Chapter 18
[Cadence]
I arrive at Ford’s condo with a minute to spare when I’ve never been on time in my life. Wiping my sweaty palms against my jeans, I lift my fist to knock just as the door flies open.
“Hey you,” I greet him, fighting a too-goofy grin.
“Hey. I thought you might be the pizza guy.” Ford lifts his phone. “The app says he’s arriving.”
“Nope. I come bearing cookies.” I lift the store-bought package and wink. “I heard they go well with milk.”
Ford smirks and reaches for my wrist, tugging me forward. “Get in here.” A smile mingles with the command but if I wished Ford might pull me in for a hug, he doesn’t. Instead, with a press at my hip, I’m moved out of the way for the man standing behind me.
“Someone order a pizza?” A Velcro closure rips apart, and two pizza boxes are removed from the warming bag.
“I didn’t think anyone said that anymore.” Most deliveries I receive leave the food on a stoop or in front of a hotel door and rush away with hardly a knock.
“At Homer’s, we do it the old fashion way.” The comment sounds like a sales slogan, but as long as the food is decent, what do I care?
After Ford takes the boxes and closes the door, I follow him deeper into the condo. “Milk and pizza?” The combination doesn’t sound appealing.
“I’m a growing boy.” He smirks over his shoulder as he leads the way to his kitchen.
I let my eyes roam his body, taking in the strength of his back despite a loose-fitting T-shirt and the outline of a firm backside beneath his jeans, which looks almost as good as it does covered in baseball pants. Almost.
“Ladies, look who I found?”
All three girls’ heads pop up, two of whom scramble from the table. One tackles my leg while the other wraps one arm around my hip.
God, these girls have burrowed into my heart somehow and I love how they hug with individual personality. Winnie just grabs on. Zelle leans in. Then there is June.
Once released by the other two, I approach the cutie with riotous blond curls and lean down for a kiss to her sweet head.
She’s seated in some kind of toddler chair, strapped into the seat pulled up to the table where the older girls had been coloring.
June was scribbling over a paper with the outline of a baseball cap on it.
“Coloring? I love coloring.” Helping myself to a kitchen chair, I glance through the pile of pages with cartoon characters and bold objects before picking one that strikes my fancy.
“How about food first?”
I playfully pout at Ford. “Spoil sport.” But then I stand and clear the table of the papers and crayons.
“Wash up, ladies,” I say, sounding too much like my mother for a half a second before clearing my throat.
Ford sets the pizza boxes on the counter and reaches into a cabinet for paper plates.
His T-shirt rides upward and I catch a hint of a tattoo on his lower left side.
I’d noticed the ink the night I undressed him but didn’t take long to inspect the art.
Cautiously, I catch the hem of his tee and Ford twists his neck to look over his shoulder.
Our gazes lock only briefly before I continue to lift the soft worn cotton and trace over the design with a hovering fingertip, afraid to touch his skin.
The design includes a baseball bat crossed with an anchor to form an X and a baseball over the intersection drawn like it’s coming at me.
In the angle of each cross are the initials Z, W, J. Zelle, Winnie, June.
“All the things and people most important to me.” His voice is rough with the explanation.
Could I ever be someone special to him? Would he mark his skin with something just for me? Do I want that? Should I want that?
The girls return to the kitchen like rolling tumbleweeds and I drop the corner of Ford’s shirt, stepping back to give us space and a moment to calm my racing pulse.
Before setting the table, Ford wets a paper towel and wipes off June’s hands. I go for the plates he set on the counter and set the table while he finishes with June and then tosses the used towel in the trash. We rotate around one another in his small kitchen like a well-oiled machine.
“Bet you’re used to something fancier than this,” Ford mutters.
When I look up, Ford has stilled, hands on his hips, watching me.
“I can set a table, Ford,” I state, a bit disgruntled that he doesn’t think I can do something so mundane.
“I just meant, you’re probably more used to five-star restaurants and fine dinnerware with takeout. Not paper plates.”
I pause, holding the last plate against my chest. “Are you suggesting I’m a snob?”
“No, I just mean . . .” The blush on his face implies he didn’t intend anything hurtful. He just thinks I’m better than delivered pizza on paper products.
I sigh and lower my shoulders. “Ford, let’s pretend I’m just a girl whose sister happens to be married to your brother, making us weirdly related and possibly friends.”
Not a superstar. Not even a country singer. Just a woman wanting to spend time with a man and his little girls.
