Instead, I find myself shrugging, "I… guess. Whatever."
He exhales, as if relieved by my answer.
We fall into step on the quiet street.
"You ran again today," Jordan begins.
"I did not run. I was just… cleaning the refrigerator."
His laugh is a soft huff, warm and disbelieving. "Oh, that makes perfect sense."
My face burns hot enough to ignite the sidewalk.
He says nothing for several beats. "Your friend, Madeline, is an interesting woman."
Something hot and unpleasant rolls in my belly. "Molly sent Madeline out, not me."
"Alright. Did you like seeing her with me?"
"No!" I blurt. Then instantly regretting my admission, I snap, "Yes!"
"You did?"
"I mean… I don’t care. You don’t need—" I take a calming breath. "It’s pizza and coffee, Jordan. Anyone can serve you."
He stops. "And is that what you think I’ve been showing up for? Pizza and coffee?"
My throat tightens. "Maybe."
He takes a step closer. "Sabrina."
My name—low, rough, threaded with something that vibrates under my skin. "What?"
"The last thing I want is food." His voice drops an octave. "You're the one I want. And you know it."
My stomach flips violently and a traitorous thrill shoots through me. "I'm scared," I whisper.
His brows draw together. "Why do I scare you?"
"Because you’re—" I gesture helplessly at all of him. "You’re different. And intense. And your last name—"
"My last name," he interrupts gently, "is not who I am."
I scoff without meaning to. "Then who are you, Jordan Farrington?"
He looks away, his jaw tightening, then back at me with something stripped bare in his eyes. And again, as if all his layers are suddenly peeled away, I see Jordan and his incredible need to connect with me.
"I’m the first son, Sabrina. An only son," he says. "Everything I do reflects on a dynasty that treats life like a game of chess. Every move I make is audited and remembered." He exhales slowly. "I don’t get to be careless. I don’t get to want things that don’t make sense on paper. And I can’t afford to make mistakes."
The words sound raw and rarely spoken.
Something in my chest aches—for him. Because I know what that weight does to you. I know how it feels to watch other people your age be stupid and carefree, to burn things down and walk away unscathed. I know how it feels to grow up too fast, to be responsible long before you’re ready.
"I know what you mean," I whisper.
His eyes sharpen. "You do?"
I nod. "My mom is—was sick," I say quietly. "Cancer. She’s beaten it into remission now, but she was sick for such a long time. My dad gets panic attacks but tries to hide it. He’s terrified the cancer will return and we'll have to watch her die."
