“That’s a definite nope.” I release him and head for the stairs. “I’ll be back by dinner. See y’all later.”
I try—and fail—not to break the speed limit on my way to the address Eva sent me. Putting my truck into park outside her apartment, I shoot her a text.
Chapter Eleven
Eva
Ford: I’m outside. No rush.
Eva: You’re early!
Ford: I have an afternoon all to myself and a cooler of beer icing down in my trunk. Also picking up a girl who knows Naughty by Nature lyrics by heart. Fuck yeah I’m early.
Eva: She sounds pretty cool.
Ford: The coolest. And the most creative. Looks equally hot touching boxes at baby showers as she does dirty dancing in dive bars.
Eva: You’re looking for a pat on the back for all that alliteration, aren’t you?
Ford: You’re the one who compared me to Shakespeare, sweetheart.
Eva: Show off.
Ford: I’m only as God made me.
Eva: Speaking of boxes…
Ford: I’m listening.
Eva: Packing a pretty sweet lunch box for us now.
Ford: I like the idea of that box. Among others.
Eva: That inner perv of yours really is alive and well.
Ford: What can I say? You bring him out to play in a way no one else has lately.
Eva: Wrong that that makes me proud?
Ford: God.
Eva: What?
Ford: I was full of shit when I said no rush. You need to get your ass down here. Now. Before I come up and get you. I wanna see that box.
Eva: Which one?
Ford: You know the one.
Oooof I don’t want to be smiling this much twelve seconds into this…not date thing I have with Ford.
But I’m smiling hard enough for it to hurt when I emerge from my apartment onto the sidewalk. An insulated grocery bag looped over one forearm and a beach bag dangling from the other.
Heat hits me from every angle, radiating up from the sidewalk and down from the sky. Late June in the south. Not for the faint of heart.
The knot holding my bikini top together underneath my t-shirt chafes the nape of my neck when I look up.
An enormous, brand new Range Rover idles at the curb. Black paint, black windows. Black wheels. It’s what Batman would drive if he were a bougie venture capitalist.
My heart skips a beat. Not because of the fancy-sexy-sinister SUV. But because of the guy sitting in the front seat. I can just make out his profile through the tinted window, thanks to the open sunroof. Light catches on the even angle of his nose, the square lines of his scruffy jaw. His hair is slicked back, and he’s wearing a pair of classic Wayfarer sunglasses. He’s got one hand on the wheel. He looks down at a phone he’s holding in the other.
I approach, flip flops clacking, and his head pops up. Through the window I see those full lips pull into a smile.
And then Ford is climbing out of the car, tall and broad and impossibly handsome in his t-shirt and board shorts. Tattoos on full display.
My heart seizes.
Oh God oh my God.
“Hey,” he says in that baritone voice of his. He reaches for my bags. From the corner of my eye, I notice the tailgate silently lifting. “Lemme help you with that. We’ve already discussed how it’s better to have extra hands where boxes are concerned.”
Hey. That’s it. That’s all it takes to make my nipples tingle and my resolve to keep things casual waver. I still don’t get how he got this damn handsome. This damn witty and kind and funny.
He presses a kiss to my cheek, taking the bags off my arms.
“He—hi,” I manage.
Lust. That’s all this is. That is all that I’m feeling.
At least that’s what I tell myself.
He puts my bags in the trunk and presses a button. The tailgate glides back into place, locking with a neat click.
He stands in front of me on the sidewalk, the sun glinting off the plastic frames of his sunglasses. Electricity pulses in the air between us.
My lips tingle at the memory of our kiss.
“You look gorgeous,” he says, and I imagine that behind his dark lenses his eyes are sweeping up and down my body.
“I’m in shorts and a t-shirt,” I reply lamely.
He grins, holding out his arms. “I like you dressed down, dressed up…Eva, you always look great to me.”
