He stares at me, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. For a moment, it’s like I’ve held a mirror up to him—and he didn’t realize the reflection. Then he exhales, running a hand through his hair. “Jesus. Four years bluffing through negotiations with trained strategists and my high school girlfriend reads me like a book.”
I wrinkle my nose. Hishigh schoolgirlfriend. It should sound patronizing—it doesn’t. Not with the way he’s looking at me like I’m his ruin. And his salvation. “Whatever. Why's Houston calling?”
He looks away. When his eyes return to mine, they’re softer. “They're trying to get my office set up."
"What do you mean?"
"I should resume in Houston next week. My time in Henderson and Bakersfield is done.”
My stomach plummets. Jordan is leaving. I knew he was going to leave, but somehow I just didn't think… “You’re going to Houston?”
He nods. “My final rotation."
"Okay. And then what?"
"Then I'm off to Yale Business School. Another compulsory flaming hoop to jump through as Apex Energy’s heir apparent.”
The venom in his voice stings so much that I set my breaking heart aside. “You sound bitter. I know it sucks… but Jordan, you're also closer than ever to what you want."
"What is it you think I want?" He asks.
I shrug like it should be obvious to him. "To be CEO of Apex.”
He exhales, shoulders stiff as he stares out of the window. “Eighteen-year-old me wanted it. Twenty-three-year-old me… sometimes I feel like my life was scripted before I was even born."
Something twists painfully in my chest.
“I don’t want to go back,” he whispers. “Not to Houston. Not to...”
He doesn’t have to finish. I know what he means.Not to real life.
Real life.
I don't want to face reality either. The reality that Jordan doesn't belong here. He's meant to be in New York, heading the multi-billion dollar company and influencing energy bills. Not in the arms of an infatuated teenage girl in the backwoods of Nevada.
I lean my hip against the counter, studying him. Jordan Farrington has the whole world in his palm—money, power, looks. But underneath the polish and control and obscene competence, he's... just a boy.
And suddenly I see the shape of his life in a way I didn't before. A chessboard. He's the first son, the king piece they keeppushing across the board. His moves preplanned. His future mortgaged out to the family name.
“You can be yourself with me, you know,” I say softly.
His eyes lock on mine. For a long, taut moment the air between us feels denser. “Oh, I know. Christ, baby, do I fucking know.”
And it hits me like a punch. Heneedsme. Not just for sex or distraction. But as the one person in his life where he doesn’t have to perform.
I swallow, suddenly aware of how much bigger this is than some whirlwind summer fling.
“Eat your breakfast, Farrington,” I say, pushing the plate toward him before I melt into a puddle. “If you die young, your dynasty will be very disappointed.”
His mouth curves. “My dynasty will live. I’m more worried about what I'm going to do to you after breakfast.”
My face combusts. “You’re disgusting. I thought you said you didn't want me waddling home?”
“Eh, well, what can I say? You make a convincing argument for it.”
I roll my eyes, watching as he pops an orange segment into his mouth, then pins me with a stern gaze. “By the way, don’t think I didn’t notice us parking the fact that I'm leaving soon. We’re not done with that conversation, Sabrina Wells.”
I shrug and force a smile. “We’ll get back to it soon, I'm sure.”
