed into those three syllables it nearly knocks me over.
“Hi, Jordan.”
“You look beautiful,” he says, opening the passenger door.
“Thanks. Although the theme of the party is sparkly and naughty. I may be woefully underdressed, but it's all I could whip up.”
He reaches out, placing a hand lightly on my stomach, stopping me mid-spiral. “You take my breath away, Sabrina. Just the way you are.” he says softly.
My cheeks flame. Goosebumps ripple down my arms. My belly clenches.
Yes. Jordan is back.
***
The party is already loud when we arrive—string lights, pounding music, bodies everywhere, people grinding in corners like nobody has parents.
Murphy spots me first.
And the way he looks at me? Like I’m a buffet item.
It doesn't get much better with the rest of the boys in my year. Either because I've never worn anything remotely flattering. Or because with a hot older boy on my arm, they've suddenly taken notice of me and want to flex their territorial muscles.
What's most baffling, though, is Jordan's attitude. Every time a boy comes to speak to me, instead of staking his claim, he steps behind me. As if giving them room to chat me up. Like he’s my older brother who wants me to have fun while still making sure I'm safe.
Are you kidding me? I've been on pins and needles, dying to be near him for the past four weeks. And he's acting like he's about to fall asleep?
He doesn’t put an arm around me. He doesn’t hold my hand. He doesn’t evenscowlat the boys throwing me compliments. He just greets them with this cool, professional nod.
I, on the other hand, am just about ready to kill the girls swarming him. Older girls from community college, high school seniors, juniors and even sophomores get more daring as the night progresses. Everytime one of them approaches I sidle closer to him, link my arm through his, interrupt them or ask him to go get me a drink.
One girl with red lipstick actually asks him out. Right in front of me.
“So, Jordan, are you like… free for a drink later?”
He flashes her a smile and tells her he's not free.
But he still smiles at her.
I want to scream.
When another girl touches his arm and giggles, “Wow, your eyes are unreal,” I nearly bite through my tongue.
Jordan stays respectful and ever so charming but every second of it scrapes at something raw inside me.
