Chapter 19
NINETEEN
L andyn
The kettle whistles, sharp and shrill, but it barely registers through the thud of my heartbeat. It’s too early for this kind of adrenaline. But here I am—pacing my tiny kitchen, double-checking my bag, glancing at the clock for the fifth time in as many minutes.
“Landyn, sweetheart, you’re going to wear a groove in the floor,” my mom calls from the living room, her tone warm but amused.
I glance over to see her perched on the couch, coffee in hand, like this is just any other morning. Poppy’s curled up beside her, half-watching cartoons, half-singing to herself, blissfully unaware of the storm brewing in my chest.
“I’m fine,” I lie, shoving my charger into my tote.
“You’re nervous.”
“I’m not nervous.”
“Of course you are,” she says, smiling into her cup. “It’s Ford. ”
I freeze. “It’s work.”
“Mm hm,” she hums, unconvinced.
Two nights ago, I’d asked my mom if she and my dad would mind taking Poppy for a few days so I could attend the conference in Whistler.
I didn’t want it to be too much for them, especially my mom, so I arranged to have Tessa take Poppy both afternoons to give them a break.
I sat at her kitchen table when I asked, twisting my hands together like an anxious teenager asking for permission to stay out past curfew.
“Will Ford be there too?” she asked. I wasn’t surprised; my mom has always been direct. She also doesn’t shy away from sharing her opinion—whether it’s asked for or not.
“Yes, he’ll be there. It’s an important conference.”
She nodded, looking at me thoughtfully. “Seems like your paths have been crossing quite a bit since you came back to town.”
“He owns the company I work for, Mom. It would be hard for us not to see each other.”
“Landyn, I’m not going to tell you what to do. But I do think you need to be honest with yourself. You’ve kept Poppy from him even now that the two of you are living in Deep Cove. Is that still about protecting her? Or is that about fear?”
Her words landed like an anchor in the pit of my stomach.
When I made the decision to leave here, I did it to protect my child.
I was protecting Ford too. I found out I was pregnant and panicked.
Not just about the baby, but about Ford, about what it would mean for him.
He had dreams. Big ones. He was working like hell to build something out of nothing; to prove he wasn’t his father.
To give him and his brothers the life they all deserved.
And kids? He wasn’t even sure he wanted them. Not yet. Maybe not ever .
So, I left. At first, it was just for space. To think, to breathe, to figure out what I was going to do.
But one day turned into two, and two turned into weeks, and then… it was too late. I’d gone too far to turn around without shattering everything.
“It wasn’t easy, and maybe it wasn’t even right, but I made the best choice I could,” I reminded my mom, tears pricking my eyes.
She reached across the table, her hand warm over mine. “I know, honey, but you’re not that scared girl anymore, and he’s not the boy he was when you left.”
She agreed to watch P but not before giving me one more bit of advice: “You don’t have to have all the answers right now but if he’s going to be part of your life again in any way, you owe him the truth.”
I couldn’t meet her eyes after that, but I knew she was right. I need to tell Ford about his daughter.
But how? It’s all I’ve thought about for the past two days, my stomach in knots. I still don’t have an answer. I check my phone, hoping for some last-minute reprieve. Maybe Ford can’t make it after all. Maybe the entire thing has been cancelled.
No new messages. No escape.
“Hey, Pops?” Mom tickles her tiny foot. “If we want to make those pancakes we talked about, we need to get moving.”
Poppy’s head snaps up, eyes wide. “Let’s go!”
My mom chuckles softly. “Then Tessa wants to take you to the pool.”
I shoot her a grateful look. She catches it, says nothing.
“Shoes, go,” I say, motioning toward the door. Poppy bounces off the couch and hurries to grab her sneakers. She’s still humming as she wriggles into them, blissfully unaware of why I’m herding them out the door like it’s a fire drill.
Ford can’t see her.
Not today.
This conference is important to Ford and to Cove. He can’t afford to be distracted.
“Landyn, it’s not a bad thing to be nervous,” my mom says quietly as she shrugs on her coat. “It just means it matters.
