Jordan POV
I closed my eyes… and waited. Waited for that moment. The touch. The kiss. I had asked for "ice, please," right?
And it came. In the form of a soft kiss… on my cheek.
My face lit up instantly, and I opened my eyes — only to want to close them again from the sheer embarrassment. And not just that — the warmth of that kiss spread through me like someone had flipped a switch inside.
Why did I close my eyes?! Damn it. I gave him a shy smile, probably blushing like an overripe tomato. And Lorenzo? He smiled back… and kissed me again. On the cheek. Seriously?! What is it with him avoiding my lips?
"At my place… next day off… I'll cook for you." Um?! Am I the only one who thinks that sounded incredibly suggestive? I nodded automatically — brain on autopilot, heart racing like I'd just run a marathon.
He helped me open the gate, and I walked in still floating. My heart hadn't slowed down. My head was spinning. I still wanted that kiss.
But hey — we still had that dinner at his place. Wait… when was my next day off again?
Two days from now. Might as well have been forever.
I walked into my apartment, cheeks still on fire. Closed the door behind me with a long sigh, leaning back against it like I needed physical support to process what had just happened.
Cheek kisses. Two. Dinner invitation. And that look… right before he stepped back.
Okay. Breathe.
My heart hadn't gotten the memo that the date was over. But I needed to shut it down — work tomorrow. Reality was knocking.
I ran a hand through the messy bun I'd thrown up earlier and slid down to the floor, still leaning against the door. I sat there for a few seconds, staring at the ceiling like it might have some answers.
Spoiler: it didn't.
Just my brain — and it was running in loops I couldn't keep up with. The truth? I wanted that kiss. We were one centimeter away. And he pulled back. Or dodged. Or was just being polite. Whatever it was, it left me in a confused emotional mess that not even chocolate could fix.
I got up slowly and headed to the bathroom. I needed a long, hot shower. Something to wash the day off… and maybe clear my head. Why the hell was I thinking about Chef Adam?
I don't know why — but I was. Him. Everything. And the recipe I still had to choose for the vlog. I was so caught up in my thoughts I didn't even notice the water getting colder…
And colder…
And colder.
"AHHHHHHH!!" I screamed when the water turned ice-cold out of nowhere.
I jumped like I'd been electrocuted. The cold hit my skin like a thousand little needles. My legs started to shake, and shampoo foam ran down my face like fake tears.
"This is cosmic punishment, isn't it?" I muttered, clinging to the shower wall, one eye shut, the other half-open. I turned the tap off in one dramatic motion, foam still dripping down my face.
"WHY?!" I yelled, trying to wipe the soap from my eyes. "I said I wanted ice — but it was a metaphor, damn it!" I really should've known the universe takes metaphors way too literally.
I opened the tap again and let it run for a while, hoping it would warm up again. No luck.
So I finished the shower shivering — rinsing out the shampoo felt like medieval torture.
And don't even get me started on the conditioner.
I walked out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, hair soaked, and the full realization that my clumsy, unlucky self hadn't left the building. Not even close. But I wasn't going to let it ruin my night — it was just a bump in a day filled with good stuff.
Right?
I'd been through worse. Much worse. And I had a recipe to pick for the vlog with Chef Adam. So I sat down in front of my laptop, still wrapped in a fuzzy robe. I was freezing, but excitement was louder than my teeth chattering.
I opened my recipe notebook and skimmed through the pages, looking for something special — but not too show-offy. Something that said "I can cook," but also "I'm not desperately trying to impress you." Which, of course… I totally was. It was Chef Adam Black, after all.
I picked three recipes and sent them to my phone. I figured it'd depend on what ingredients we had at the restaurant — any of them would work. Confidence? Meh.
But I was ready to go all in.
Before going to bed, I saw my phone was down to 5% battery. I plugged it in beside the bed. Hugged a pillow to my chest for a few seconds. Thought about texting Melissa — but what would I even say? It'd been a while since I had a real friend to sit and talk about… well, guys. I wouldn't even know where to start.
I pulled the blankets over me, snuggled in, and sighed. Closed my eyes. Just for a few minutes.
–
Later
I snapped awake. It was dark. But I felt it — that terrible, sinking feeling like I'd slept way too long. My chest tightened. My head felt heavy, like I was stuck between sleep and a bad dream — except this was a very real nightmare.
I grabbed my phone. Nothing. Black screen. Wait… didn't I plug it in?
I tried the lamp. Nothing.
"No…" I whispered, already sitting upright. Panic rising. I hit the power button again and again like somehow it would magically come to life. But nothing.
Except the wave of panic crawling up my throat.
I stumbled out of bed. Rushed to the window. Threw the blinds open. Sunlight exploded into the room like a giant spotlight of shame. Way too bright. The kind of brightness that screams: you're late. I started sweating. Literally.
"No, no, no…"
I ran through the apartment — stubbed my toe on the couch, lost a slipper, and tripped on a pillow. Microwave was off. Oven clock dead. I darted to the wall clock — the one that runs on batteries. I was late. Really late.
Crap. Power outage. Phone died. Alarm didn't go off. And me? I overslept.
My brain screamed.
My body froze.
My mouth hung open, like I could somehow apologize to the universe and to Chef Adam. The man who had very clearly said, with the angriest face I've ever seen, that we should not go out the night before a shift.
And I went. With Lorenzo. Thirty minutes late.
And today… On top of service, we had filming. With Chef Adam.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I went out with Lorenzo. Got home late. Overslept. And now I was about to show up late at the restaurant. How the hell was I supposed to explain this?
I was officially… toast. Burnt. Charred. I threw clothes on, rushed out the door — tripping over my own feet and my last shred of dignity.
As I stepped outside… I sneezed.
Of course.
Getting sick.
The cherry on top.