Page 37 of Deal Breaker
Half an hour later, I’m in my car, the asphalt giving way to gravel, the trees thickening on either side of the narrow lane. Eventually, I pull into the clearing, where the last cottage sits. In my memory, it was painted a washed-out baby blue, faded and battered by years of sun and ocean air. It had a small front porch that was missing a beam or two, an overgrown thicket of reeds obscuring its view of the water. The home I’m looking at now barely resembles that long-ago place. It has new cedar siding, white-framed windows, potted herbs on the steps. A porch swing sways gently in the breeze like it’s been waiting for someone to take rest there. There’s a pair of rain boots tucked neatly beside the door and a kid’s bike leaning against the steps—probably a neighbor’s, this area is full of young families. Everything about the cottage is soft, warm, and so unmistakably her.
I take a deep breath and swing open the truck door, file in hand. I should’ve texted her first. Actually, I should’ve just let someone else bring the damn file, but it’s too late to turn and run now.
The porch creaks under my weight as I climb the steps, and I pause at the top. A child’s sketchbook lies open on the bench beside the door, a rock holding a page in place. Crayon streaks of yellow, blue, and pink create something vaguely resembling a sun.
Something twists deep in my chest, but I ignore it, knocking on the door firmly and then taking a step back. It’sjust a moment, maybe two, but it stretches on for what feels like forever.
Then the door opens.
Hair pulled back, sweater falling off one shoulder. Her expression is caught somewhere between surprise and something heavier. Guilt, maybe. Or nerves. Or both.
“Ford,” she says, her voice quiet, cautious. “What are you doing here?”
I hold up the file. “You left this. Becca said you’d need it tonight.”
Her eyes drop to the folder. “Oh. Thank you. I…I didn’t even realize I left it.”
I nod, but I don’t hand it over right away. My eyes flick past her shoulder into the warm, lived-in space behind her. Soft lighting, a blanket tossed over the arm of the couch, a mug on the entry table. Cozy. Safe. Hers.
Before I can say anything else, Landyn steps forward, quickly closing the door behind her and joining me on the porch. Her posture is careful. Guarded. Like she’s nervous that I’m in her space.
“I haven’t been out here in a while,” I say, watching the tension settle in her shoulders. “Place looks different.”
“It’s been fixed up a bit.”
“It’s nice,” I say after a beat. “It suits you.”
Her fingers close around the file, but instead of lingering like last night, she pulls back quickly. Her movements are sharper now, like standing this close to me is a risk she doesn’t want to take.
“Thanks again for bringing it by,” she says, her voice tight. She shifts, already angling her body toward the door. “I should?—"
“I didn’t want you scrambling before the call,” I interrupttrying to keep my tone steady, trying to keep her here with me.
“Well, I’ve got it now, so I’m good.”
She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. I glance at the closed door behind her. “Everything okay?”
She nods, too quickly. “Yeah. Totally fine. I just have a lot to do before tomorrow.”
She looks to the yard, then her eyes slide back to the door. Her stare is anywhere but on me. She’s trying to shut the moment down, and I can feel it slipping away.
I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this. Last night had felt intimate, vulnerable. Now it’s like she’s scrambling to rebuild the wall between us.
I try again. “I’m happy they cleaned the place up. It’s a lot better than it used to be.”
“Yeah, I guess,” she says. “They did a nice job with the renovations. Anyway, I should?—”
She takes a step backward and her heel bumps against the door. She nearly drops the file but catches it and clutches it against her chest like it’s a shield.
I take a slow breath. “You always liked it out here.”
“Ford,” she whispers. “I… I really need to go.” She fumbles with the doorknob behind her. “Thanks again.”
I nod slowly. “Sure.”
She opens the door, stepping quickly inside. Before she disappears, she hesitates—just for a second—and looks at me. There’s something in her eyes. Like she wants to say more. Like she’s just about to tell me something.
But she doesn’t.
