Five
Ellie
I slept like crap if I even slept at all.
All night, I was buzzing around like I’d drained a pot of coffee. I cleaned the kitchen cabinets, scrubbed the bathroom floors, and found and matched up all the socks strewn around the laundry room. Basically, I did all the chores I put off because I couldn’t sit still.
My emotions went in waves.
Phase One: excitement would rustle in the pit of my stomach as a vision of Ford’s grin or a whisper of his scent would strike my memory.
Phase Two: I’d be planning our future, complete with a dog and a complete set of matching pots and pans from an online wedding registry.
Phase Three: Images of us with a baby would begin to flicker through my mind and the excitement would sour. Almost instantly, I’d be scrubbing with extra vigor fueled by an anger I’ve known for a long time.
“Ford?” I say his name with a hesitation, with a fear that I can taste. My chest heaves as I try to stick to the plan I made up last night after I found out. “I need to tell you something.”
“What is it?” He brushes my hair off my face as I look up at him. My head is on his lap as we lie in the back of his truck. It’s so peaceful, the sun so warm, I want to close my eyes and pretend all of this isn’t real.
Tears kiss my eyes. He looks at me with a slight grin, like he’s waiting on me to tell him I gave my lunch away again today to a kid that didn’t have one or that one of the girls in chemistry was mean to me again. Instead, I rock his entire world.
“I think I’m pregnant.”
“Earth to Ellie,” Violet singsongs. “I know you’re all dolled up today, but you could pretend to be a worker bee like me.”
“Sorry.” I point to the blue card in her hand, trying to shake away the hollowness the memory left behind. “I like that one. Red is too bold.”
“Blue it is,” she sighs. “Do you need another coffee or something? You’re out in la-la land today.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I’m just exhausted.”
She twists her lips. “Anything you want to tell me?”
“I’m tired because I didn’t sleep because I was cleaning the house last night.” I stand from the table. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”
“Nope. I wanted to hear you didn’t sleep because you were—”
“Don’t say it.”
“You don’t even know what I was going to say!”
“Yes, I do,” I laugh.
“Then tell me.”
“I’m not saying his name.”
“Whose name?”
“Stop it, Violet.”
“You mean … Ford’s name?”
The look I give her isn’t friendly. She doesn’t care. She laughs and continues filling out the form in front of her. “The mascara and lip gloss, while not quite makeup-makeup, were quite a shock this morning.”
“Huh.” I know where she’s going with this and I knew she’d head that direction. As I added a third layer of black-brown to my eyelashes, I could hear Violet chiding me.
I don’t wear makeup. A lip balm to keep me from biting my lips, sometimes a colored one if it tastes like cherries or strawberries, is the beginning and end of my regular cosmetic routine. So what if I added a little gloss and mascara? Does it matter?
When I look at Violet, she’s grinning. “Hoping for a certain someone to drop by today?”
“Hoping for it? No. Preparing for it in case of the super small percentage that it actually happens? Yes.”
“The makeup bit coupled with the tight black shirt and the strategically ripped jeans—don’t worry. He’ll definitely forgive you for being incorrigible yesterday.”
“I don’t want his forgiveness,” I huff. “I hope he forgets I exist and I never see him again.”
So she doesn’t call me out on that, I stand and begin to make my way into the front.
“You lie. You lie and you’re terrible at it.” Violet’s voice follows me as I turn the corner.
The front of the store is still a mess, and although I’ve put off sorting through the contents for days, it’s better than listening to Violet. Organizing physical things typically helps me sort my mind when it’s also a mess, so I hope it’s a two-for-one kind of day.
Four tall boxes are emptied, their content scattered around me, when Violet appears. She lets me know she has to run to the bank and offers to pick up a blueberry muffin from the bakery next door. It’s her way of offering a peace treaty.
I work easily through the inventory, picking through the items and putting them into boxes in combinations that make sense. Lifting a stack of scarves handmade in Peru, one of them catches my eye. I slip it out and place it on top.
It’s a turquoise sea with a golden sun hanging high in the sky. The water almost shimmers, luring you into the scene.
When the chimes ring, alerting me that Violet’s already back, I don’t bother to look up. “I’m not mad at you,” I tell her. “Just go do what you have to do and bring me back carbs.”
“Good to know.”
The scarf drops out of my hands and falls to the floor.
Ford’s grin is stretched ear-to-ear. One hand is stuck in the pocket of dark denim jeans and a black button-up shirt hangs untucked off his frame. He’s carrying a cup of coffee.
It takes me a bit longer than I care to admit to find my voice.
“Oh, it’s you.” Looking up from my spot on the floor, I try not to let him notice how shaky my breathing has just become.
“So, French Toast or chocolate chip pancakes?” he asks.
“What are you talking about?”
“You said you wanted carbs. If we hurry, we can get to Hillary’s House before they switch to lunch.”
“You are unbelievable,” I mutter, getting to my feet. “Why are you here?”
“Well, I brought you a vanilla latte from Frank’s.”
