Page 108 of Deal Breaker
He helped me find a great after-school care program for Poppy and insisted I leave the office early until it started. He texted me a link to a YouTube video about black and white spotted puppies with the message, “For Poppy?” He came with me to pick her up from school and take her to dance class, where he stood watching her like she was a world class ballerina—which he insists she very well could be one day.
We haven’t talked about us, about what we’re doing or where we’re going. Right now, we’re just focused on the two of them getting to know each other. That’s all that matters.
“Do you think he’ll like it?” Poppy asks, holding up the bowl of sauce proudly, a little smear of tomato sauce on her cheek.
I smile, reaching over to wipe it away with my thumb. “He’s going to love it, Poppyseed.” And in my chest, something aches—soft and hopeful.
There’s a knock at the door just as I’m draining the pasta and Poppy immediately darts toward it, yelling, “I’ll get it!”
I laugh under my breath. “Check who it is first!” I call after her, but I already know.
She swings the door open. “Ford! You’re here!”
“Wouldn’t dream of missing this,” he says, smiling as he steps inside, holding a paper bag in one hand. “I brought dessert. I was told donuts were non-negotiable.”
Poppy gasps and all but grabs the bag from him, already peeking inside. “You got the good kind!”
He winks. “Only the best for my girl.”
My girl. Something inside me flutters at the sound of it, but it’s quickly replaced by a deep jab of guilt because Poppy still doesn’t know who Ford really is.
“I have to set the table now,” she says, suddenly remembering her job. She skips back into the kitchen, her bare feet padding against the hardwood floor. I linger in the doorway for a second, drying my hands on a dishtowel as I watch her carefully place plates down—three of them. She lines up the silverware with concentration, tongue poking out the side of her mouth as always.
Three place settings.
It hits me harder than I expect.
Ford moves to stand beside me, and I know he notices it too. The way his arm brushes mine doesn’t feel like an accident.
“She set the table for three,” I whisper, voice thick. “It’s just a small thing but…”
“It’s not small,” he says. “It’s a big deal.”
We eat at the little table by the window with the fading sun painting the sky in watercolors. Poppy talks a mile a minute, telling Ford all about her teacher and how she’s learning to do the splits and how someone at schoolbrought a tarantula for show and tell and how she is never going near that person again.
Ford listens like she’s reciting poetry.
After dinner, we each have one of the donuts Ford brought. He pretends to steal Poppy’s last bite just to make her squeal, and when she gets chocolate on her chin, he wipes it off with a napkin like it’s second nature. And somewhere between the laughter and the easy rhythm of conversation, the ache in my chest eases.
This? This feels like something real.
Like something we could keep.
After dinner, Poppy insists on showing Ford her latest drawings and he looks at each one very seriously, holding them up like they belong in a gallery.
She beams, soaking up every second. I would be happy if this night could stretch on forever, but when I glance at the clock, I clear my throat gently. “Alright, my love. Time to wash up and get ready for bed.”
“Do I have to?” she whines with a pout, curling herself into Ford’s side.
“You do,” I say, trying not to smile. “But if you hustle, I’ll read you two chapters tonight.”
She groans but drags herself toward the bathroom. At the doorway, she turns and asks, “Ford, are you staying for bedtime?”
My eyes flick to his, unsure how he’ll answer. But he just gives her a smile and says gently, “Not tonight, monkey. But I’ll see you really soon.”
“Promise?”
He places a hand over his heart. “Promise.”
