"Thought I’d walk you out," she says. "I need to see what Jordan’s driving tonight. Last week it was that piece-of-crap Civic, which, by the way, was hilarious."
"Molly—"
"Come on." She loops her arm through mine. "You still owe me for pushing you to him. Remember? You kept saying he was too old. I called it from the start."
"I didn’t ask you to—"
"You didn’t have to. What are friends for?"
She pushes through the door, and the cool evening air hits us. Then she spots him and actually gasps. "Jesus Christ, he’s leaning. Why does he always look like he’s in a cologne ad?"
There he is — Jordan. Leaning against the hood of that same rented, mud-colored sedan, hands in his pockets, hair tousled by the breeze. He’s watching the door, waiting. When our eyes meet, his whole face lights up.
Something warm unfurls in my chest.
"See?" Molly elbows me. "That right there is what I came out to see. The way he looks at you. Like you’re the only person in the world. If my boyfriend looked at me like that, I’d marry him tomorrow."
I shift. "Molly—"
"We should do another double date! Sam’s been asking. That new Italian place in—"
"Yeah, sure," I say automatically, already knowing it’s never happening again.
"Seriously, we should do it soon," she pushes.
"Sure. I’ll text you."
"You better! And Bree? Seriously. Lock. That. Down."
I wave her off and start across the lot, but her words land heavy in my chest.
The truth is, Jordan’s nothing like what people expect when they hear "Farrington heir." But whenever he comes around my friends, something shifts. They get louder, or quieter, noticing the things I've learned to ignore — the way his clothes cost more than their rent, the calm certainty in how he moves, like the world’s never said no to him.
Jordan doesn’t even realize how much space he takes up in a room.
I still haven’t lived down the Spring Fling.
He took me — quietly, discreetly. No red carpet, no photos. Just us in the corner, trying to blend. But Molly made sure everyone knew that the older rich guy belonged to me.
The whispers started. The stares. The questions.
And suddenly, the gulf between me and Jordan lit up in neon.
Worse? He feels it too. The way he tenses when someone asks what he does for a living or where he lives.
My friends gush over my boyfriend but their pitying looks when my back is turned. Like they're waiting for the day he’d leave and I’d be the broken hearted.
The thought makes my chest tight. Because they're right. Jordan leaves for Houston in a few days.
I shove the thought away violently, refusing to let it ruin tonight.
Jordan pushes off the hood as I approach, and that devastating smile spreads across his face. "Hello, love."
And just like that, everything else falls away.
As soon as I'm within reach, his fingers catch in the waistband of my jeans, tugging me flush against him.
"You look edible," he murmurs.