It’s impossible not to smile that he remembered my drink of choice. It’s also hopeless to pretend that the boyish grin he’s flipping me doesn’t melt away some of the ice around my heart.
Still, I don’t want to play nice.
“I already had coffee today. But thank you,” I say politely.
“No offense, but you are kind of irritable this morning. Maybe you could use another shot of caffeine.”
“You think I’m irritable now? Keep it up.”
“You never were a morning person,” he laughs. “Some things never change.”
“And some things do,” I point out, giving him a look. “Seriously, why are you here?”
“I have business with Violet. Remember?”
“That’s bullshit anyway, but she’s not here. You’ll have to come back later.”
“Is that an invitation?” he laughs.
“Did it sound like one?” My arms cross over my chest and I’m aware it makes my boobs look bigger. As his eyes drop and catch the top of my cleavage, his gaze burns a trail on the ascent back up to my eyes.
Satisfaction paints a smug look on my face and desire burns in the apex of my thighs. As discreetly as possible, I clench my legs together to quell a bit of the ache that’s beginning to throb under his observation.
When our gazes meet, his is crackling. He lifts a single brow. “I damn sure hope that’s an offer to come. If it’s not, we have a problem on our hands.”
“No, you have a problem on your hands,” I say, shrugging. “It has nothing to do with me.”
“It could.”
I’m smart enough to know that at times like this, it’s not always my brain that gets to my mouth first. Logic sometimes isn’t quite as quick as my libido. Knowing that, I don’t respond and instead drop back to my knees and finish picking up the inventory.
Much to my surprise, Ford joins me on the floor. His arm muscles bulge under the sleeves of his shirt as he stretches and reaches for the stacks I created a few minutes ago. I try not to stare, make every effort not to accidentally brush against him or make any sort
of physical contact at all. I might combust on the spot.
His next question catches me off guard. “How’s your dad?”
I pause, holding the last few scarves in my hand. “He’s good.” I force a swallow. “Hanging in there.”
“You know, every time I go fishing, I think of that man.” He leans back on his arms, stretching his long legs out in front of him. “Remember when we went out to Longs Chapel Road and he got that huge fishing lure stuck in his hand?”
“I forgot about that,” I laugh. “It was so gross. I panicked, do you remember? I was crying and trying to get you to drive him to the emergency room.”
Ford’s laugh melds with mine. “Yeah, and your dad was like, ‘Take me to my brother’s house.’ Your Uncle Larry cut it out with a knife.”
We wince at the same time, remembering the pseudo-operation performed on my uncle’s bathroom countertop.
“He’s lucky he didn’t lose a hand over that,” I point out.
“He took it like a champ. With only a mouthful of whiskey and he didn’t even flinch.”
“I did,” I chuckle.
We look at each other over a spread of boxes, a warmth settling over the room. For a moment, I don’t hate him. For a second in time, we are the kids that fell in love on a random Sunday afternoon at a lake in the middle of the woods. But that is over.
I move to the side to stand up, to put some distance between us, when my hand covers something sharp. Pulling back, I yelp like I’ve been burned. The tip of my middle finger is cherry-red and a little purple dot is in the center.
Ford has my hand in his before I can object. “What did you do?” he asks, twisting my palm in his and examining the offending digit.
“I don’t know …” I stammer.
His hand is nearly twice the size of mine. It’s rough, calloused, and I wonder what work he’s been doing to get them that way. As he holds mine in his, I feel my heart drop.
He’s gentle, rubbing his thumb across the injury. It should hurt, should make me jump, but his touch has some kind of calming effect.
“This did it.” Still holding my hand in his, he reaches next to me. His arm brushes against my side, barely slipping against the top of my breast. My nipples peak under my shirt, my core pulling so tightly it’s a struggle to breathe. “See?”
He holds up a pin that was attaching an information sheet to some of the products. I look at it, then back to our interlocked hands.
“We fit like a glove,” he says, twisting them back and forth.
“Your grip is a little weak.” I slip out of his grasp and clear my throat. “I need to get back to work.”
Instead of giving me some space or pretending to heed anything about what I just said, he leans closer. “I think you need something else.”
His lips curl in a suppressed smirk, the lines around his eyes deepening.
“I need a lot of things, none of which you can supply,” I toss back.
“Maybe you’ve forgotten how versatile I am,” he teases, bending even closer. “I can supply tons of different things. You name it and I’ll make it happen, sweetheart.”
“You are entirely too self-interested to give me what I need,” I say as assuredly as I can.
“That’s not nice.” His lips get closer to my cheek, nearly brushing against it. I wouldn’t even have to fully turn my head to capture his mouth with mine. Just a small, slight movement would be all it takes … Would it be that bad?
Sucking in a breath, I feel him move towards my mouth. I hold it, wait for it, only to have him pull away just before contact is made.
The breath comes out in a loud, frustrated huff. As sense and sensibility come barreling back to my brain, I realize I’ve been toyed with.
The self-righteous asshole grins.
“You are such a selfish bastard,” I say, springing to my feet.
“Oh, did you …” he begins casually as he stands. “Did you think I was going to kiss you?”
