Page 9 of Forbidden Love Still Blooms

My jaw drops wide open. I taste the salty wind as it rides the spray from the nearby ocean. Jordan hangs up after a few more brief words. He says, “They're sending someone. It'll be about fifteen minutes.”

“Why?” I blurt.

“Why what?”

I gesture all around me, sputtering. “Why are you getting so involved?”

“Do you want me to call them back and tell themnotto come?” he asks, lifting a dark eyebrow. He isn't smiling, but I hear a hint of amusement in his baritone voice. “I'll make this clear, Ms. Jones.”

Ms. Jones?I wonder why he's being so formal.

He continues, “I'm not going to apologize for not allowing you to careen into the water like someone with a death wish. A popped tire is the best outcome from this mess. But I'm a man who takes responsibility for his actions. Your car is damaged because of me, I'll have it fixed for you.”

Folding my arms, I size him up. He's Dezmond's father, but he's nothing like his son. “You know my name. I told you this morning. Don't call me Ms. Jones, it makes me feel …”

“Old?” he chuckles, pointedly running fingers through his silver-fox temples. I blush because I didn't mean to point out our age difference. “You'd rather I call you something else? Tell me and I will.”

His tone is deliciously velvet. It makes my heart flutter. In an attempt to stomp out my nerves I mutter, “Never mind. Call me what you want, it's not important.”

“How can something we whisper in the darkness to each other, or shout out when we're lost, not be important?” He tilts his head as he studies me closer. I shift on the asphalt. “Fine. I'll remember you gave me permission to call you whatever I want.”

“And what about you?” I ask, rushing to get back in control. “Do you prefer Mr. Hartford? Or is Jordan better?”

“Jordan is enough.” There's an unspoken addition I sense there. Like he wants to sayfor nowbut holds it in. He holds out his hand to me, my keys glinting in his car's headlights. I grab them just as the sound of tires grinds along the curve in the road behind us. “The tow-truck,” he notes.

Together we watch the big truck with its bed reverse towards my car, beeping loudly as it goes. The man inside rolls his window down, eyeballing Jordan and me. “Car trouble?” he asks, like it's not obvious.

“My tired popped,” I reply.

“Alright, where do you want me to tow it to?”

“Markie's garage, on Vanhowen Avenue.” It's the place closest to my home.

As the driver climbs out to start hooking my car up to the bed, I glance at Jordan. He's standing close to me, hovering in a way that makes me hyper-aware of his presence. He aims his stare down to meet mine. Before I look away, he says, “I'll give you a ride to the garage.”

“Thanks,” I say, but my attention moves to the bridge. It's still wide open, barriers closed off, an impossible path. Crazy how I'm still trying to think of a way to get across. Even if I stand around until the pieces reconnect, going on foot would take me a while. I don't remember exactly where Chico lives, but I do know it's on the far end of the island. I can't realistically walk ten miles then back home again.

The tow-truck beeps a few more times, revs loudly, then starts down the road with my damaged Subaru hitched on it. “Let's go,” I say, marching toward Jordan's car.

He doesn't follow me. Jordan surveys the bridge like I was, the ocean wind tugging at his hair, yanking at his shirt where it isn't tucked into his belt. I only notice that now—and it hits me his shirt must have come up and out when he raced over to my car to open my door and yell at me. I thought he pulled himself back together again after that moment. But the more I look, the more I see signs of his frantic actions. Wild hair, wrinkled clothes, and some dirt on the knees of his pants that wasn't there this morning. Shouldn't be there now, because I don't recall him dropping to the ground when he came for me. And if he had, the street is black tar. Where did the dirt come from?

His whole torso twists, smooth and sudden as a leaf on the breeze, until he's looking at me with hooded eyes. Tiny drum-taps begin in my chest. I swallow, waiting for him to say … anything. To help me understand why he's here. We were strangers passing on the road. What made him swerve to block me, how did he know what I would do?

“Birdie,” he says.

My entire spine clicks together until I'm straight as a fencepost. “What?”

“You said I could call you anything,” he explains, a faint smirk dancing on the corner of his mouth. “Or were you pretending you didn't care?”

Right, he called me a parrot this morning.My mom's adoration for the colorful birds was fostered on me the moment I came screaming into the world. The nickname isn't new, yet whenheutters it, it rouses my senses. I swallow twice, because the first time isn't enough. “No. I really don't care.”

Jordan stops holding his sly smile at bay. There's a hungry darkness in his eyes, a silent admission he's enjoying playing with me. I wish I hated it. My wishes keep failing today. “You're right,” he says, “It's time to go.”

In two long strides he's at my side, then beyond me, opening the passenger door of his blue Jaguar that I didn't recognize earlier when the lights were in my eyes. On the seat are a few white rose petals. He spots them, frowns, sweeps them away.

I sit carefully, buckling myself in. The petals are under my shoes. There's a fraction of a minute where I'm alone in the car as Jordan walks around to the driver's side. The interior light is on, giving me enough vision so I can take a quick look around. I don't see the flowers I sold him this morning, confirming they were on this seat, gone elsewhere now.I'm curious and I know it's not my business. The man is a stranger with his own life, our worlds are entirely different for a hundred reasons.

And still … I want to know.

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