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Jordan nods, but his eyes linger on the flash of red beneath my torn blouse. He wordlessly yanks off his shirt and pulls it over my head, helping me slip my arms through the holes.
My eyes flutter shut, and I draw in a slow breath. The familiar aroma of coffee beans and powdered sugar banishes everything else from my sensory memory.
Jordan’s lips curve into a crooked grin. “Did you just sniff my shirt?”
I shrug, too elated to see him to be embarrassed.
He awkwardly crosses and uncrosses his arms over his bare chest, while I zero in on the steel bar running through his left nipple. Sweet baby Jesus, Jordan Keller has a pierced nipple.
“Why only one?” I blurt.
“It, uh . . .” His face turns as red as my lacy bra. “It fucking hurt.”
“So, you . . .”
“I said, screw that.” He grins. “One is plenty.”
My wobbly knees agree.
“Come on.” He takes my hand, slipping his fingers through mine. “I’ll drive you home.”
“What about—” I look around for Jeremy and Nicole. “Did they leave?”
“I, uh . . .” he stammers, leading me through the exit. “I hope you don’t mind, but I told Jeremy I’d drive you.”
“I don’t mind.” I gaze up at him from beneath my lashes and lean into his warm frame.
He squeezes my hand. “You’re safe with me.”
19
After leaving the bowling alley, instead of crossing over the railroad tracks and taking the main road back to town, Jordan turns down a dark side street I don’t recognize. The narrow road winds around for several miles before passing through a stretch of woods. After what I just went through, I should be terrified. The south side of town is already deserted at this hour, I’m not familiar with the shortcut through the woods, and my phone still has no service. But in the quiet of Jordan’s Jeep, I’ve never felt safer.
He navigates the little country roads as if he knows them like the back of his hand, zipping from one side street to another until we pop out behind Saint Luke’s Episcopal. He cuts through the parking lot and pulls onto Main Street, down the block from the Beanery.
“How’d you do that?”
“Trade secret.” His teeth flash in the dark. “Are you hungry?”
My stomach has a Pavlovian response, rumbling to attention the moment he mentions food. “A little.”
“Thought so. Stressful situations demand comfort food. Come on, I’ll buy you a greasy burger and a chocolate malt.” He whips the Jeep into the Stardust Diner parking lot and pulls into a spot near the door.
He cuts the engine, and the pinging of his motor cooling fills the silence as he turns in his seat to face me. He frowns at my scraped palms. “Why didn’t you tell me you’re hurt?”
“It’s not bad.” I flip my stinging hands over and rest them on my lap.
“Let me . . .” He retrieves a first aid kit from under his seat.
“Accident-prone?”
“I have some experience with field dressing.” He cracks open the plastic container and fishes out a few antiseptic wipes.
“Field dressing?” I wait for him to clarify, but he ignores my question. “As in battle wounds?”
His gaze darts to mine, then back to my injured hands. “Something like that.”
“That’s it?” I gape at him. “That’s all I get?”
