9. Grace
9
GRACE
I know this is a terrible idea. I have to be insane. Even knowing that, I can’t bring myself to close the door on him. I wish I understood this need I seem to have to be around Ford. I don’t. There’s just something inside of me that longs to be close to him when I see him. I’m going to have to figure out a way to stop it. I came close tonight to insisting he leave. Then Asher came looking for me and watching this sexy—but freaking huge—biker get down to eye level with my son and be so gentle with him made me melt.
I put the pizza on the coffee table, watching as my pint-sized dynamo, five-year-old son leads Ford to the sofa and it makes me want to giggle. “You sit here, Ford,” he orders. I see Ford’s lips twitch, but he does it without complaint. Once he sits down, my son—who is normally very shy around other men—jumps up and sits right beside Ford.
“Do you like fishes?” Asher asks.
“Fish?” Ford asks.
“Yeah! Like Nemo. He’s my favorite. He’s cooler than Oscar from the other movie,” Asher says, sounding very adult as he goes over his two favorite movies, Finding Nemo and Shark Tales. Really, anything to do with fish my son loves.
“I like Nemo best, too,” Ford answers, making my son ecstatic. I know he’s lying through his teeth. He has no idea who Oscar or Nemo are. For some reason, the fact that he’s being so nice to my son puts me more at ease. If it were anyone else, I’d accuse them of using my son to get close to me. I don’t think that’s true here. Since my son took Ford’s hand, Ford has been focusing solely on him. He’s not looking at me to try to see how I’m reacting. He’s not worried about impressing me, and some of the tension I felt about tonight leaves.
“I’ll go get us some drinks. Is soda okay? That, juice, or water is about all I have. I don’t really drink, so I don’t keep beer or anything here,” I explain, interrupting my son cheering for joy because Ford likes the same movie.
“Soda’s fine,” he assures me.
“I want strawberry milk, Mommy.”
“Like I didn’t know that,” I laugh. “You’re going to turn into a strawberry if you keep it up.”
“Nu uh,” Asher denies.
“Whatever, little man,” I laugh, ruffling his hair.
“Mom!” he whines, and I hide my grin.
“Strawberry milk,” I murmur, walking toward the kitchen. As I get to the open archway that leads to the kitchen, I can’t help looking back. Ford isn’t looking at me at all. He’s giving my son his complete attention. Asher’s face is alight with happiness. My heart squeezes in my chest. I’m torn between thanking Ford for easily giving him attention and demanding he leave so that Asher can’t be hurt when Ford finally gives up.
My brain feels like fried mush. This wasn’t something I ever thought I’d have to face again. Having feelings for a man has never brought me anything but pain. I never loved Benny, but he was good to me before we married. I knew I was just looking for someone— anyone— to care after Andrew ghosted me. Still, I wanted to make my marriage work. The complete hell that happened after that completely broke me. Because of everything, I’m not sure I’m in the frame of mind to even date.
Heck, to be honest, I can’t figure out why Ford seems to be pushing things. He’s hot. There’s no other way to say that. He could have his pick of any woman—from any age. I’ve seen how all the younger women in the diner look at him when he walks in. There’s no way he should even look twice at me. I’m thirty now. My body is definitely not young, energetic, and perky anymore. Most nights, it’s all I can do to crawl into bed. I realize thirty isn’t old, but when you’ve lived the hell I have, it’s not young either. I have a kid who will always come first—no matter what. I don’t have a career. I’m barely making ends meet. Plus, I have credit card debt out the ass.
I shake my head. I’m worrying about crap that I shouldn’t. If anything, by the time tonight is through, Ford will see that I’m not the kind of woman he’s looking for— or even used to . I walk over to the pantry, and down on the bottom shelf beside my crock-pot is the rolled blue blanket that Andrew bought me when we first started dating. We did a lot of picnic dates. I loved them. I’m not exactly the fancy restaurant kind of girl. Andrew understood that about me—or at least I thought he did. Then again, the man I thought he was would have never just cut me out of his life without a word. I think maybe I fooled myself the entire time we dated that it was more serious than it was. How many times did my grandmother tell me men will say and do anything to get into your pants?
I should have freaking listened.
I can’t explain why I kept the blanket. Benny hated the thing. Benny was never the picnic type. He was a snake that enjoyed crawling around in the grass, though. I think I mostly held onto the silly thing as proof to never trust a man again. I grab the blanket from the shelf and then the paper plates. I walk into the living room and Ford and Asher are still on the sofa, but this time Asher is in Ford’s lap. It takes effort not to let my jaw drop to the floor. My son is never this free with anyone. I am having trouble processing the fact that he crawled into a man’s lap—especially one that he had never met before tonight.
“Mom! Are we going to have a picnic?”
I shake my head to clear my thoughts. I’ll deal with them later. “I thought we would. That is your favorite way to eat pizza, right?”
“Yes!” Asher cries sliding out onto the floor and fist pumping the air. He comes charging toward me, his grin huge. “Me and Ford will spread it out, Mommy.”
“I think I can still manage to do that, Asher.”
“Nope! Me and my friend Ford are going to do it!”
“Friend?” I ask, my eyebrow arching up as I look at the man in question.
“I have a way with kids,” he says with a careless shrug.
“I can see that,” I mutter, not bothering to hide the fact that it doesn’t exactly make me happy. I hand Ford the paper plates and blanket. “Spread it in front of the television and I’ll go back and get the drinks and napkins,” I tell my son, bending down to ruffle his hair.
“Okay, Mom! We got this. Spreading big blankets is men’s work, right, Ford?”
“Sure is, kiddo,” he says. My son is filled with joy. It might be the happiest I’ve ever seen him. Ford looks completely at ease. I refuse to make these facts allow my knees to go weak.
It can’t happen.
I go back into the kitchen and make Asher’s strawberry milk, my brain refusing to function. I can hear Asher laughing from here. Ford is laughing too, his tone deeper, but still sounding heart-stoppingly beautiful. What am I supposed to do with all of this?
I take a deep breath and walk back into the living room, trying to push the feeling of panic away.
It’s just pizza with a man I’m attracted to and hardly know. What’s the worst that could happen? I ask myself. Disregarding that small voice in the back of my mind that says he’s probably a serial killer and I’ll die tonight. I mean, that’s probably not likely.
Yet, with my luck, it wouldn’t surprise me. My grandmother was right all those years ago. I’m just cursed.