Chapter 14
FOURTEEN
L andyn
The door to Breakwater Bistro clicks shut behind us, and the night air cuts sharp against my skin. The warmth of the restaurant lingers, but the nerves are starting to build again, curling low in my stomach.
Ford’s already a step ahead, hands tucked into the pockets of his dark blue denim, head tilted like he’s considering something.
“Walk with me?” he asks.
His voice is low, unreadable, but something in the way he says it makes it impossible to say no.
We fall into an easy pace, side by side down Front Street. Most of the shops are closed, quiet and darkened behind frosted windows. The quiet feels like a bubble, soft and private, like the world forgot we were still here.
We pass a familiar storefront, and I pause. “Didn’t this used to be a record shop? That one we loved?”
He glances over his shoulder at the sleek candle boutique it’s become. “Yeah. Don’t you remember, you tried to convince the cashier to let you DJ from behind the counter.”
I roll my eyes. “I played one Stevie Nicks song.”
“You played three. And danced in the aisle.”
I laugh, and it comes out breathless and real. It feels good. Dangerous, but good.
We keep walking, the sidewalk gleaming faintly from a recent drizzle. Our hands brush. Once. Twice. The third time, his pinky curls ever so slightly around mine, but it doesn’t stay long. Just enough to make my pulse stutter and my skin erupt in a shiver.
At the far end of the street, the town opens to a lookout point above the water.
He and I stand at the railing overlooking the ocean below, the sound of the tide rolling in slow and steady.
Wind lifts my hair, and I hug my arms around myself.
Ford stands beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat of him.
His eyes are on the dark, moonlit horizon.
“I used to think,” he says quietly, “that if I ever got you back here, I’d know what to say.”
His words hit like an echo of something I’ve tried hard to bury.
“And now?” I ask.
He drags a hand down his jaw, like the words are caught in his throat. “Now I’m just trying not to ruin it.”
My heart plummets to my feet, a free fall I can’t stop. I press my palm to my chest, enthralled by the wild, frantic pounding beneath my hand.
“You still do that thing with your hand when you’re nervous.”
“What thing?”
“You flatten your palm over your heart.”
I freeze, caught in the middle of doing exactly that .
His mouth lifts in the faintest smile. “You did it the first time I kissed you.”
My breath catches. His gaze drops to my lips, and my whole body goes still.
Ford steps in closer, slowly, like he’s afraid I’ll run.
At the same time, his hand lifts, fingers brushing a strand of hair from my face.
The back of his knuckles skim across my cheek.
“I’ve wanted to kiss you all night,” he says . “I feel like I’m drowning in you.”
My heart is thudding so loudly I’m afraid he can hear it. I lean in without meaning to, pulled by gravity or history or maybe just the ache in his voice. Our faces are inches apart. So close I can feel his breath, but I stop, then I pull back. The moment snaps like a rubber band stretched too far.
“I can’t,” I whisper. “Not tonight.”
His hand falls to his side. The air between us cools instantly, but the heat of what almost happened clings to me. Ford doesn’t look away. He doesn’t push. “Okay,” he says, voice low and even. “But I mean it when I say it, June. I’m not walking away.”
I nod, but I can’t speak.
Not with the weight of the secret between us.
Not when I have to be home to kiss Poppy goodnight.
Not when he doesn’t know that I’m not just a ghost from the past, but the mother of his daughter.
I take a shaky breath and turn back toward the street, the sound of the waves behind us echoing through my chest.
“Landyn,” he says softly.
I stop.
“I want to see you again.”
I don’t turn around.
“I want to see you again,” he repeats, slower this time. Like he means it more than he’s meant anything in a long time.
Still, I say nothing. Because if I open my mouth, I’m not sure the truth won’t come spilling out.
“Saturday night. My house, I’ll text you the address. Eight o’clock. I’ll be waiting.”
Exhaling a long breath, I keep walking. I don’t look back, because if I do, I know I might run to him and tell him everything, shattering the fragile space I’ve tried so hard to keep between what was and what is.
By the time I reach my car, my hands are shaking. I sit for a full minute with the door closed and the engine off, forehead resting against the steering wheel.
Poppy.
Our daughter.
The secret curls inside me like a live wire, buzzing and dangerous, impossible to contain.
It’s not just guilt that eats at me—it’s grief.
For what could’ve been. For what I never gave Ford the chance to know.
And the worst part? He was kind tonight.
Still rough-edged, still infuriatingly controlled, still very much Ford Winters—but also open.
Vulnerable, in the quiet looks and the way he said my name. The way he said June.
I press a fist to my chest, trying to settle the ache there.
He deserves to know.
But telling him changes everything. It risks Poppy’s world.
It risks mine. And selfishly, I don’t know if I can stand to watch him look at me with betrayal in his eyes.
I made a choice—right or wrong—to raise her on my own and now she’s six and he’s sitting across from me at dinner asking me to try again, not knowing he already has something that means so much more than a date or a kiss or a second chance .
He has a daughter.
He just doesn’t know it yet.
The front door clicks shut behind me as I step onto the porch, the night air cool against my flushed skin.
“Thanks again, Tessa,” I say, walking the babysitter out to her car. I wait until her headlights disappear down the street before I go back inside, locking the door behind me.
Tessa is a sweet 17-year-old-who lives two blocks over. She’s always polite and responsible, and was recommended by a couple of teachers at Poppy’s school who promised she was the babysitter that every parent trusted. It helps that Poppy adores her.
The house is quiet now. I toe off my shoes, shrug off my coat, and let the silence settle as I pad down the hallway. Poppy’s door is cracked open the way it always is when she goes to bed, a slice of warm yellow light spilling into the hall.
She’s curled up in bed, her princess gown twisted around her knees, her stuffed bunny tucked tight beneath her chin.
One sock half-off. One arm flung to the side.
I crouch beside her and smooth the hair from her forehead.
For a moment all I do is stare. Memorize the curve of her cheek, the flutter of her lashes.
The tiny sigh that escapes as she slips deeper into sleep.
She looks so much like him. She always has. And tonight, with his voice still in my ears and the scent of his cologne lingering, it’s harder to pretend I can keep them apart forever .
“I saw your dad tonight,” I whisper, my voice barely a breath.
My throat tightens. I blink hard, swallowing the emotion that’s been clawing at me since dinner.
“You’d like him, Pop. He’s stubborn and bossy, and he thinks he’s always right—but he’s good. He’s so good. And he used to make me laugh so hard my stomach hurt.”
She stirs but doesn’t wake.
“I want to tell him,” I add. “I just don’t know how.”
My fingers trail across her forehead one last time, then I press a kiss there before backing out of the room.
I leave the door cracked.
And this time, I close mine all the way—like that’ll somehow keep the ghosts at bay.