“I didn’t run,” I say, too quickly.
He smiles. “Sabrina, you sprinted. Like a hare on espresso.”
I choke on a laugh. “Fine. What’s the question?”
His smile fades. “Will you have dinner with me sometime?”
My heart stops. Then lurches.
“No,” I say.
He doesn’t flinch. “Can I ask why?”
“No,” I repeat, already getting to my feet. “I just—I can’t. I—I need to go.”
“Sabrina—”
But I’m already halfway to the kitchen, pulse thundering, palms sweaty, legs unreliable.
In my head, every reason crashes at once:
He’s too rich. Too experienced. He influences energy bills and global politics, while I’m just trying to pass pre-calculus. He looks like sin wrapped in a gray sweatshirt. My dad will kill me.
And worst of all, I have never wanted any boy like this. Not ever.
So I do what scared girls do. I run and hide.
3
Mollystandsatthekitchen doorway like a linebacker.
“Molly,” I whisper-shout. “Duck! You’re going to make it obvious.”
“He already saw you dive behind the soda fridge,” she replies dryly. “And he’s looking at me right now, so… it’s too late to salvage your dignity.”
I groan. I dove. Like a startled cat with zero self-respect.
But what am I supposed to do when Jordan Farrington insists on driving across town every day for a single slice of pizza and a cup of diabetic coffee?
Molly peeks again and sighs. “Jesus. Mary. Joseph. That man looks…”
My heart does this stupid galloping thing. I press my back against the stainless-steel fridge and—God help me—give in to the shameful urge. “Describe him.”
Molly beams like Lucifer just gave her a promotion. “You already know he's built like a decade of gym memberships. Butwhat you don't see is today's hair. It's giving I-haven't-slept-because-supermodels-were-climbing-on-me-all-night.”
I instantly regret asking.
“Now, he’s wearing a leather jacket, a sinfully tight white tee, and jeans that are working very, very hard right around the crotch area. Based on the fit, the rumors about big feet? Confirmed.”
“Molly!” I glare at her.
“What? You asked for details. Anyway, he's heading to his usual table. It faces the kitchen—of course—all the better to see you. Murphy’s gone over there. Taking his order. Or trying to. Uh oh. Murphy’s puffing up now. This won’t be good.”
I groan again.
Murphy—Pizza Fiesta’s heir and self-appointed alpha—has the social skills of wet cardboard and the ego of a small dictatorship. He has also been “inviting” me to lunch for six months, as if that’s not what we already do on shift.
Molly’s eyes widen. “And they're arguing now. You better go rescue your man before Murphy tries to arm-wrestle him.”
