Page 11 of Forbidden Love Still Blooms

Hands clutch my wrists. I'm still vicing my own skull, forgot I was doing it, and only notice now because Jordan is gripping me. His face is close to mine, eyes wide, piercing like needles so I have no choice but to pay attention to him. “Breathe,” he instructs me.

I suck in a big mouthful, let it out slowly. “I'm fine,” I lie.

“You're not. I can tell.” He pushes my hands out, away, then down to my hips. I'm not sure why I start blushing. I check to make sure the driver isn't watching us and am relieved to find he's already gone.

Jordan cracks a small smile. “He left three minutes ago. You didn't notice because, as I said, you're not fine.”

“How can I be?” I ask. “What the hell am I supposed to do?”

He searches my face for a minute that stretches long enough to make me fidget. Then he searches even longer. When I tug at my arms, he doesn't budge. “Why does it matter if your car stays overnight?” he asks softly. “I can give you a ride back to your house.”

Heat speeds through my veins. My voice rattles as I say, “Oh, god, no. I can't ask you to do that.”

“You aren't asking. I'm offering.”

There goes my heart again. “I really need my car. I can't …” I know I don't have to explain myself, not to him, not to anyone. The way Jordan fixates on my eyes, how he clings to my wrists like I'm hanging off the edge of a mountain with only him to keep me safe, I … feel like I owe him. Or maybe I just want to let it out. “I need to do something without my mom knowing about it.”

“Your mom?” he asks curiously.

Now that it's out in the open, the fact that I'm trapped under the weight of my situation starts to grow. “I don't know what I'm going to do. Apparently, my car isn't budging from here until the mechanics show up tomorrow, but my mom is going to wake up at 6 to rush back to our store for the last big day of parade sales. If she wakes up and finds me but not my car, she'll want to know what happened, where it is, and I really cannottell her about any of this.” I begin to deflate in his grip. It's obvious I can't get to Chico's, can't talk to Dez, can't put new money in the register, can't stop this train that asshole has set me in front of. “Without my car, I'm screwed.”

I'm not ready for his hands to abandon me. I stumble forward into the space where he was, the aftermath of his presence. Jordan's broad back is facing me. He walks over to one of the five-foot tall stacks of tires. The streetlights cast an orange glow across the lot so I can see exactly what he's doing, but I can't make sense of it.

With a grunt he braces his legs apart, hoists up a tire, then drops it on its treads onto the cement. “What are you doing?” I ask. Then, because it clicks suddenly, “Wait, no, we can't steal a tire!”

“We're not,” he says breezily. With two hands he rolls it expertly over to where my car is parked. “I'll call the garage up, tell them I bought it off their lot and left the cash in the front seat of that busted up Chevrolet over there.”

“This sounds very illegal.”

“It's a gray area at worst.”

Shaking my head slowly, I stand there in stunned silence while he goes to his car's trunk, digs around, then lifts out a jack. He's got it placed in front of my car's busted front wheel before I finally gather myself enough to speak. “You've got balls.”

Jordan's grin makes him more handsome. Approachable. Nothing like the man who roared at me while he clutched my wrist inside my car. “Ever change a tire before?” he asks.

I grab my hips with a little laugh. “How young do you think I am?”

“I didn't ask because of your age.” He rolls his sleeves along his upper arms, exposing his shoulders. It's barely an inch more of skin but it's hard not to stare. “Not everyone knows how to do it. Who taught you?”

“My dad,” I say. “He popped a tire on his Taurus when we were heading to the beach. I was twelve, I think. He thought I was old enough to learn and I was excited to help out.”

“Sounds like a decent guy.”

“He was.” It leaves my lips before my brain catches up. “Is,” I correct myself, searching Jordan's face, wondering if he'll react. But he kneels, setting up the jack, starting to twist off the lug nuts on my hubcap. “Did your dad teach you, too?” I ask.

“Yeah, though I was closer to fifteen at the time. Feels like forever ago when I think about it.” His brows press together over his nose, tight enough to make broad grooves. He focuses intently on the tire as he works. “He was really big on teaching life skills.”

I smile gently. “Wanted you to be independent?”

“No.” The wrench stops moving in his grip. “It was important that I learn everything I could, so I had the ability to make life easier for others. He preached a lot about loyalty and sacrifice.” Jordan glances up at me, and though he's smiling, it's hollow. “There aren't many people left in the world who were like him.”

The hubcap drops onto the ground so loudly I jump. “Let me help,” I say, crouching in front of him. I arrange the jack; he twists the handle, my car rising inch by inch. “Sorry I already know how to do this.”

“What?” he asks, squinting.

“I've robbed you of the ability to teach me something.” My smile is meant to lighten the mood, but Jordan's expression gets heavier. He bends closer to the flat tire that's finally off the ground, its rubber hanging in shreds where it blew open on the barrier. I wither under the tangible discomfort growing in our silence. Desperate, I blurt, “Did you teach Dez how to do this?”

Gripping the tire, Jordan rips it off with a low growl. He throws it aside like it weighs as little as a pillow. “No.”

---