Page 15 of Deal Breaker
And that is the thing about Ford Winters—he doesn’t waste words. He doesn’t fill silence with empty thoughts the way most people do. Every word he gives, he means. Every word he chooses not to say, I feel just as much.
The elevator dings. The doors slide open behind me. I swallow hard, the length of my throat burning, but I can’t move. Not yet. Not when Ford is standing here, looking at me the way he is. Like there is something on the tip of his tongue that he doesn’t trust himself enough to say.
For a moment, we just stand here, the distance between us measured in heartbeats. Fast, frantic ones that no amount of us pretending can slow.
“You were hired to do a job, and I expect you to finish it,” Ford says roughly. “You walked away once. Don’t think for a second I forgot.”
The words hit harder than I expect. Not because they are cruel but because they are true.
I swallow against the lump forming in my throat. “I never asked you to forget.”
For a long, tense moment, we stand perfectly still, staring at each other, the clock above the elevator door ticking into the silence as the seconds pass by until it dings.
He steps closer, closing the space between us by a fraction. Just enough that I can breathe him in—pine and salt air, the same scent that has always clung to him. The same one that can undo me in an instant.
The elevator dings again.
“You think you can just walk back into my life, into this, and we just pretend like none of it happened?” His voice is rougher now.
“I’m not pretending anything.”
He stares at me so intensely that my skin starts to prickle. “You should go, Landyn,” he says, his voice gravel and grit.
Without another word, I turn and step inside the elevator, my heart crashing against my ribs.
The door slides shut, but I can still feel him. His anger. His hurt. His pain.
I lean back against the cold, metal wall, squeezing my eyes shut for a second, trying to catch my breath. Ford is angry and he has every right to be. Ididwalk away. But that doesn’t quiet the part of me that still burns at the memory of him. It doesn’t stop the ache that has never really gone away.
By the time I pull into my driveway, the cottage is dark except for the porch light my dad always leaves on for me. I slip inside quietly, toe off my shoes in the entryway and walk towards the small living room at the back of the house. The scent of sugar and chocolate wafts through the air and I follow it to the kitchen where my dad is removing cookies from a cooling rack.
“They smell good, Dad.”
He looks up when I walk in, his face soft and full of that steady love that always manages to make my throat tighten.
“Poppy wanted to bake. Your mom thought you could also use a little sugar after a long day at the office. She’s resting with Poppy but she’s fine.”
I smile back even though I still feel a little shaky after my run-in with Ford. “You both know me so well,” I say, my voice quiet. “Thanks for watching Poppy. I know it’s…a lot.”
Dad shrugs like it was no trouble at all. “She’s easy. Besides it’s good to have you both home.”
Home. The word tugs at something deep inside of me.
He wipes his hands on a dish towel, then looks at me with an expression that carries the questions he doesn’t ask. He knows Ford is my new boss. They both do. He pulls me into a hug and presses a kiss to my forehead. “Get some rest, honey. Tomorrow’s a new day. I’m going to get Mom and take her home.”
I watch them from the small porch as they pull out of the driveway, then head back into the house. I exhale into the silence, the weight of the day settling on me. The gala prep, my run-in with Ford, the look in his eyes when he told me I should leave. The way my mom leaned on my dad as they walked to the car, his arm around her waist to support her. I am suddenly so tired that I feel like I could collapse on the spot, fall to the floor and stay there until the morning light seeps through the blinds. Instead, I turn and make my way upstairs to Poppy’s room, the old floorboards creaking softly under my feet.
Pushing open the door to her room, I find her curled up in bed under a mountain of pink blankets. She has her thumb tucked against her cheek, just like she used to do when she was a baby.
My heart cracks open at the sight. She’s still so small and he’s missed so much.
I cross the room and kneel beside her bed, brushing a few strands of her curls off her forehead. She stirs but doesn’t wake. “I’m here, baby girl,” I whisper, pressing a kiss to her temple.
I stay for a long moment just watching her breathe, memorizing the tiny rise and fall of her chest and the way her eyelashes brush her cheeks.
My throat burns.
No matter how hard this gets, no matter how much the past claws at me, I’m not going to run this time.
