Page 7 of Deal Breaker
She’s all sunshine and wild curls and I drop to my knees and press my face into her hair. “You smell like dirt and strawberry jam,” I whisper.
She giggles. “Grandma made cookies. And we picked flowers. I found one with a bee inside and I didn’t scream at all.”
“Brave girl,” I murmur, brushing her hair off her forehead. “You’re so brave, Poppyseed.”
She beams. “How was your new office, Mommy?”
“Oh, baby, no office for me today. Today, I just got ready for when I start in a few days.”
“Did you talk to the new people yesterday? Are they nice?”
I swallow hard. “They’re… intense.”
She tilts her head. “Is intense like mean?”
“No, baby. Just big. Like, they think big. Talk big. Create big things.”
She squints. “Like castles?”
I smile. “Kind of.”
She nods at that and then pats my cheek. My mom stands and brushes off her pants, walking toward us with a gentle smile. “She was an angel. Didn’t even ask for her iPad.”
“Because Grandma brought chalk,” Poppy says excitedly. “And we drew a dragon that eats ice cream!”
She grabs my hand and pulls me to the patch of concrete beside the house, where there is a chalk art drawing of a rainbow-colored dragon with curly eyelashes and neonyellow toenails standing beside a pink ice cream cone that’s just as big.
“Amazing!” I tell Poppy, brushing the curls back from her forehead.
My mom raises her brows, likeyou’re welcome. I mouth a thank you.
Inside, our house smells like baked apples and sugar. Like comfort wrapped up in four small rooms and a porch with peeling paint. It’s not much, but it’ll do. And it’s temporary. Just until I get settled into the new job. Until I can get to the bottom of what’s going on with my mom. Just until I figure out how to breathe again with Ford living in the same postal code.
Dinner is grilled cheese and tomato soup, and we eat together around the small kitchen island. Poppy insists on dipping everything. Even the apple slices.
After bath time and stories and exactly three minutes of her very dramatic rendition ofTwinkle, Twinkle, Little Staron a plastic xylophone, I tuck her into bed.
She holds out her pinky. “Promise you’ll be here when I wake up?”
“Always,” I whisper, wrapping my finger around hers.
And I mean it. With every bone in my body.
FOUR
Ford
I drive into town, stopping at Brew House, the coffee shop off Front Street where everyone knows your name whether you want them to or not. I don’t come here often, not anymore. Too many familiar faces, too much small talk, but it’s on the way to the office and I need the caffeine since my assistant double-booked my first two meetings.
The bell over the door chimes as I walk in. Low chatter, the grind of the espresso machine, the warm scent of cinnamon and something freshly baked. I nod at the owner, a woman named Rosie who talks a mile-a-minute. She gives me a grin like she knows something I don’t.
I step in line behind a man ordering half the pastry case. Tap my fingers against my phone. As I wait—I hear her.
Laughing. It’s the softest sound. Light-filled.
She’s tucked into a corner booth by the window. I don’t even have to look to know.
I look to my left and see her. Landyn Sinclair. Hair in a low twist, sunglasses perched on top of her head. Laughingwith her mother. There’s a half-eaten muffin in front of her and a bright pink notebook open beside it. Like she’s settled in. Like this is home again.