Ford nods once and steps forward, taking the final plate from me. His hand runs down my arm, as if he couldn’t help touching me, as if he didn’t notice he had. My skin pebbles from the caress, but when I turn toward June, a shiver runs up my spine.
Her little eyes are watching where her dad just touched me, giving me a stare like: I see what’s happening here.
What I can’t read is whether June would approve or not?
She’s only three, but I’d never want to do anything to hurt this little one’s feelings or give her the wrong impression about Ford and me.
We’re friends. Or at least, I want us to be.
Ford points toward a seat for me and steps over to his fridge. He pours milk for his girls then sets the jug back inside the refrigerator. Then he pulls out two beers. “I should have stopped to buy wine.”
“I love a good beer.” While some women adore wine, I’ve just never acquired the taste. I like something a little harder, thus tequila and an occasional beer.
Ford pops the tops while Zelle and Winnie scamper to their seats.
He squeezes into the fourth spot at the table.
The space is cramped but I love the chaos that quickly starts with Zelle complaining about the sausage topping and Winnie demanding her sister give her the unwanted dollops.
I’m grateful for the vegetable pizza Ford probably wanted all to himself.
“Should have asked what kind you like?” Ford says as he plucks the sausage off Zelle’s slice and places them on Winnie’s plate.
Ford appears to be beating himself up over a few things tonight; however, it can’t possibly be all about me. I don’t need fancy plates, fine wine, or specialty topped pizza.
“Hey you,” I whisper and he glances up at me. My brows pinch, questioning what’s going on in his head.
He simply shakes it, forces a smile, and watches as Winnie tries to pick up a piece of pizza with too many sausage balls on top.
Winnie’s mouth falls open as one ball drops from her slice and bounces off her plate to the table. When she reaches for the rolling sausage clump, she knocks over her glass of milk, and a pool of white covers the table.
“Dammit, Winnie.” Ford shoves back his chair, and with a long stretch, reaches for the paper towel roll on the counter, without leaving his seat.
The situation didn’t call for Ford’s tone. Winnie’s eyes water. Zelle sits perfectly still.
I’m quick to grab the few napkins on the table and toss them over the spillage. Then I sing.
“On top of my pizza, all covered in cheese, I lost a sausage ball when Winnie sneezed.”
June watches me but Winnie timidly smiles.
“Milk spilt on the table, when somebody coughed.” I exaggerate coughing.
Ford stares at me, so I grab the roll of paper towels from him and swipe up the milk.
“And now my sausage ball and the milk stain have run off.”
June claps when I finish and I stand, bowing with a flourish before dropping the pile of soaked towels into the trash.
Winnie still has her head down when I take my seat, and while her legs swing beneath the table, her little heart still aches.
I see myself in her expression. Disappointing her father. Thinking she ruined this meal.
“Cowboy,” I whisper, grabbing his attention. “Apologize.”
Ford stares at me a second. Then he seems to snap out of whatever is happening in his brain, and he snags Winnie from her chair. Tugging her tightly to him, he holds her longer than I expected. For some reason, my eyes sting.
He apologizes quietly to her then pulls back to cup her face, so she focuses on him. When he tells her he loves her, spilled milk and all, a hard-fought battle to prevent the sob crawling up my throat ensues.
This is a good man. A great dad.
“It’s been a rough day,” Ford admits.
“Why Daddy? You won.” Winnie reminds him.
“And you hit a homerun,” Zelle adds.
Around her thumb in her mouth, June says, “And Cay-Day here.”
Cay-Day? I glance at Ford who is watching me. “Yeah, Dad. Cay-Day here.” I wink.
Ford lets out a snort-laugh, kisses Winnie on the cheek again and holds the back of her chair as she climbs onto her seat.
Spilled milk is forgotten, and dinner returns to questions about what other foods the girls like, what’s their favorite kind of cake, and Winnie mentions how she wants purple cowboy boots. A random comment, causing the conversation to swing in a different direction.
All in all, the time was amazing.
Once dinner is complete, Ford tells the girls they have one hour with some cartoon program before bath time.
After they settle on the couch, Ford and I return to the kitchen table where we can easily see his daughters from our seats.
Ford’s knee brushes mine beneath the table and I don’t bother to move my leg.
“You’re so good with them.”
“No one else but me here,” Ford grumbles.
I glance back at him as he picks at the label on a second beer.
“Things with Romero Valdez looked rough.” While I still don’t know all the details, I know enough.