I panic-switch subjects. “Do you enjoy working for your father?”
He rears back, surprised. “Funny, no one’s ever asked me that.”
He rears back, clearly surprised. “Funny. No one’s ever asked me that.”
“Really?” Something warms in my chest at the color rising in his cheeks. Suddenly bolder, I give him a once-over, biting my lip. “Somehow, I’d think people would be begging to know everything about you, Jordan.”
He throws me a searing look—blush still lingering—and for a second, my heart stops.
“Hardly,” he says. “Most people are too busy nervously counting down the years until I take over as CEO and turn the company Democrat.”
I blink. “Turn Democrat?”
He shrugs. “My father supports Republican energy bills. He’s been CEO for thirty years.”
I get what he means. His views are more liberal compared to the company’s current architecture and policies. There’s tension in his shoulders now, despite his relaxed posture. Why can I feel it so clearly? It’s almost like I’ve already learned how to read him.
“So if you switch sides and turn Democrat,” I say quickly, trying to ease the mood, “will lightning strike the company dead or something?”
He laughs—a low, warm rumble that runs straight through me. Then he shakes his head, voice dropping. “On the contrary. We’d be all the better for it.”
I hold his gaze until I can’t. Now I’m the one blushing, and I have no idea why. We’re talking politics. Right?
“So back to your question,” he says quietly. “You want to know if I enjoy it?”
I nod, relieved he’s shifted the subject.
“To be honest?” He exhales. “It fucking sucks.”
The playfulness drops out of the moment and I realize two things at once. Jordan Farrington may be bigger than I thought, but he’s infinitely more human.
Something in me shifts. Like a flower tipping toward sunlight. Before I realize what I'm doing, I reach for his hand. “That sounds… exhausting.”
He slowly links our fingers. Tingles spread from his hand into mine, and I instinctively move to snatch my hand away.
He holds fast.
“It is exhausting,” he admits. “But I have to put up with it, you see. It’s my company. My employees. My family.”
I nod. I get it—the weight of responsibility on him. “That's true. But surely you could do better than just putting up,” I say softly. “Life sucks by default, Jordan Farrington. You just have to find your slice of heaven to make it worth it.”
He stares at me as if he’s never been spoken to that way before. Then whispers, “How old are you?”
I swallow hard. “Seventeen.”
His eyelids fall shut, and he curses under his breath. A moment later, he lets my hand go.
For a beat, I think I’ve ruined everything.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, eyes down. “I didn’t mean to lecture you. I just… I think people need to own their happiness. Be intentional about it.”
His voice, when it comes, is softer than before. “And what makes you happy, Sabrina?”
Something shifts. Something huge and quiet and terrifying. I look up. His eyes are darker now. Not dangerous —hungry. Starved.
My head empties of thought and as if drawn by a magnet, my gaze flicks to his mouth. And stays. His does the same to mine.
We stay like that for what feels like forever wrapped in something that feels like it has no name. Then Jordan leans back and takes a breath. “Before you run again, could I ask you something?”
