Page 98 of Wild Love
I chuckle. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry over it.”
“Rosie. You kill me.”
“That was funny. Why aren’t you laughing?”
Now his head tips up. Eyes glowing neon, like they defy the dim light in the living room. “There’s nothing funny about the way I want you.”
I swallow, and my gaze snags on the silver chain that has slipped out from behind the V-neck of his T-shirt.
The pendant is dangling between us, in plain sight. I’ve felt it before in my hand but never really processed what it was. I reach for it and feel the familiar smooth metal of the key that’s attached, warmed from resting against his skin.
“That’s…”
He looks bashful now, like it’s a struggle to hold my gaze.
“That’s my diary key.”
Ford nods.
“From like… ten years ago.”
Another wordless nod.
“You kept it? All this time?”
“I figured I’d see you again one day. I just… I’ve worn it for so long that I’m attached to it. And the lock broke when you tossed it out the window, so it really wasn’t necessary anymore. I just didn’t say anything.”
He wore the key to my diary for ten years.
My chest aches. My mind spins. This man has been keeping me close to him for a decade. Breaking speed limits to get to me. And I never noticed until now? What is wrong with me?
I want to hold him, I want to kiss him, I want to tell him I’m sorry for not seeing him. But that key can’t change what we just agreed to—what we both know is best. I don’t want to be another complication in his life right now.
Maybe one day. When the timing is right.
So, I offer him a nod of my own. Accompanied by a watery smile. “You’re one of the good ones, Ford Grant Junior. Keep the key.”
Then, refusing to let my resolve wither under the intensity of his stare, I add, “Thank you for the boxes of chips and bottles of Coke. You’re a very thoughtful boss.”
He winces at the title.
But he still says, “You’re welcome,” and walks me home like the gentleman he is.
And it takes everything I have not to beg him to come in. To be a little less gentlemanly just for one night. But I don’t.
Turns out it’s better this way because as soon as I close the door, I cry, and I’m not even totally sure why.
I’ve always hated Ford Grant—or at least that’s what I tell myself.
And that’s what I cling to all of Friday and the entire weekend.
It’s the only way I’ll get through.
CHAPTER THIRTY
FORD
Rosie,
