Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
L andyn
The text is still open on my screen.
Well, it’s here.
I’m sitting cross-legged on my bed, still wearing leggings and a T-shirt, hair half-dry from the quick shower I took after Poppy left with my dad.
It was a great day. Poppy had her dance class this morning. She wore her sparkly pink leotard and twirled through the studio; her little face lit up like the sun breaking through on the first warm day of spring.
After class, we got ice cream—chocolate for her, vanilla for me. We sat on the curb outside the café, our knees bumping, and she told me about a kid in her class who can do a cartwheel and how she thinks she might try it tomorrow in the living room, but only when Grandma isn’t looking.
My mom texted not long after, asking if Poppy wanted to stay over at their house for the night.
Her response? A very enthusiastic, jumping-on-the-couch “yes!” My mom assured me she was feeling good today, that she actually slept through the night for once, and Dad would be home to help keep Poppy entertained.
So now I’m home, alone, trying to ignore the voice that keeps whispering that maybe it’s a sign that my mom offered to take Poppy tonight without me even needing to ask. I pull my knees up, rest my chin on them, and read Ford’s text again.
Dinner. His place.
Eight years ago, I wouldn’t have hesitated. Eight years ago, I would’ve run to him. But tonight, I keep asking myself the question I’ve been avoiding all week.
If I go to his place… how much of me is going to come back different?
Thirty minutes later I’m behind the wheel, not quite sure how I ended up here, trying to think of nothing other than the directions coming from my GPS.
The road winds away from the center of town, each turn pulling me deeper into the quiet stretch of mountains and trees. I pass the shops, the school, the old gas station, and then I’m on the highway before turning up the mountain, the town eventually fading away behind me.
The drive steepens as pine trees press in on both sides, tall and dark and swaying in the evening breeze. Homes occasionally dot the rugged landscape, long, paved driveways leading to sprawling properties. I grip the steering wheel a little tighter.
It’s a far cry from where Ford grew up, but I’m not surprised he ended up here. Even when we were young, he always had his eyes on the finer things. This part of town isn’t really town anymore. It’s vaster, quiter, harder to reach. And the privacy that lends owners doesn’t come cheap.
I know Cove does well, but this?
This is another world.
My little car feels out of place as I follow the final turn, climbing into a neighborhood of sleek, modern estates, all glass and cedar, the ocean glittering below them like a million scattered diamonds.
When I spot his driveway—long, sloped, carved into the mountainside—I have to double check the address before turning in slowly.
His house sits at the top, tucked behind a row of towering spruce trees.
The sun’s just starting to set, painting the sky in soft lavender and gold.
The home itself isn’t flashy but it’s still stunning, with clean lines and big windows, and a dark wood exterior that blends into the landscape.
A place built for someone who’s done running. Someone who’s rooted now.
I park, cut the engine, and take a deep breath to calm my nerves.
I’m still not sure I should be alone with Ford, but there’s no backing out now.
I grab my purse and step out into the cool evening air, tinged with salt and the faint scent of pine.
I tug my sweater more tightly around me, suddenly aware of how quiet it is up here.
No traffic. No chatter. Just the wind through the trees and the distant, steady crash of the ocean below.
I glance down at myself as I make my way up the stone path. I didn’t overthink it—at least, not too much. My favorite jeans, ankle boots, a soft cream sweater that falls off one shoulder without meaning to. Casual but not careless. Comfortable but not lazy.
My hair’s down in loose waves. At first, I had pulled it back into a loose bun, but when I looked at my reflection it felt too… controlled. Tonight, I don’t want to wear armor. I want to see what happens when I don’t.
I pause at the front door, heart thudding, then I lift my hand and knock before I have a chance to second guess what I’m doing here. A breath later, I hear movement inside, and then the door opens to Ford.
He’s standing barefoot in faded jeans and a fitted charcoal Henley that clings to his chest and arms like it was made for him.
His hair’s a little messy, like he ran a hand through it one too many times, and he holds a half-full whiskey glass in one hand.
At his feet sits a black and white dog with the sweetest face and curious eyes.
“Well, hey there,” I say, crouching instinctively. “Who are you?”
“Stella.” Ford says. “She’s friendly.”
