He raises an eyebrow. “I passed, huh?” His eyes dip to my mouth as he steps closer, hand settling at my waist.
"You know they're watching us, right?" I murmur, flattening my palm against his chest to slow him down.
"Oh, I know," he says, voice low. "Which is why I’m only doing this."
He leans in and kisses me. It starts out soft and chaste—the kind of kiss meant for front porches and curious parents peeking through curtains. But I can’t help wanting more. I rise onto my toes and slip my arms around his neck, pulling him closer.
His lips part against mine, and I deepen the kiss. His hand slides up to cradle my jaw, and I melt into him, the scent of his cologne mixing with desert air and apple pie. For a second, I forget everything except the fact that this man loves me—and I love him back.
Jordan pulls away first, breath uneven. “Go inside,” he murmurs, his forehead resting lightly against mine. “Before I forget where we are, too.”
I nod, flushed and dizzy, and stumble toward the door, heat still thrumming under my skin.
Inside, Mom and Dad are at the table, mid-conversation. I sag in relief.They didn’t see us kiss. Thank God.
“Well?” I ask, trying to sound casual. “What do you guys think of Jordan?”
“He’s not the pompous prick I expected,” Dad mutters.
Mom swats his arm. “Just admit you like the man, Bobby.”
He smirks. “Didn’t say I hate him.”
A grin spreads across my face. “I knew you’d love him!”
“Oh, Sabrina,” Mom says, her eyes sparkling. “He’s so charming. So self-assured. Kind, too. And the way he looks at you—”
“Yeah, I noticed,” Dad cuts in. “Which is what worries me.”
I roll my eyes, but I can’t even be annoyed. I’m too full of relief.
“In any case,” Dad adds gruffly, “I hope you two are being careful. And using birth control—”
“Ew, Daddy!”
“Bree, your father has a point,” Mom adds gently. “I had you at seventeen, remember? And from what we just saw out there on the porch...”
Crap. They did see.
“Mom.” I groan, burying my face in my hands. “That was... Look, we’re careful. Jordan is… super responsible, okay?”
They exchange a look that tells me they’re about to dig deeper, so I dart across the room and wrap them both in a hug, whispering a quick, sincere, “Thanks for giving him a chance.”
They soften and we fall into a post-dinner debrief, the way we always do after holidays or birthdays. Mom talks about her pie, still flushed from Jordan’s compliments. She’s convinced he hasn’t had a proper home-cooked meal in years. Dad retells every line of their kitchen conversation like it was a poker match.
Mom wants clarification on everything—what Jordan meant by “learning more on the rigs,” why he seemed sad when talking about his mother. She’s reading tea leaves and rearranging syllables, already trying to figure him out. It’s overwhelming, a little embarrassing—and sweet.
Eventually, I claim a headache and retreat to my room, eager to talk to Jordan.
As soon as the door shuts behind me, I reach for the phone, delighted to see Jordan already sent me a text. I swipe it open.
Jordan:
I need you. Now.
My throat tightens. I press the message to my chest and then I'm stuffing my bed, then heading for the window.
I pause at the windowsill, guilt needling me. Less than two hours ago, my father, despite every instinct screaming otherwise, decided to trust that I'd be responsible. And I’m about to sneak out to spend the night with Jordan.
