Eva: Now who’s the cheeseball?
Ford: See? We’re a match made in (anal) heaven.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Eva
I dive into my new beginning headfirst.
My deadline to turn in the completed book to my publisher is in a couple weeks, and I work my ass off to get ahead of it, sending ten-page chunks to my agent to go over before we finalize them.
My readers go bananas for the snippets I share with them on the blog. My sponsors love the extra traffic the site gets. I get so many emails from people asking for more—more pictures, more recipes, more anecdotes—I have to create a whole new folder in my inbox to keep them organized.
I make Friday pizza night a tradition with Bryce and Ford. Ford and I steal snippets of time in the morning, at lunch, after Bryce has gone to bed, the two of us stripping down silently like the experts we’re becoming. We’re not so silent the one time we fuck on his boat while docked at the marina, although that got a little too steamy, literally speaking, for us to sign up for a repeat.
He invites me to join in on his family’s Sunday night suppers at his parents’ house. I invite him over to hang out with mine over burgers and beers on a Saturday.
I blog and write and cook like a madwoman. Whenever I have a spare minute, I’m thinking of ways Ford and I can work each other—and Bryce—into our insane schedules.
My plate gets very, very full.
Whatever it is I’m doing, I’m doing it full speed ahead. Especially when it comes to Bryce. I feel relatively confident about my cooking, my writing, and my blogging. The stuff I’ve been doing for years now; the stuff that filled my life prior to Ford.
But the being-around-a-kid thing? I’m clueless when it comes to that. And I’m not used to not knowing my way around something. I’m not used to not knowing how to do it, and do it well at that.
Going from being a single woman living on my own to being with a man and his daughter is a big shift. But I’m determined to crush it, just like I’ve crushed every other challenge that’s come my way. I figure if I just try my best, I’ll eventually get the hang of it.
I try, remember? I’m a hustler. And I’ll be damned if I don’t hustle on behalf of the motherless little girl I’m really starting to adore.
Bryce and I have taken to each other like peas and carrots. Once you’re in with her, you’re in. I try to squeeze in as much one-on-one quality time with her as my schedule allows. We have the best time together, bonding over glitter and pasta and classic Disney movies, and I can’t get enough of it.
I download a handful of books on step-parenting. Fiction, memoir. Self-help. I spend my breaks poring over websites and blogs on the subject. I duck out to coffee dates with my friends who are mothers, and friends of friends who have gone through the same thing.
I also end up agreeing to coach Bryce’s soccer team over pizza one Friday night.
“Miss Eva, guess what I’m doing tomorrow?” she asks, legs swinging as she chows down on her usual—cheese pizza “with just a little little little bit of sauce.”
I smile at Ford across the table. He smiles back. My body leaps, despite being bone tired after a very long week. Jesus, I’m attracted to this man. Can’t get enough of him. Good thing our sexting has become part of our new Friday night tradition. I just hope I can stay awake late enough tonight. I’ve got some serious PMS happening, which always makes me feel completely and utterly zonked.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Soccer!” she cries.
Ford reaches over and wipes her hand on his napkin. “Tomorrow is the first game of the season. First game ever for this one. We’re kind of beside ourselves with excitement—mostly because Hannah found some sweet unicorn sneakers for Bryce to wear.”
“That’s exciting,” I say. “I played soccer when I was younger. I loved it.”
“Were you a good soccer player?” Bryce asks.
I laugh. “I was all right. Not the best. But I certainly tried the hardest.”
“You? The hardest worker on the team?” Ford cocks a brow, hooking his foot around my bare ankle underneath the table and proceeding to start a game of surprisingly erotic footsie. “Never would’ve guessed.”
“We don’t have a coach though,” Bryce continues.
I frown at Ford. “Can they not find someone?”
Shaking his head, he stuffs what’s left of his crust into his mouth. “Not yet. No one really wants to volunteer. For obvious reasons.”
“What reasons?” Bryce asks.
“Uh.” Ford clears his throat. “Because—”
“Because your team is so good,” I say, glancing at Ford. He glides the toe of his shoe up my calf in gratitude, sending an entire body shiver through me. “Not everyone will be up to the task of taking on such…incredible athletes. I imagine y’all are very intimidating out there.”
