Page 21 of Jordan’s Breakthrough (Unexpected Love #3)

MILES

J ordan doesn’t bother with his shirt as we climb back to the front seat, but I do. My skin is on fire. My mind racing. I can still feel his hands everywhere. His lips.

Would the sex have been that good if Jordan could see me? Like, really see me? There was light, sure, but not enough for him to see the way my belly hangs or all my stretch marks. Would he still have wanted me if he saw those? I doubt it.

He’s quiet as he drives across the city. It’s forty minutes away from the taco stand, which means he must drive at least half an hour every day to get to work. But Jordan doesn’t seem the type to mind a long commute, as long as he has a book to keep him company.

When we pull into a trailer park, my jaw drops.

I don’t know what I was expecting, but it’s not this.

This is… upscale. Four jacaranda trees line the drive in, their delicate petals dropping in the breeze.

In daylight they’d probably be purple, but in the dark they look like springtime snow.

Twinkling lights adorn the perimeter fence, and Narnia-style lampposts line every path.

“This is nice,” I say.

“Yeah, I guess.” He doesn’t sound impressed.

As we pass, I notice an outdoor community fire pit with a circle of Adirondack chairs around it. It looks cozy.

Each RV has their own white gravel lot with more of the wooden chairs, and a few of the RVs have private patios off the front door.

Jordan parks in front of a massive, sleek silver-and-red motorhome at the end of a long row. My eyes widen. It’s way fancier than I expected.

We get out, and Jordan pops the trunk, slinging my backpack over his shoulder before I can grab it.

He carries the Ficus plant out too, setting it near a collection of others.

We walk together to the front door. A patch of white fur appears in the window, then disappears just as quick.

Jordan unlocks the door and gestures me in, giving me a shy and guarded smile.

“Just ignore the mess,” he mutters.

I take a tentative step inside, just as a white cat appears at the landing. Her mismatched eyes get huge when she sees me, back arching in a hiss before she bolts down the hall like an angry cloud.

I frown. So much for winning Clematis over.

“She’ll come around,” he says.

The first thing I notice is the plants. They are everywhere.

Tiny succulents lined up along the windowsills.

Snake plants and ZZs lining the kitchen island, several smaller pots scattered in every available space.

He even has one of those pink polka-dotted ones I can never remember the name of.

A massive pothos is trailing from a macrame hanger in the corner above the longer couch—yes, longer , because there are two.

How does a motorhome even have two couches?

I thought they were supposed to be cramped?

This isn’t at all. It feels like a small luxury apartment.

“You didn’t tell me you lived in a greenhouse,” I say, touching a few of the plants. I quickly count the ones in the dining and kitchen area and lose track after twenty-seven.

He cracks a smile.

His collection hadn’t felt so big on video, but now I can literally feel his devotion to them. These plants are well loved. They’re thriving. They have names. I even know some of them.

As he peels out of his shoes, Jordan avoids eye contact.

He’s all soft edges now. And I get it. We went from meeting each other, to sharing tacos, to having sex in the back of his car in under two hours.

I’m not usually that fast either. But Jordan’s presence had been magnetic.

Warm and familiar. It hadn’t felt like our first time at all.

In fact, it felt like all those video chats had started something special.

Does he feel the same?

“Make yourself at home,” Jordan says, disappearing toward the back.

The living area is clean and lived in, filled with soft white light and warm blankets.

Books and notebooks fill the shelves. Charging cords are draped over one armrest, and a pair of gray slippers lies haphazardly in the middle of the floor, along with two crocheted mice.

The right side of the smaller couch is sagging from overuse, and a leather notebook lies beside it.

My breath catches. Is that his writing notebook? I long to look inside, but I won’t. Not without permission. Jordan’s writing is sacred. I know that just from the few lines he’d shared with me. They’re a gift .

The kitchen is surprisingly spotless. No clutter or crumbs. No dirty dishes. I run my hand along the faux white marble, admiring the dark smoky cabinets and stainless-steel appliances. It’s moody, but elegant. Exactly what I would expect Jordan to have.

But when I peek in the fridge, my jaw drops. It’s bare, except for two La Croixs, a jar of pickles, a half-eaten pizza, a crumpled bag of spring mix that looks more like soup than salad, and a drawer full of cat food and gravy pouches. Jordan has more cat food than he does human.

“That’s… alarming,” I whisper.

The contrast from his messy car to this spotless kitchen is weird. Does he not ever eat at home?

