Page 69 of Deal Breaker
“It’s hard to say no to you, Ford Winters.”
I grin. “Exactly as I planned.”
She laughs, “Safe travels. I’ll see you when you get back.”
And then she slips out of my office, leaving behind the faintest scent of her perfume and a mess in my pants I need to clean up.
TWENTY-FIVE
Landyn
The second I walk through the front door to the cottage after work, it all catches up to me.
The urgency.
His hands.
The way I fell apart in his arms with my back pressed to his desk in his office.
I still can’t believe it—how reckless it was, how bold, how utterly unlike me. In the moment it felt intoxicating, dangerous in the best way, like we were playing with fire just to feel the burn. I’d forgotten what it felt like to be wanted like that. Touched like that. And not just by anyone…by him.
I kick off my shoes in the hallway and try to shake the look he gave me when I came undone, like I belonged to him. Like I always had.
God. I press a hand to my chest. I’m in trouble. And the worst part? I don’t even care right now.
From the kitchen, I hear Poppy’s laughter. My mom’s, too. They’re sitting at the table, my mom helping her traceletters with a purple glitter pen, the kind that always leaks. There’s a half-eaten bowl of mac and cheese on the table beside them, and a crayon drawing of the dog Poppy’s been begging for with the word “please” printed in wobbly letters underneath it stuck to the fridge.
“Hey,” my mom says without looking up. “You’re later than usual.”
I fake a smile and hang my purse on the hook. “Got stuck in a meeting.”
“Mmm.” I have the distinct sense that she doesn’t believe me, but thankfully she doesn’t push.
Poppy turns and beams at me. “Mommy, I drew your dream house!”
I crouch beside her, resting my hand on her tiny knee. “Oh yeah? Lemme see.”
She holds it up proudly, and I recognize the crooked little cabin with a heart above the door. “That’s perfect,” I whisper, kissing her temple.
Later, after bedtime, when Poppy’s snuggled into her sheets and my mom’s gone home, the silence settles around me again. I stand in the doorway of her bedroom for a minute, just watching her sleep. She looks so much like him, and he has no idea.
I back out slowly, pulling her door until it’s almost closed, and head down the hallway to my room. My phone is still in my bag. I fish it out to find one new message.
Ford: Still thinking about you and lunch and the sounds you made when I touched you.
I bite my lip then I turn off the screen and crawl into bed, the ache in my chest drowning out everything else.
It’s beensix days since he left.
Six days of early-morning texts and late-night check-ins. Ford may be halfway across the country, but he’s made damn sure I haven’t gone a single day without feeling his presence.
Ford: Hope your day was better than mine.
Ford: Lunch meeting was brutal. The conference room from hell. I miss you.
Ford: Thinking about you and what I’m going to do to you when I get back. I want to see you. Friday?
The texts shouldn’t undo me the way they do. This version of him—the thoughtful one, the steady one, the one who won’t let a day go by without reaching out—is the one I fell for years ago. It’s also the one I’ve been lying to.
