Page 31 of Deal Breaker
“Ford—”
He lets out a frustrated breath. “Just tell me, June. Tell me why you can’t stop running.”
My guilt burns a hole through my chest, but not here, not now. I can’t tell him about his 6-year-old daughter on the sidewalk in front of Cove.
“I’ll think about it.”
“Eight o’clock tomorrow at Breakwater. I’ll be waiting.”
I nod. “Okay.”
I squeeze my eyes closed, unable to breathe for a beat. Then I walk away before I change my mind.
THIRTEEN
Ford
The sun’s going down, a chill settling in the air as I step onto my back deck, glass of whiskey in hand. I’m already dressed—black button down, jeans, boots. Casual, but not careless. I have to keep reminding myself this isn’t a date.
I sip the whiskey slowly, leaning against the railing, trying to let the cool air break through the heat crawling under my skin. I’ve checked my watch four times in the last ten minutes, and I hate myself for it.
Even the dogs are restless. Wes’s rescue mutt, Scout, who I somehow got roped into watching for the week, is pacing by the back door. Stella, my Boston Terrier, is anxiously watching him. I let them out of the house and toss a stick half-heartedly across the yard. Neither of them chase it. They just look up at me like they know I’ve got too much on my mind.
I scrub a hand down my face. This was a bad idea.
One afternoon with Landyn, and I’m making recklessdecisions. I shouldn’t have asked her to come for dinner. I shouldn’t care whether she shows up. But I do.
I walk inside, dump the glass in the sink without finishing it, and grab my keys. If she doesn’t show, I’ll order a beer. Eat a burger. Pretend this was never about her.
If she does…
I lock the door behind me before I can finish the thought.
Breakwater Bistro sits tucked against the coast, low lights glowing from the wraparound windows, the sound of the ocean just behind it providing a constant soundtrack. It’s upscale enough to pass for a date spot, but laid back enough that I won’t feel like a jackass if I end up eating alone.
I push through the front doors and nod at the hostess, a girl who looks fresh out of college and slightly startled to see me. Cove has roots in this town. People know who I am, and they know I don’t go out much.
“Mr. Winters,” she says, glancing down at her reservation list. “Do you have a preference for where you’d like to sit?”
“Corner table,” I say. “If it’s open.”
It is. Of course it is.
She leads me through the busy dining room, past the clinking glasses and murmured conversation, to a quiet table, half-tucked beneath the curve of a wide bay window. From here, I can see the water. I can also see the entrance.
I sit with my back to the wall and thank the hostess when she sets the menu down.
I don’t touch it. I check my watch. It’s 7:58. Not that I’m paying attention to the time.
The server comes over and I order a whiskey, neat. I barely take a sip before I’m glancing toward the door again. Every time it opens, my chest gets tight. Every time it’s nother, it gets tighter. I wonder what she’s doing. If she’s still standing in front of her closet, trying to talk herself out of this. Or if she made up her mind hours ago and is letting her absence tell me all I need to know.
8:04.
I look down at the drink in my hand, swirl it, and try not to care.
The door opens again.
And this time, it’s her.