“I am pretty good,” Bryce agrees. “Better than Olivia or Sterling, that’s for sure.”
Ford smiles. “A fact we’ve confirmed after all of one practice.”
“Hey.” I wink at Bryce. “When you got it, you got it. Right?” I hold out my hand for a high-five.
Bryce hits it with enthusiasm. “Amen, Miss Eva.”
“I’d volunteer to do it,” Ford says. “But I’m kinda playing my odds. Hoping someone else will be guilted into it first.”
I look at Bryce. She grins, mouth smeared with sauce, and my heart twists.
“I’ll do it,” I say.
“What?” Ford furrows his brow. “No. Absolutely not—”
“Yes! Please, daddy, let Miss Eva be the coach.” Bryce is swinging her legs with such enthusiasm now they’re hitting the table, making our plates jump and the silverware clatter.
“Stop that, please,” Ford says.
She doesn’t listen. “Please please please say yes. Please. Miss Eva and I are best friends.”
My heart melts a little. Conversely making my resolve harden. No idea how I’m going to squeeze this in. But how much of a commitment can coaching a team of four-year-olds be? My head fills with images of Bryce and her cute little friends trotting through a sunny field after a ball. They’ll eat orange slices for a snack and make the other parents and I shake our heads at their extreme cuteness.
I mean, what better way to get involved in Bryce’s life? It will be a great bonding experience. Something I can teach her, the way I’m teaching her how to cook during our pizza nights.
“Stop,” Ford repeats. But it takes him reaching for his daughter’s legs and physically restraining them for her to finally stop kicking the table.
“Please!” She claps her hands.
I clap mine. “Please! Honestly, Ford. I’d love to.”
“Eva.” Ford lets out a breath. Catches it. “I’m telling you—this is not something you want to sign up for. Maybe if you want to be the team’s biggest cheerleader, we can make that happen. But I can’t let you do this. Not with everything else you have going on, your deadline especially.” He reaches over and squeezes my thigh. “Trust me on this. Have you met any parents recently? People are crazy these days, E. How about you come to a couple games first? Then you can check it out, and maybe sign up to coach next year. Right, Bryce?”
“Wrong,” Bryce says. “Please.”
“I insist,” I say, trading a smile with Bryce. “It will be fun.”
Ford cuts me a wide-eyed glance. “No it won’t. Really, Eva. Weren’t you just telling me how you were going to catch up on some cookbook stuff tomorrow? See your sister, maybe sleep in? You look tired, baby.”
I wave him away, even as I feel a tug of apprehension in my gut. “I’ll get up a little earlier and knock out the recipe before the game. And I’m not supposed to see Alex until dinner—we nabbed a reservation at The Pearl at seven thirty. Leaves me plenty of time.”
Ford does that thing again where he lets out the breath and catches it. This time he presses his tongue to the back of his teeth.
“This is way too much, Eva.�
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I grab his hand. “Need I remind you of everything y’all have done for me? Let me return the favor. Plus, it gives me an excuse to hang out with this cutie.” I wink at Bryce. She tries to wink back, squeezing both her eyes shut.
She’s so damn cute.
I turn back to Ford. He looks at me for a beat. Then another.
“At least let me help, then,” he says. “I can be the assistant coach. The provider of snacks. The David Beckham soccer dad you’d like to you-know-what. Or something.”
I grab my glass of wine and shake my head. “Yes to the David Beckham dad. No to the help. You’ve already got enough dad duties going on. Let me handle this. I can handle it, okay?”
He tilts his head.
“I can handle it,” I repeat.
Another pause.
“If you say so,” he says at last. “You can be the coach under one condition. You’ll let me know if it gets overwhelming, all right? If that’s the case, we’ll find someone else to take over.”
“We got it.” I look at Bryce. “Right?”
She beams at me. “Right, Miss Eva.”
I’m beaming, too. How perfect is this? I get to jump in with both feet, as Julia suggested, doing something I’m already familiar with. I love teaching—one of the many reasons I’m still kicking around the idea of hosting cooking classes—I love being outside, and I am totally falling in love with this little girl.
