Page 39 of Deal Breaker
Me: Alberta. I lived with my aunt in her tiny, split-level house. It needed some work…the dishwasher or the washing machine was always breaking, and no AC so the place was an oven in the summer. But there was a little park across the street, and I could hear the birds singing in the morning. There was something nice about that.
Ford: You always liked being surrounded by nature. I remember you once said quiet made you feel safe.
Me: It still does. You still hate the city?
Ford: Too many people and not enough trees.
Me: You sound like you’re 80 years old.
Ford: You sound like the girl who once made me pull over in the pouring rain just to watch the fog roll across the lake.
Me: It was beautiful.
Ford: It was freezing, and you had no jacket. I gave you mine and then got sick for a week.
Me: Worth it. You always did have a hero complex.
Ford: Just for you.
My hearts skips. Once. Maybe Twice.
I don’t respond right away. I just stare at the screen.
Ford: See you Saturday, Lan.
Another text follows with his address. For just a moment, I picture myself alone with Ford, in his home, but I immediately abandon the mental image. There is no way I can let that happen. I’ll make up an excuse on Saturday morning.
Me: Goodnight, Ford.
Ford: Night, June.
I’m barelythree steps into the office when I see it—a small box, wrapped in the same brown paper, sitting neatly in the center of my desk.
Again.
My stomach does a little flip.
I drop my bag in my chair and then quickly glance out the door, half-expecting to find him watching, waiting, but Ford’s nowhere to be seen. Just Becca typing rapidly at her computer and Marco stirring a heaping spoonful of sugar into his morning coffee at the counter across the room.
I sit behind my desk and unwrap the package as quietly as I can, trying not to draw attention. Inside is a simple and elegant matte black, hardcover journal, heavy in my hands. The kind you want to fill with things that matter.
There’s no note this time. Just a folded scrap of paper tucked inside the cover with one word written in his familiar, slanted handwriting:
June.
I suck in a breath and quickly tuck it into my bag, but I’m too late. Becca’s already peering at me over a laptop she has clutched to her chest where she stands in my doorway. “Ooh. What’s that?”
“Nothing,” I say, a little too quickly.
Marco walks over, eyebrows raised. “That is not nothing. That’s a gift. At work. On a Friday.”
Becca grins. “Very mysterious. Do you have a secret admirer?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I stammer, shoving the journal deeper into my bag.
“Okay, Bec. Looks like we’ll have to guess,” Marco says, eyes gleaming.
“I know! Is it from the hot contractor guy who was in here on Monday?” Becca asks. “Because I would be totally rooting for that.”
