Just then, Jordan’s gaze shifts over Madeline’s shoulder straight to me. The moment our eyes lock, his expression changes, almost like someone struck a match inside him.
Polite charm switches to scorching heat. My breath seizes.
I panic, instantly turning my back on them, reaching blindly for the jar of hazelnuts, sifting through the contents like a deranged raccoon while Molly cackles like a demon. It’s no use. I can still feel his stare on the back of my neck.
Damn him.
Damn. Him.
Madeline returns a few minutes later, flushed and glowing. “Oh. My. God. Molly. He is so hot! And such a gentleman, too. And would you believe he has the cutest sweet tooth? He’ll be back again tomorrow. Sabrina, we should swap again—right? You don’t mind?”
“Whatever,” I say, voice thin. “He’s yours.”
Madeline’s grin widens. “Thanks! You’re the best.”
I swallow hard—fighting the sting in my eyes as Madeline floats back to the grill.
Molly sidles up beside me, smug. “So? What do you say? Is the man yours or what?”
“I’m going to kill you,” I whisper.
She pats my cheek like a proud villain. “I’ll die a happy woman.” Then she walks away, whistling.
Quiet settles over me like the end of a performance, when the curtain’s come down but the lights haven’t yet.
I step back and lean against the fridge, eyes burning, and stare at the ceiling like it holds answers.
I don’t know what’s worse—that Jordan didn’t stop Madeline from flirting with him. Or that he looked at me like he wanted to punish me.
I press a fist to my chest. "Just breathe, Sabrina. It’s only Tuesday. He’ll be back tomorrow."
4
Myshiftendsatnine. I push open the back door, still seething—at Madeline for being blonde and bouncy, at Molly for being a menace to society, at Jordan for existing in my general vicinity, and at myself for caring at all.
I didn't glance at Jordan again after that humiliating scene with Madeline, and he, too, left without a backward glance.
Good, I tell myself.
But the lie barely lasts a second because when I step into the cool Henderson night, my pulse ricochets.
Jordan is leaning on a sleek black car. His jacket is gone, leaving the white T-shirt stretched across shoulders that have no business being legal in public. I absolutely refuse to examine his jeans.
He straightens the moment he sees me. "Sabrina."
I tighten my grip on my bag and avoid his gaze. "What are you doing here?"
"Waiting for you. I wanted to see you."
My heart lurches like a fool. I squash it immediately. "So you’ve been lurking here all evening?"
"No. I had work. I just got off."
"What do you want?"
"To walk you home," he murmurs. "If that’s alright?"
I should say no. I should point to everything that's wrong with this situation and ask him to leave.