Can’t take it. I go up on my tip-toes to give him a hug, if only so I don’t melt into a puddle at his feet. His arms curl around my waist. He pulls me close, arms tightening around me in a deliciously familiar way. The kind of hug that’s closer and tighter and better than one shared by friends.
Screw the lunch I brought. Ford smells good enough to eat.
Heat hits me between my legs. It stays there, pulsing. See? Just lust.
“Thanks again for the invite,” I say. “Can’t wait to see this boat of yours.”
He lets me go and rounds the truck, opening the passenger side door for me. Like the gentleman—the heartbreaker—he is.
“C’mon, let’s get you out on the water. It’s too damn hot downtown.”
I feel like I’m inhabiting an alternate version of my life as I climb into Ford’s six-figure SUV, the door closing behind me. It smells like new car inside, cut with an undertone of—crackers, maybe? Goldfish?
My eyes catch on the car seat in the back as I buckle my seatbelt. On the bright orange crumbs that dot the dark carpet beneath it.
Yep, definitely Goldfish.
“Bryce is the messiest eater on the planet,” Ford explains as he guides us out into traffic. What is it that’s so freaking sexy about guys who drive with one hand? And why do I think it’s so cute when he talks about his daughter? “We’re working on her manners, but it’s been slow going. Good thing I didn’t buy a brand new car with a dark interior so you can see every damn crumb.”
I turn to see him grinning at me. This proud, happy grin that is making my heart skip again.
Being around this man is overwhelming.
“You really do love being a dad, don’t you?”
He adjusts his grip on the steering wheel. “Oh yeah. Best job ever. Also the most difficult. Especially when you’re doing it on your own.”
“My hat goes off to single parents,” I reply. “I honestly don’t know how y’all do it.”
“I do it with help. Lots and lots of help. Some days it works, some days it blows up in your face. Either way, I wouldn’t trade it for the world. To see her grow up, to see her little personality developing—Eva, it’s the coolest thing.”
For a second, I just look at him. Thoughts shifting. Swirling. I’m not sure of much when it comes to Ford.
One thing I am sure of? It’s obvious he doesn’t feel trapped or smothered by parenthood.
He feels fulfilled by it.
Exhausted? Absolutely. On Friday he talked a lot about just how much energy, physical and mental, it takes to perform the juggle on a daily basis. But it’s clear he’s also deeply, genuinely fulfilled.
Granted, he’s a man, and as much as I wish our society were truly egalitarian when it comes to parenthood, standards are very different when it comes to men and women. Men get a pat on the back just for showing up. But much more is expected of women.
It’s a horribly unfair, horribly sexist double standard. But it exists, and it’s no wonder women like my mom often have to give up dreams and jobs and friends and hobbies to make motherhood work.
One of the many reasons why becoming a parent myself terrifies me. I can’t help but feel like I’d just be setting myself up for failure. Failure as a pit master, author, and a human being in general.
Why would anyone in their right mind sign up for that?
But then there’s Ford. Yes, he’s a man, but he’s also performing the dual roles of mom and dad. He has help, but he doesn’t have a partner to pick up the mental load. He’s doing it all himself, and while it’s not easy, it has
n’t killed his dreams.
I hear that voice again. The one I heard when I was chatting with Eliza and Monty, Ford’s parents.
See? There are a million ways to do parenthood.
There are ways to be a mom and keep your freedom.
Ford is here right now, isn’t he? Breeze from the open sunroof ruffling his hair. Wide open afternoon ahead of him.
Then again, he did say afternoons like this are rare. On Friday, didn’t he keep telling me how much he needed a night out? That he never did stuff like that for himself, just because he wanted to?
And even if that weren’t true, if I don’t want kids, I don’t need to justify it. It’s not something I have to fix about myself, or work on. It’s just who I am.
But if it’s coming from a place of fear rather than certainty—fear that I’ll lose my sense of self, the things that matter most to me—does that mean I should examine it?
I don’t know.
“Penny for your thoughts,” Ford says, glancing at me. “Does it make you uncomfortable when I talk about my daughter?”