“Be glad you didn’t if you didn’t want punched in the junk.” We both know what just happened, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to admit it.
“My junk would’ve been happy with any contact,” he chuckles.
“I’m sure you can find someone willing. That can’t be hard for you.”
“So, is this your way of saying you wanted me to kiss you?” he asks, feigning surprise.
“Hardly.” Lifting a box, I move it along the back wall. I’m faintly annoyed when he follows suit.
It’s a struggle not to watch his body move, not to wait for his shirt to slip when he bends over and reveals the snippet of skin at the small of his back. I fight to get his cologne, now stronger because of his activity, out of my senses. Focusing on the task at hand and not on the man beside me is a nightmare.
We move the rest of them without saying a word. By the time the last one is in place, I’ve managed to get myself together.
“Thank you,” I tell him. “I actually have a lunch meeting in a few with Heath.”
“Who’s Heath?”
It’s my turn to smirk. “A friend that’s helping me with a few things around here.”
His eyes narrow. “I just told you I’m helpful.”
“I just told you I need to get back to work.”
He nods, running a hand through his short blond hair. “I do too, actually. I have an appointment I took on Barrett’s behalf in a little bit.”
“I’ll let Violet know you were here,” I offer.
He heads towards the door, but turns around with his hand on the knob. “Dinner? Tonight?”
“I have plans.”
“Tomorrow night?”
“No, Ford.”
He twists the handle. Sunlight pours into the room and I squint. Still, I don’t miss the look on his face.
“Tell Heath to keep his hands to himself,” he demands.
“Why would I do that?”
“He may not know I’m in town.”
“Why would he care?”
“Because this thing between us started a long time ago. We might’ve thought it was over …” A soft smile plays on his lips. “But it’s not. Have a good day, sweetheart.”
He leaves me standing in the middle of the room wondering what in the hell just happened.
Six
Ellie
“Hey, Daddy!”
I pull open the screen door and see my father sitting at the table in his kitchen. A little television is propped on one end. He refuses to get a new one. There’s a large flat-screen in the living room, but he spends most of his time in here. He always has.
Growing up, I figured he just stayed in the kitchen because that’s where most of the action happened. Besides, he was the one at home—a stay-at-home Dad before those were a thing. He was ten years older than my mother to start with, but after an injury that got him discharged from the Army and then a career with the railroad, he retired when I was still little. That was fine with me. We’d spend nearly every day from spring to fall outside gardening, walking the woods and empty fields, and fishing. He was the coolest guy I knew.
Then Mom died when I was nineteen, shortly after Ford left, and Dad withdrew into himself. Stopped hanging out with his one friend. Declared himself too old to do the things we used to do. He’d just sit at his table and watch old Western re-runs over and over again.
“Hey, pumpkin.” He leans his cheek out so I can give it a kiss, which I do before sliding into the empty chair between the table and refrigerator. “You look pretty.”
“Thanks. I thought I’d put a little effort in now that I’m a businesswoman,” I say, instead of telling him I didn’t want Ford to see me at my worst.
“How’s the store coming?”
“Good! You should come by and see it sometime.”
He shrugs, his eyes going back to the cowboy on the screen. His cheeks tell the tale of a man that’s lived a hard life, his skin now seeming to hint at a yellow that makes me a little edgy. His hair has receded rapidly over
the last few years and the once black strands are now a silvery grey. There are sunspots and moles and I wonder how so much changed in him in what seems like such little time. It makes the guilt inside me soar.
“You need to get out of this house,” I insist. “When is the last time you left this room?”
“I don’t sleep in here.”
“Okay. When’s the last time you saw John? Or went to Kenny’s,” I say, talking about his lone friend and the pool hall four streets over that he used to frequent.
“What are you? My keeper?” he grins. “I’m fine, Ellie. Don’t worry about me.”
“Of course I worry about you! You’re my daddy.”
This makes him smile. “That I am.”
Glancing around the room, I notice all the dust and cobwebs covering everything not used daily. My mom’s owl collection lacks its usual luster because of all the grime. The once-white walls are starting to peel in places, and the ceiling looks like it had a leak in it at one time.
“I’m going to come over here and clean this place up,” I tell him. “We need to wash stuff down, paint a little.”
“You have your hands full downtown.”
“But I will always make time for you.”
“Don’t bother with it,” he says, leaning back in his chair and wincing as he stretches his arms over his head. “I’ll get around to that stuff.”
“Sure you will.”
“Stop needling me and tell me what’s happening with you. How’s the shop coming together?”
“We’re aiming to open soon,” I say. “Maybe a month or so. It’s taking a little longer than I thought it would.”
“I warned you.”
“I know,” I sigh. “You’ve warned me about a lot of things in my life.”
The words tumble from my lips before I can stop them. Taking a deep breath to try to settle the little flutter in my belly as my brain demands to replay Ford’s smile from earlier today, I look at Dad. Of course he notices my hesitation.
“What’s this all about?” he asks.
I could lie to him. Or, more accurately, I could try to lie to him. He’d know though. He always does.
The Landry Family Series: Part Two Page 4
