Chapter 17 #2
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 I laughed 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.
“I want to.”
We move around the kitchen in sync. I wash the plates, he dries them. He hands me a towel. I pass him the silverware. It’s too easy. Too familiar. Too us .
I pass him the last plate, our fingers brushing briefly. He takes it, towel in hand, and starts to dry. When I glance up, his gaze is already on me. Steady. A little unguarded. Something in my chest pulls tight.
“I used to picture this,” he says, voice like gravel, quiet but heavy enough to land deep. “You in this kitchen with me. Not just for a night. For longer.”
The words steal the air from my lungs.
“I know I shouldn’t admit that,” he adds. “But it’s true.”
I turn slowly to face him as if any sudden movement will shatter the fragile thread between us.
His eyes catch mine—steady, searching—and then he lifts a hand.
The pad of his finger grazes my temple as he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.
It’s a soft, almost meaningless gesture.
Except it isn’t. His touch lingers, the heat of his skin searing in the space between us.
“Tell me not to kiss you,” he murmurs.
The words hang there, dangerous and impossible.
I should say it.
I should stop him.
But my breath catches, and before I realize I’m moving, I step forward.
He meets me halfway, fingers sliding along my jaw, feather-light, testing, like he’s bracing for me to pull away. I don’t. I tip closer, pulled by something older than our hurt.
When our lips meet, it’s not tentative—it’s urgent.
Like no time has passed.
His lips fuse to mine, warm and firm, and the second he deepens the kiss, tilting his head, parting his mouth, I let out the softest breath against him. His tongue grazes mine, slow and unhurried, but full of intent.
My fingers curl into the front of his shirt before I can stop them, gripping the soft fabric like it might anchor me, like if I don’t hold onto something, I might fall apart right here in his kitchen.
He tastes like whiskey and heat and something that aches down my spine.
His hand slides down to my waist, large and steady, drawing me in until my chest presses against his.
He kisses me deeper then, longer, and my knees nearly go weak from the weight of it.
From the way he groans low in his throat when I kiss him back just as hard.
It’s not frantic. It’s not careful. It’s slow and devastating and full of everything we’ve tried not to say. Everything we lost. Everything we still want.
When we finally pull apart, it’s not because we want to, it’s because we have to.
His forehead rests against mine, our breath tangled in the small space between us.
I feel the rise and fall of his chest against mine, the faint tremble in his fingers, still gripping my waist. Then his hand slides slowly—deliberately—from my waist to my hip, then lower, fingers brushing along the curve of my thigh through my jeans.
“Lan,” he utters raggedly into my mouth. “Oh god.”
“I know?—,”
His eyes lift to mine. Something sharp flickers there—desire, frustration, a kind of hunger I remember too well.
Then he leans in and kisses me again, this time with no hesitation.
His mouth claims mine—slow, deep, like he’s trying to relearn every inch of me. His tongue sweeps across my lower lip, coaxing it open, and I melt into it, gasping softly as he kisses me harder, like he’s been waiting years to taste me again.
I don’t move away. I can’t.
His hands slide up, over my ribs, under my sweater, fingertips grazing my skin, and I shiver at the contact. His touch is careful but possessive.
He pulls back just long enough to look at me. His voice is rough. “Tell me to stop.”
I don’t. I can’t.
He searches my face for hesitation, and when he doesn’t find it, he nods once and then he lifts me in one fluid motion and sets me gently on the kitchen counter, stepping between my legs like he belongs there.
Because he does and always has.
His hands slide under my thighs, pulling me flush against him. I gasp when I feel how hard he is through his jeans, and he growls softly at the sound.
“You drive me fucking crazy,” he mutters, dragging his mouth down my neck, kissing and tasting until my head tips back and my hands grip the edge of the counter like it’s the only thing keeping me from falling apart.
His fingers slip beneath the hem of my sweater, slowly, reverently, dragging the fabric up my stomach. I raise my arms, and he peels it off me, tossing it somewhere behind him. His eyes move over me, hot and sharp, like he doesn’t know where to touch first.
But he does.
His hands slide up my sides, fingers grazing the edge of my bra. His thumbs sweep lightly over the swell of my breasts, and I whimper at the contact.
He kisses me again, deeper this time, tongue sliding against mine, hips pressing forward until there’s nothing left between us but heat and memory and the ache of how much we still want this.
“God, Landyn,” he murmurs, breath ragged. “You feel the same. You taste the same. You still ruin me.”
I pull in a shaky breath, my fingers gripping his shoulders, nails digging slightly into his skin.
And all I can think—through the fog of want and heat and everything we’ve been holding back—is that I’ve never been kissed like this. Not before him. Not after.
Not like this.
He groans against my mouth, and the sound of it nearly undoes me. The way his hands move like he knows me. Like he still remembers what I like, where to touch, how to make me melt with just his thumbs brushing under the curve of my breasts.
“Jesus, June,” he murmurs against my neck, voice wrecked. “It’s so easy to get lost in you.”
I gasp when his hips press forward, grinding his erection slow against me. The friction shoots through me, and my fingers dig into the back of his shirt .
Every move, every sound, every breath feels like we’re falling deeper into something we may not be able to undo.
I want him. God, I want him.
But then—I see her.
Poppy. In the back of my mind, like a whisper. And it slams through me, like ice in my veins.
I freeze.
Ford feels it instantly. His mouth stills. His hands pause at my ribs. His forehead drops against mine, his breath still ragged.
“What is it?” he asks, voice low. “Where did you just go?”
I shake my head, chest tight. “I can’t.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t step away. Just breathes with me, forehead still pressed to mine.
“Hey,” he says softly. “It’s okay. I’m not going anywhere. We don’t have to rush.”
I nod, even though I’m not sure it is okay.
His hands slowly fall away from my body, dragging longing and regret with them.
I slide off the counter and land on shaky legs, my bra strap slipping slightly down one shoulder. He reaches for my sweater—quietly, without a word—and hands it to me. I pull it on, swallowing hard.
“I’m sorry,” I say, avoiding his eyes.
“Don’t be.” His voice is calm, but there’s an ache underneath. “You don’t owe me anything.”
I grab my bag, fingers trembling slightly, and when I turn back, he’s just standing there—jaw tight, eyes unreadable.
But he doesn’t try to stop me.
And that almost hurts more than if he had.