“No,” I say, a little too quickly. “I think it’s cute when you talk about her. You light up.”
“But?”
“What makes you think there’s a ‘but’ in there?”
His lips twitch. “You like butts. Seriously, though. I know when your wheels are turning. Talk.”
“Nothing.” I turn my head to look out the window. “I like kids. Yours is really, really cute. But I don’t want them myself. Kids, I mean.”
“Really?” He seems genuinely surprised. “Back in college, I remember you saying you’d consider having them.”
“I changed my mind.” I shake my head. “It was easy to say that when it was all theoretical, you know? I think I wanted kids in a ‘maybe someday’ kind of way. But now that I’m staring down the barrel of that particular gun, I have to say the kid thing doesn’t hold much appeal. It kind of terrifies me, actually.”
A beat of silence passes between us. I don’t want to read too much into it. But why do I get the sense that Ford is a little…ruffled by this admission? Disappointed, even?
“That’s fair,” Ford says at last, adjusting his grip on the wheel. “And changing your mind about something so huge is valid. Kids are a big commitment, that’s for damn sure. You can’t exactly give them back.”
I laugh, my heart clenching. He may be disappointed, but he isn’t judging me. Isn’t trying to change my mind.
I could hug him for it.
“My life isn’t perfect, and I am struggling, obviously, with my next book. But for the most part, I like doing my own thing. I like my career and being independent. Doing what I want, when I want. I’m busy making my dreams come true. And I don’t want to have to give that up.”
He looks at me. “I see what you’re saying. But just so you know, having kids doesn’t mean you have to give up your dreams. I didn’t. I mean, isn’t having a kid a dream in and of itself for some people? As tough as being a parent can be sometimes, I’ll admit I wouldn’t change a thing. I’m always struggling to find some semblance of work/life balance. I’m not saying it’s easy. And again, I have a lot of really great help. But it is possible—to make your dreams and your family’s dreams happen. Sometimes they’re one and the same.”
I chew over that for a minute. It’s a new perspective. I’m not sure how I feel about it. Worth considering, though.
Something else I haven’t considered? The fact that, despite the challenges, despite the fact that he lost a wife and is raising a kid all on his own, Ford is happy. That much is obvious. The guy practically beams whenever his daughter comes up.
Maybe a part of me needs to see that. A parent who loves, well, being a parent. Loves his life. Because that is not what I’ve seen in my own family.
Don’t give an inch, because you’ll end up giving a mile.
“You have a lot to be proud of, Ford. Especially when it comes to being a father.”
“Just doing my best, like everybody else.”
He’s being modest. Because that’s just who he is. But I feel the pride radiating off him.
In that moment, I know in my gut that Ford really has changed since college. In such a great way. Doesn’t mean we’ll end up together. But it does mean I can stop waiting for the jackass to show up.
It’s a quick drive to the marina. My mood lifts at the sight of the water. The early afternoon sunshine glints off its surface, blinding us as we head out onto the dock. Ford carries the cooler, and I get everything else. The marshy, salty smell of the ocean is heavy here; alternating stretches of water and marsh grasses stretch toward the horizon.
The sun is hot on my shoulders.
There are all kinds of boats docked at the marina. Little sailboats bobbing happily in their slips. Huge fishing boats with pristine white hulls. Yachts that are four, five stories tall, flags waving from their balconies.
With each boat we approach, I wonder if it belongs to Ford. I have fun imagining what kind of boat he’ll have. Judging by his fancy yet family-friendly car, he’ll have a pricey yet practical piece of watercraft (wow, look at me and this alliteration—Ford is rubbing off on me).
Ford sets the cooler down in front of a gorgeous, classic looking boat. It’s big but not obnoxious, impeccably clean and shiny. Chrome everywhere. The hull is black, and it matches the small pirate flag waving off the back of the boat.
I smile. It’s just so…him.