I eventually drift toward the back. Through the narrow hallway, I pass a closet, a second small bedroom, which looks like it had been the beginnings of an office and is now stuffed full of random boxes, and at the end, a spacious bathroom.

My cheeks heat when I see the shower. It’s easy to guess where Jordan propped his phone up to give me a view.

The bathroom has a second door, leading into the master suite at the end, which is where Jordan is.

I pause in the doorway.

His bedroom is in shambles. Clothes on the floor, a towel draped over an open dresser drawer, a pair of boots half-tucked under the bed like he lost the will to store them halfway through.

The dark gray sheets are twisted and rumbled, his pillows at all angles.

And there are books and plants everywhere.

I even spy a ukulele sitting in an open case on the dresser.

It’s not dirty. Not really. Just… messy.

Jordan is by the closet, pulling on a soft, worn black tee. He ducks his face when he sees me. “I know it’s a mess. Sorry.”

I smile. “Hey, if you think this is bad? You should see my room when I don’t have housekeeping.”

He gives a shy laugh.

Gaining courage, I cross the room, being careful not to step on anything, then stop in front of him. I want to reach for him, but don’t.

“It’s nice,” I say, looking around. “It feels… I don’t know. Like you.”

Jordan shrugs, but his ears flush a little pink. “Yeah. Maybe. I don’t know.”

There’s no maybe about it. This has his personality everywhere, from the plants to the colors and even the half-worn clothes across the floor. All of it suits him. I can easily see him traveling in it, if he decided to.

We stand there for a beat, quiet and uncertain. I hate the awkwardness.

Jordan points at my shirt. “We got, um, jizz on your shirt.”

I look down and blush. Yikes. “How? I wasn’t even wearing it.”

He snorts. “Guess we got carried away. Anyway, go ahead and change, if you want. I’ll wait out there.”

He steps around me to leave, sliding the door closed.

My heart sinks. Yeah, it’s definitely awkward now. Fuck. This isn’t what I wanted! It had felt so real and vibrant when we ate tacos. Was it the sex? Did we just rush it?

I change into a clean shirt and flannel pajamas, then shuffle back to the living room. Jordan is tending to plants on the table, his back to me. When he hears me, he looks over his shoulder.

I search for something to break the silence. “So, is there any chance you’ll share your lemon La Croix? Or are we gonna have to thumb wrestle over it?”

That gets another honest laugh out of Jordan, and his shoulders relax.

“You can have it.”

“You sure?” I raise a brow. It’s not the drink I’m after, it’s an explanation to why his fridge is so empty. But he doesn’t give one.

“Go ahead.”

We end up on the little couch, one La Croix each. Jordan tosses the blanket over both our laps, and his leg presses against mine. It’s the most relaxed he’s been since we got here, and that calms me. Maybe we didn’t mess up after all.

Clematis hops up onto the armrest, glaring at me like I’m the worst person ever for stealing her seat.

I offer her a hand to sniff, but she ignores it.

“Aww, come on, sweetie. I want to snuggle you.”

She leaps across me to Jordan’s lap, spins around and lays down with her legs folded under her.

“You didn’t bring Lily,” Jordan says, like he’s just now realizing it.

“I wasn’t sure how Clematis would do around another cat, so I asked a friend to watch her.”

Jordan scratches Clematis’s chin. “Probably smart. She’s usually fine, but it can take time.”

The silence stretches between us, like we’re both hoping the other will be the first to break the ice about what just happened.

“So.” I twist the can between my fingers. “I’m here.”

“And I’m still waiting to wake up from a dream.” His smile is genuine, his tone soft.

I trace the rim of the can. “ And we had our first street taco date.”

He snorts. “That was not a date. That was an unplanned last minute food grab. I’ll take you on a date tomorrow.”

I toss him a playful smile. “Promise?”

He reaches for my hand, squeezing once before pulling away. My belly squirms.

Our eyes meet as the next thing I want to say hovers in the air. And we had sex.

I want—need—Jordan to be the first one to say something about it. I need to know he’s okay. That we’re okay. Because things are just slightly off now, and I’m afraid I messed up. I followed his lead in the car, but what if it was a mistake? What if I should have stopped him?

His long fingers tap a beat on his leg. “I don’t…” He stops, searching for words. “Miles, I don’t usually do things like that, so I’m sorry if it seemed abrupt.”

“I know. Me either,” I admit.

He picks at a hole in the blanket. “You okay, though?”