Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
L andyn
I press my back against the door like that might somehow keep everything out. The guilt. The nerves. Him.
My fingers are still tight around the file, which feels like a brick in my hands. My heart is hammering in my chest, loud and wild.
Ford looked at me like he knew something. Like he was about to ask a question I’m not ready to answer. I squeeze my eyes shut, thinking of how I practically pushed him off the porch.
He was at my house— our house—and the swing was swaying, and Poppy’s sketchbook was still sitting out, and her painted rocks sat in a line at the side of the porch, and there was so much he could’ve seen.
So many clues scattered around like little breadcrumbs leading to the one truth I’m not ready to tell him.
That he has a daughter. That she sleeps in the room down the hall. That her favorite kind of pie is peach, and she wrinkles her nose when she’s concentrating… just like him .
I drop the file on the living room table, walk into the kitchen and grip the counter with both hands until my knuckles turn white. When I saw the look in his eyes—soft, searching, maybe even forgiving—the truth was on the tip of my tongue so fast I almost let it slip.
Almost.
But if I tell him now, everything changes. Not just for me. Not just for Ford.
For Poppy.
And that feels too dangerous. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then I turn toward the hallway to get Poppy ready for her bath. I need to get her into bed, clean up the kitchen, put the laundry in the dryer, and then get to work.
For now, the truth stays locked inside me.
But the weight of it? It’s getting harder to carry.
The house is quiet.
Poppy’s been asleep for a few hours, and I’m curled up in bed with the lamp low and my phone in my hand, scrolling through absolutely nothing. I’m not even pretending to read anymore. I’m just waiting for the sleep that won’t come.
My phone buzzes.
Ford: You still stay up too late?
A smile tugs at my lips before I can stop it.
Me: Bold of you to assume I’m not already asleep like a responsible adult.
Ford: It’s 10:58. You never made it to bed before midnight when I knew you.
Me: Fair enough. I guess some things never change.
The dots appear, flicker, disappear.
Ford: Some do. But not everything needs to.
There’s a pause. The kind that feels loaded.
Ford: Can I ask you something?
Me: I think so.
Ford: Where were you living before you came back?
Me: Alberta. I lived with my aunt in her tiny, split-level house.
It needed some work…the dishwasher or the washing machine was always breaking, and no AC so the place was an oven in the summer.
But there was a little park across the street, and I could hear the birds singing in the morning. There was something nice about that.
Ford: You always liked being surrounded by nature. I remember you once said quiet made you feel safe.
Me: It still does. You still hate the city?
Ford: Too many people and not enough trees.
Me: You sound like you’re 80 years old.
Ford: You sound like the girl who once made me pull over in the pouring rain just to watch the fog roll across the lake.
Me: It was beautiful.
Ford: It was freezing, and you had no jacket. I gave you mine and then got sick for a week.
Me: Worth it. You always did have a hero complex.
Ford: Just for you.
My hearts skips. Once. Maybe Twice.
I don’t respond right away. I just stare at the screen.
Ford: See you Saturday, Lan.
Another text follows with his address. For just a moment, I picture myself alone with Ford, in his home, but I immediately abandon the mental image. There is no way I can let that happen. I’ll make up an excuse on Saturday morning.
Me: Goodnight, Ford.
Ford: Night, June.
I’m barely three steps into the office when I see it—a small box, wrapped in the same brown paper, sitting neatly in the center of my desk.
Again.
My stomach does a little flip.
I drop my bag in my chair and then quickly glance out the door, half-expecting to find him watching, waiting, but Ford’s nowhere to be seen. Just Becca typing rapidly at her computer and Marco stirring a heaping spoonful of sugar into his morning coffee at the counter across the room.
I sit behind my desk and unwrap the package as quietly as I can, trying not to draw attention. Inside is a simple and elegant matte black, hardcover journal, heavy in my hands. The kind you want to fill with things that matter.
There’s no note this time. Just a folded scrap of paper tucked inside the cover with one word written in his familiar, slanted handwriting:
June.
I suck in a breath and quickly tuck it into my bag, but I’m too late. Becca’s already peering at me over a laptop she has clutched to her chest where she stands in my doorway. “Ooh. What’s that?”
“Nothing,” I say, a little too quickly.
Marco walks over, eyebrows raised. “That is not nothing. That’s a gift. At work. On a Friday.”
Becca grins. “Very mysterious. Do you have a secret admirer? ”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I stammer, shoving the journal deeper into my bag.
“Okay, Bec. Looks like we’ll have to guess,” Marco says, eyes gleaming.
“I know! Is it from the hot contractor guy who was in here on Monday?” Becca asks. “Because I would be totally rooting for that.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head.
