Page 43 of Deal Breaker
Something flickers behind his eyes. Not quite relief. Not quite surprise. Something that says this moment means more than either of us wants to admit. He steps back and gestures for me to come in.
I cross the threshold slowly, my boots echoing softly off the wide-plank hardwood before I toe them off. The house smells like cedar and whatever cologne he always wears. It’s woodsy and warm and familiar enough to make my chest ache.
The entryway opens up into a large, open concept living space. It has high ceilings and huge windows that look out over the water. A sleek kitchen with black cabinets and gold hardware that somehow feels both modern and lived in. There’s a fire lit in the fireplace, low and crackling.
The house is stunning, and I can feel him in every detail.
“This is incredible, Ford,” I say, not sure where to put my hands or my nerves.
He closes the door behind me. “Thanks. Built it a few years ago.”
I turn to face him again, heart thudding. He studies me for a moment, like he’s trying to remember something and hold onto it all at once.
“You look beautiful,” he says finally.
“So do you,” I say. “I mean… not… you look good.”
He nods, smiling, then gestures toward the living room. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“A glass of wine if you have it, that would be great.”
He disappears into the kitchen, and I take a deep breath. I touch the soft leather of the couch, grounding myself.
I’m here.
He’s here.
And the space between us feels like something waiting to catch fire.
I wander slowly toward the windows, letting my fingers trail along the smooth edge of the console table beneath them. The view is unreal—open water stretching out for miles under a darkening sky, the last traces of sun flickering along the horizon.
Behind me, I hear the quiet clink of glass and the hum of the fridge door opening.
“You still like an ice cube in the glass?” he calls, not looking up.
The question startles me. For a moment, it’s like no time has passed.
“Yeah,” I say. “I do.”
He comes to stand beside me at the window, his fingers brushing mine as he hands me the glass of wine. “Thanks.”
He nods once, then turns back toward the stove. I follow. There’s a pan already resting on the burners, and I catch the scent of garlic and herbs, something roasting in the oven. It’s the kind of smell that makes you feel at home, cared for.
“You cook now?” I tease gently, moving to lean against the kitchen island.
He glances at me, mouth twitching. “I actually cook pretty well, thank you very much.”
I lift a brow. “That’s new.”
He tosses a towel over his shoulder. “A man can learn.”
I take a sip from my wine glass, watching him as he stirs the pan, then adds something from a small bowl on the counter. He moves with a quiet confidence, just like he does at the office and, I imagine, everywhere else.
“What are you making?” I ask.
“Miso glazed seared halibut with roast vegetables.”
I blink. “Okay, Gordon Ramsay.”