Stella’s whole body leans into my touch when I scratch her behind her ears and she gives me a soft little huff of approval. With a final pat, I straighten to find Ford watching me.
He looks like he’s been pacing. Or brooding. Or both. He’s breathtakingly handsome. His eyes land on me, and for a second, neither of us says anything. Then he speaks, voice low, soft around the edges. “I’m glad you came.”
“I can’t believe this is where you live.” My gaze drifts to the view of the ocean behind me, the perfectly manicured lawn.
“Shocking I know,” he deadpans. “Half the time, I still feel like a kid who shouldn’t be parking in this neighborhood, let alone living here.”
My heart tugs. “Ford…it’s beautiful. You deserve it.”
Something flickers behind his eyes. Not quite relief. Not quite surprise. Something that says this moment means more than either of us wants to admit. He steps back and gestures for me to come in.
I cross the threshold slowly, my boots echoing softly off the wide-plank hardwood before I toe them off. The house smells like cedar and whatever cologne he always wears. It’s woodsy and warm and familiar enough to make my chest ache.
The entryway opens up into a large, open concept living space. It has high ceilings and huge windows that look out over the water. A sleek kitchen with black cabinets and gold hardware that somehow feels both modern and lived in. There’s a fire lit in the fireplace, low and crackling.
The house is stunning, and I can feel him in every detail.
“This is incredible, Ford,” I say, not sure where to put my hands or my nerves.
He closes the door behind me. “Thanks. Built it a few years ago.”
I turn to face him again, heart thudding. He studies me for a moment, like he’s trying to remember something and hold onto it all at once.
“You look beautiful,” he says finally.
“So do you,” I say. “I mean… not… you look good.”
He nods, smiling, then gestures toward the living room. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“A glass of wine if you have it, that would be great.”
He disappears into the kitchen, and I take a deep breath. I touch the soft leather of the couch, grounding myself.
I’m here .
He’s here.
And the space between us feels like something waiting to catch fire.
I wander slowly toward the windows, letting my fingers trail along the smooth edge of the console table beneath them. The view is unreal—open water stretching out for miles under a darkening sky, the last traces of sun flickering along the horizon.
Behind me, I hear the quiet clink of glass and the hum of the fridge door opening.
“You still like an ice cube in the glass?” he calls, not looking up.
The question startles me. For a moment, it’s like no time has passed.
“Yeah,” I say. “I do.”
He comes to stand beside me at the window, his fingers brushing mine as he hands me the glass of wine. “Thanks.”
He nods once, then turns back toward the stove. I follow. There’s a pan already resting on the burners, and I catch the scent of garlic and herbs, something roasting in the oven. It’s the kind of smell that makes you feel at home, cared for.
“You cook now?” I tease gently, moving to lean against the kitchen island.
He glances at me, mouth twitching. “I actually cook pretty well, thank you very much.”
I lift a brow. “That’s new.”
He tosses a towel over his shoulder. “A man can learn.”
I take a sip from my wine glass, watching him as he stirs the pan, then adds something from a small bowl on the counter. He moves with a quiet confidence, just like he does at the office and, I imagine, everywhere else.
“What are you making?” I ask.
“Miso glazed seared halibut with roast vegetables. ”
I blink. “Okay, Gordon Ramsay.”
He shrugs one shoulder. “You’re not the only one who evolved.”
I smile despite myself. “You really didn’t have to go to this much trouble.”
“I wanted to,” he says simply.
I watch him in the low kitchen light, sleeves pushed up, brow slightly furrowed in concentration. There’s something intimate about it—standing here while he cooks for me, the air thick with memory and the ache of wishing things could be simple again.
But they’re not. And maybe they never will be.
Still, we’re here.
And that has to mean something.
Ten minutes later, dinner is ready and plated. Ford sets the plates on the dining table then pulls out a chair and gestures for me to sit. I try not to stare at the way his forearms flex as he reaches beside me to adjust the silverware.
I take a bite first of the halibut that turns out to be perfectly cooked and let out a quiet hum of surprise. “Okay…this is actually amazing.”
“Actually?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “You sound shocked.”
“I just didn’t expect—” I stop, laughing. “You used to survive on ramen and black coffee.”
“And now look at me.” He lifts his glass slightly. “Practically domesticated.”