Marco is tapping a finger against his lower lip, clearly enjoying this a little too much.
“I’m going to guess… Seth.”
Becca coughs out a laugh.
“Isn’t that the guy in shipping with the bad combover?” I ask as they crack up.
“Hey, don’t sleep on Seth,” Marco objects, composing himself. “Did you know he once toured with Guns N' Roses? He was a sound engineer or something. The guy’s a legend.”
“I’m sure he is,” I say, laughing now.
“Wait,” Marco says suddenly, narrowing his eyes. “Is it from Ford?”
Becca gasps. “ Ford Ford?”
I hesitate for half a second too long.
Becca practically squeals. “Oh my God! It is from him.”
I groan. “Can we not make this a thing?”
Marco smirks. “Too late. This is absolutely a thing.”
Becca leans across the desk, all faux-casual. “How do you know him? Please say you had a torrid summer fling with the CEO.”
I inhale a breath and look up at the ceiling while I try to figure out what to say. Their jaws drop in unison when my gaze lands back on theirs.
“You’re kidding,” Marco says.
“Don’t turn this into more than it is,” I plead .
“Whatever it is, just know that we are all the way in,” Becca says, grinning. “Tell us more.”
I shake my head, trying not to smile. “There’s nothing going on. We’re just…old friends.”
Marco snorts. “Old friends who used to get it on. He’s giving you gifts, Landyn. That’s gotta mean something.”
I glance at my bag again, the journal tucked out of sight but still pulsing in my mind like it’s a timebomb. I don’t know what makes me say it; maybe it’s the way the three of us have become fast friends or maybe I’m just tired of keeping everything so tightly wound.
I sigh and lean against the edge of my desk. “I’ve known Ford for a long time.”
Marco arches a brow. “Define long.”
Becca leans in like she’s about to miss the plot twist of a soap opera. “Like… met-him-at-a-party-a-year-ago long? Or I-had-a-crush-on-him-in-high-school long?”
I pause. “We were… together… for a while.”
Becca’s jaw drops. “You dated Ford Winters?”
“Years ago. Back in college. Before he launched Cove. Before all of this,” I say, waving a hand at the office around us.
Becca points at me. “So, you’re the one he built character over.”
“I’m sorry? What does that mean?”
“There’s this office hunch,” she says, her voice lowering even though there’s no one within earshot, “that something happened a long time ago that made him swear off anything resembling fun. Or dating. Or joy.”
Marco nods in agreement. “He’s always so serious and no one has ever seen or heard of him being with a woman. Even though the man is clearly very dateable. ”
Becca nods. “So, you’re the one who made him swear off fun.”
“I didn’t do any of that,” I protest, laughing despite myself. “We were young. It ended. That’s it.”
Marco looks pointedly at my bag and then back at me. “Does it look like it ended to you?”
My heart twists a little. “I don’t know what it looks like.”
“I can tell you what it looks like to me,” Becca says, arms crossed as she leans against my desk with a satisfied grin on her face. “Ford Winters left a gift on your desk, and now you’re blushing.”
“I’m not blushing.”
“You are absolutely blushing.”
I shake my head and grab a pen just to give my hands something to do. “You two are impossible.”
Marco smirks. “We prefer deeply invested.”
“And on that note… how does this play out?” Becca muses. “Secret office romance? A second chance at love?
“None of the above,” I say, though my voice comes out a little softer than I mean it to. Because the truth is that I have no idea how it plays out.
Becca and Marco reluctantly return to their work, leaving me at my desk, alone with my thoughts of the gift and the way Ford had written June .
No note. Just that one word. That name that only he ever called me, and before I can talk myself out of it, I’m standing in front of his office door, lifting my hand to knock.
Two soft taps.
“Yes,” he calls from inside.
I step in, and he looks up from his desk, surprised but controlled. His gaze holds steady on mine, and he sits up in his chair. “Hey.”
“I just…” I hesitate in the doorway, fingers still curled ar ound the door handle. “I wanted to say thank you. For the journal.”
His brow softens, just a little. “You like it?”
“I do.” I smile. “You were always good at that, picking out gifts that I would actually use and love.”
A moment stretches between us. There are things I could say. That I read his text messages last night three times before going to sleep. That I almost replied again just to keep the thread going.
But instead, I nod. “Well, that’s all,” I say, backing up a step. “Just… thanks.”
He watches me for a beat before standing up and rounding his desk. “Landyn.”
I pause in the doorway.
“You don’t have to thank me for remembering what you like.”
My chest tightens. I don’t have a good answer for that, so I just meet his eyes for a second too long, nod once, and step out of his office before I unravel.