Which is why I’m surprised to see a slight crease in Ford’s forehead. Yes, his eyes are soft and warm. A warmth that invades my chest and drips down of my ribcage, making me feel like I’m on the verge of a giggle. But he almost looks…concerned.
Worried.
Which is the opposite of how I want him to feel. I’m taking this on so he doesn’t have to. Not only do I want to be the best damn stepmom to Bryce. I also want to be the best co-parent to Ford.
I reach for his hand. Lower my voice a little. “I’m in. That’s what I’m trying to show you here—that I’m one hundred percent committed to you and to Bryce. Let me help out.”
“And let me tell you you don’t need to help to show you’re committed. You’re here, aren’t you? I mean, Christ, you put together a homemade pizza bar after working all day. Working all week, and under deadline at that. Seriously, Eva. You don’t have to do all this.”
“I think traditions are important. So I wanted to start one of our own—make pizza night magical. It’s no big deal,” I say. Even though it is a good bit of work. But it’s worth it to see Bryce enjoying the pizza so much.
It’s worth it to have the three of us in my kitchen, cooking and laughing. I’m starting to see glimmers of the family we’re becoming. The same and yet totally different from my own. Adopting the good stuff, leaving behind the bad.
It really is nothing short of magical. Even if it does require a fuck ton of effort on my part, I want to fan this ember into a flame.
“Thank you,” Ford says, swiping his thumb across the back of my palm. “Let’s just keep the lines of communication open, all right? This is a big adjustment for all of us. I want to make sure we stay in tune with each other and how we’re feeling. We’re lucky to have you.”
“And I’m lucky to have y’all.”
Bryce gasps, and we both look up.
“Uh oh,” she says, smile fading.
Ford tips his head. “That doesn’t sound good. Did we have an accident?”
Her face crumples, and she lets out an ear-piercing wail that has me screwing my right eye shut.
“I’m sorry I peed!” she says.
“It’s all right. Let’s get you changed.” Ford stands and lifts her out of her booster seat, tossing me a look. “Magical, right?”
I laugh and head for the kitchen, where I’ve got a couple extra rolls of paper towels. “Maybe not this part.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Ford
Glancing at my watch, I blink.
How the hell is it six thirty already?
I try to end the call with my investor and friend from business school, Rob Cooper, as politely as possible. Not an easy feat, considering he just found out that he inherited a Dukedom. How wild is that? Apparently his, like, long lost father or something left him a castle and a shit ton of farmland in England. He’s jetting off to London tonight to inspect his new holdings. I wish him luck, and tell him to keep Montgomery Partners in mind if he needs any ideas on how to develop his property.
“Fuck,” I say out loud when I finally hang up and check my watch again, making my assistant, Adrian, glance my way from his computer at the desk just outside my office.
“Everything all right?”
“Yeah. Yeah, just—shit.” I spear a hand through my hair, then grab my suit jacket and car keys. “Running late. This day totally got away from me.”
Starting to become a trend. I have no idea where the minutes go. Ever since Eva and I started dating, it’s like time moves at warp speed. There weren’t enough hours in the day before she entered my life.
Now? Now I’m considering reaching out to Barbara Streisand to ask her how she cloned her dogs, because I am seriously considering cloning myself. If there were multiple Ford Montgomerys, maybe I wouldn’t feel like I’m perpetually running a marathon at breakneck speed.
Maybe I could actually show up for shit on time. Because right now, I’m late for pretty much everything.
“Want me to push back your reservation? Cancel it?” Adrian asks, hand on the cradle of his phone.
My stomach clenches at the thought of pushing back date night yet again. Eva and I already had to do it twice this week. Once because she had a little kitchen fire situation while testing recipes (everyone is okay, although I think it bruised her pit master ego). And again because a meeting with one of my biggest investors here at Montgomery Partners ran an hour over.
