Page 44 of Deal Breaker
He shrugs one shoulder. “You’re not the only one who evolved.”
I smile despite myself. “You really didn’t have to go to this much trouble.”
“I wanted to,” he says simply.
I watch him in the low kitchen light, sleeves pushed up, brow slightly furrowed in concentration. There’s something intimate about it—standing here while he cooks for me, the air thick with memory and the ache of wishing things could be simple again.
But they’re not. And maybe they never will be.
Still, we’re here.
And that has to mean something.
Ten minutes later, dinner is ready and plated. Ford sets the plates on the dining table then pulls out a chair and gestures for me to sit. I try not to stare at the way his forearms flex as he reaches beside me to adjust the silverware.
I take a bite first of the halibut that turns out to be perfectly cooked and let out a quiet hum of surprise. “Okay…this is actually amazing.”
“Actually?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “You sound shocked.”
“I just didn’t expect—” I stop, laughing. “You used to survive on ramen and black coffee.”
“And now look at me.” He lifts his glass slightly. “Practically domesticated.”
I smile, but something in my chest tightens. This version of him is new to me, but still so familiar. Like the man I loved never really left. It’s disarming how easy it feels to sit here with him, how quickly my guard wants to drop. My mind keeps flashing to the way his hand brushed mine when he passed the bread, the way his eyes softened when Ilaughed at something small. It’s dangerous, letting myself enjoy this. Because underneath it all, I don’t know what this means. I don’t know what he wants from me, from us. And before I can talk myself out of it, the question slips out.
“Why am I here? Why did you invite me to dinner?”
He doesn’t blink. “Because I wanted to spend time with you.”
I glance down at my plate, my appetite fading as the weight of that answer settles. “It’s just that simple?”
“It could be.” His voice is low and steady, but there’s heat beneath it. Controlled, but barely.
I look up. He’s watching me intensely. The air between us feels heavy now. “I don’t know what you’re hoping for,” I say quietly.
He leans forward, elbows on the table, his gaze locked on mine. “I’m not hoping. I’m wanting.”
I swallow. Hard. Now is the time to look away. To shut it down. To laugh it off, get through dinner, and then get out of here.
But I don’t because I can’t. I’ve always been powerless to Ford Winters.
“I’m remembering,” Ford tells me, eyes still on me.
I stare back. “And what exactly are you remembering?”
The corner of his mouth lifts, just slightly. “How you used to eat the tomatoes off my plate. How you would hum a little when you were concentrating on something. How you always wore socks to bed, even in the summer.” He pauses, eyes locked on mine. “I’m remembering what it’s like to want something and not know if I get to have it again.”
I’m pretty sure I gasp. The table between us feels too small. The air feels too hot. There’s a hum under everything. Desire. His eyes flick to my mouth and back, and I feel it like a jolt.
I reach for my wine just to do something with my hands. I push a roasted carrot around my plate, pretending I’m still hungry. I’m not. The food is perfect, but I couldn’t taste a single bite after what he just confessed. He watches every movement. The tension in the room crackles and it feels like we’re hurtling towards a cliff edge at full speed.
And the worst part is…I want it. I want him even though I know better. There’s no way this ends well. Not when he finds out the secret I’ve been keeping.
We finish dinner in silence. Ford watching me, quiet, eyes dark like he’s trying to decide what to do next.
“I’ll help clean up,” I say, voice too tight, my chair scraping against the floor as I rise abruptly from my chair before I can unravel.
“You don’t have to.” His voice is measured, steady.