I help him take the canvas cover off the back. Sweat glistens on his temples. I resist the urge to lick my lips when he lifts the hem of his shirt to wipe it away, revealing a taut tummy and a dark happy trail that arrows into the waistband of his board shorts.
The heat between my legs grows acute.
Ford loads up the boat with the cooler and my bags. Then he turns and offers me his hand.
“Ready?”
I look at him. Sweat rolling down his forehead, breeze ruffling his hair. That proud smile on his lips. Makes him appear boyish.
Fucking adorable.
I am so not ready for whatever it is Ford’s offering me.
But I take his hand and leap onto his boat anyway.
Reveling in the feeling of being away. Away from real life. My parents. My thoughts and anxieties and general bullshit.
It feels delightful.
Chapter Twelve
Ford
I guide the boat out into the harbor. It’s a Sunday, so it’s busy, the water a little choppy on account of all the traffic. The farther out we get, though, the smoother the water. So I hit the throttle and just go.
The breeze feels delicious. Cools me off in a matter of minutes, wicking the sweat from my skin.
Eva sits on the vinyl bench beside me. I’m standing—easier to see this way—giving me a bird’s eye view of both the harbor and her bare thighs. Her shirt whips around her torso, every so often giving me a glimpse of the teeny tiny black string bikini underneath. She’s wearing her hair tied up at the top of her head, but wisps of hair keep escaping the knot.
I hit the throttle harder. I haven’t decided where I’m taking her yet, but if she does happen to request, say, a more private beach, we’ll have to go out a ways to get there.
Just being prepared is all.
I take us by Fort Sumter, where the first shots of the Civil War were fired. Eva stands to get a better look, even though all that’s left of the fort is some battle-scarred rubble. She was a huge history buff in college. Figured she’d enjoy this little detour.
“Pretty insane,” she shouts above the sound of the engine and the water and the wind, looking at me. “The history of this city is wild. Violent.”
“So many stories. Most of them untold.”
Eva nods. “So many voices shut out. Silenced. Such a huge tragedy. Interesting to see how far Charleston has come since then.”
“And how far we still have to go.”
“Right. Exactly.” She tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Looks
at me.
I look back.
We keep moving.
She gasps, smiling, when we hit especially big waves that a passing tourist ferry puts off in its wake, grabbing my forearm to keep steady. I put a hand on her shoulder and gently push her down onto the seat.
“You’d better sit for now,” I say. The crease between my thumb and forefinger rests on the bare skin of her neck. I linger there.
She gives my leg a gentle shove. Her hand lingering on the side of my knee.
All this lingering. I like it.
“You really are a dad,” she says. “So protective.”
“I was always protective of you, Eva.”
She digs her teeth into her bottom lip. Gives my knee a quick squeeze.
“You did look out for me. Not in a possessive way. But in a way that made me feel safe. You’re good at that.”
My blood spikes. I’m trying to keep my body—and my feelings—in check here. I mean, Eva just told me she doesn’t want kids. And I have a kid. I get why she was so adamant about us not working. I get why she’s been implying this can be a summer fling, nothing more.
I can still show her a nice time, though. Still flirt with her. Maybe fool around a little, too, if she’s down for it. It’s just so fun. And freeing.
“I’m good at a lot of things,” I say.
Her lips part, and she touches her tongue to the side of her mouth.
Lord help me.
“Where d’you wanna go?” I ask. “We could go for a ride, a swim—there are plenty of beaches around where we can eat lunch. Some popular, others not so much.”
Please, I silently beg her, eyes trailing over the exposed strap of her bikini. Please pick the not-so-popular beach option.
“A quiet spot sounds nice,” she says. Her hand is still on my leg.
It’s all I can do not to lean down and cover her mouth with mine right then.
“Hungry?”
“A little.”
“I have a good spot in mind. Not too far, but pretty private.”
She wags her eyebrows and smiles. “Sounds dangerous.”
Southern Heartbreaker Page 9