But it won’t be happening tonight. I am determined to show Eva a good time. Just because I’m a single dad who can’t seem to get his shit together doesn’t mean I can’t date her the way she deserves to be dated. It’s our honeymoon phase, and it’s important to me that we both enjoy this special time. I want to wine and dine her. Do the dinner and a movie thing. Treat her to fun, sexy experiences.
You know, do things any normal couple who’s head over heels for each other would do.
“Nah. Let’s keep it as is, thanks,” I say.
Yeah, adding Eva to the already insane juggle that is my life hasn’t been easy. She’s become my lifeline in so many ways, though. Squeezing in a date or two a week is a herculean task, but it’s always worth it in the end. She’s the one person I can truly be myself with. The one person who truly makes me laugh.
I always come home from our dates feeling centered. Refreshed. Sated in every meaning of the word.
Considering how fucking amazing Eva’s been with Bryce, it’s especially important that I pull out all the stops. In true overachiever Eva style, she’s gone above and beyond with my daughter. The Friday night pizza bar. Volunteering for the painful job no one in their right mind would take on—coaching a soccer team for four-year-olds.
Yep. Definitely gotta step up my game.
I just have to rush home to see my daughter and give her a bath first. I was out with clients last night, so I haven’t seen her since yesterday morning—I went into the office early today so I wouldn’t be rushing around like an idiot tonight.
Wishful thinking.
On the drive home, I move through my to-do list in my head. Speaking of games, Bryce has requested cleats (“like the ones Miss Eva wears!”). I make a mental note to tell Hannah to take her shopping before the weekend. The washing machine is broken. I wonder if the repair guy ever showed up today; I haven’t heard from Hannah since she sent me a text at noon detailing the lunch Bryce refused to eat. Should I have Hannah grab something else for tomorrow’s lunch? That means I need to leave extra cash on the counter tomorrow. Do I even have cash? Should probably leave some for the cleats, too. How much do cleat
s for four-year-olds cost these days anyway?
Reminds me, I’ve been meaning to set up a debit card for Hannah to use. Ugh, I need to do that. Would make stuff like this much easier.
The projections my analyst came up with in his model for a new restaurant concept we’re developing felt overly optimistic. I should probably go over the numbers again tonight before bed. If they’re wrong, I’ll have to have a word with the analyst—this is the third time his model’s been less than stellar. Ugh, I hate those conversations. Makes me wish Grey was back at work. He’s good at playing the bad cop.
It’s almost September, which means the sign up for ballet and tap has already come and gone. Shit, I meant to sign Bryce up this year.
I pass a state trooper parked on the side of the road. Glancing at my dashboard, I see that while I’m only driving five over, I’m about thirty seconds away from running out of gas.
I dig the heel of my hand into my steering wheel, gritting my teeth. This fucking day.
Good thing I get to see Eva. She’ll calm me down. Make me feel slightly less manic.
When I finally get home, I catch Bryce at the dinner table. Thankfully she’s eating the roast chicken and broccoli I had Hannah make for her without complaint. While Hannah cleans up, I go through Bryce’s bedtime routine. Bath time, brush teeth, story time, bed. When she finally goes down half an hour late, I tear through my closet and manage to throw on a pair of jeans and some comfortable shoes. I don’t bother looking in the mirror. No time. I just thank Hannah and make a run for the restaurant.
Luckily Eva’s running late too. She appears at the hostess stand just as I’m bellying up to the bar.
She’s dressed to the nines—jeans that show off the delicious curve of her ass, a lacy top that’s so sexy it should be a crime—but when she takes off her sunglasses, I notice there are purple thumb prints beneath her eyes.
“Long day?” I ask, passing her one of the Manhattans I ordered.
Eva kisses my mouth, quick and sweet, and takes the drink. “Oh yeah. I have the headache from hell that won’t seem to quit. And this deadline is kicking my ass. I knew it’d be tight, but I’m kind of starting to panic. What I’ve got is good, but it still needs work. The part I’m most worried about, though, is the one I haven’t written yet. I still need a handful of solid recipes to round out the comfort food concept, and I’ve already raided my mom’s recipe book and my abuela’s, too. No idea where to look next.”
Southern Heartbreaker: A Charleston Heat Novel Page 22