I nod. She’s right and that’s exactly the problem. It matters. It’s everything.
I open the door, my heart hammering.
“Alright, girls,” I say, forcing a smile. “Have fun. Text me later, okay?”
Poppy lunges in for a quick hug. “Love you, Mama.”
My throat tightens. “Love you too. I’m going to miss you, my Poppyseed.”
I watch them walk down the path, Poppy’s backpack bouncing with each step. My mom throws me a last look over her shoulder—half-encouragement, half-warning. I close the door before it can settle.
Not five minute later, the sound of tires crunching on gravel has my pulse spiking. Ford is here.
There’s a knock on the door. Solid. Sure. Just like him. I take a deep breath, placing a hand over my stomach to calm my nerves. Then I open it.
Ford stands there in faded jeans, a Cove jacket over a fitted black Henley, sunglasses hooked in the collar. His hair still has that just-showered look, like he ran his hands through it and every strand fell exactly where it’s meant to. It suits him.
“Morning,” he says, voice low, eyes scanning mine. He has this way of looking at me like he’s cataloguing every thought I’m trying to hide.
“Morning.” My fingers tighten around the strap of my bag. “You have a Porsche.”
He reaches for my duffle. “I do.” Of course he does. “But I prefer my truck.”
He glances past me into the entryway, like he’s checking for signs of life. My heart stutters. But there’s nothing to see. Just me.
“Ready?” he asks.
As ready as I’ll ever be. “Yeah. Let me lock up.”
When we reach his car, he opens the passenger door for me.
Chivalry, or maybe habit. Either way, it makes my breath catch.
Once we’re both inside, he starts the sports car and the engine rumbles to life.
The car is quiet—not awkward, not tense as the ocean flashes in and out of view, the forest around us growing closer and denser.
“Thanks for agreeing to drive up with me,” he says, glancing at me. “I know you’d been planning on taking your own car.”
“You’re the boss,” I reply with a teasing smile. “Is there a reason you wanted to travel together? What’s your plan?”
“I just figured two hours in a vehicle with you would get me further than three months of board meetings,” Ford says, eyes steady on the road, mouth curving in that infuriatingly subtle way.
“Is that so?” I glance sideways at him, already suspicious.
“Yeah.” He taps his thumb against the wheel. “I think we should get to know each other again. You can ask me whatever you want. I’m an open book.”
That makes me snort. “Since when?”
“Since you walked back into my life.” His tone is casual, but there’s a thread of truth under it. “Go ahead, Sinclair. Hit me with your best shot.”
I can’t help but smile. “Alright. What’s your guilty pleasure TV show?”
He groans. “You’re gonna use this against me.”
“Probably.”
A beat of silence, then, “The Great British Bake Off.”
My jaw drops. “You’re kidding.”
“Dead serious. The show is stressful, but in a cozy way.”
I burst out laughing. “That’s…unexpected.”
“See? You’re learning things already,” he says, shifting in his seat. “Alright, my turn.”
“Should I be nervous?”
“Probably,” he grins. Then, casually—but not really—he asks, “What’s your biggest weakness”
I frown, confused. “My what?”
“Your biggest weakness. The thing you can’t seem to resist, no matter how hard you try.”
I raise a brow. “Trying to psychoanalyze me now?”
“Absolutely.” His grin is quick, dangerous. “It’s for professional purposes, obviously.”
“Obviously,” I echo, fighting a smile. “Not answering that one.”
“Why not?”
“Because then you’d know how to use it against me.”
He grins, eyes still on the road. “Come on, tell me.”
“Fine, coffee. I’m useless without it.”
He huffs out a laugh. “That’s not a weakness. That’s a requirement for survival.”
“I guess you’re not wrong,” I say, shifting in my seat. “Okay my turn. What’s your tell?”
His hands flex on the wheel, but his voice stays smooth. “My tell? ”
“Yeah,” I shoot back. “The thing you do that gives you away.
His jaw tightens, and I can see he’s in his head, turning something over before he decides whether or not to say it out loud.
“I go quiet.Withdraw.” He cuts me a look. “But you already know that.”
Rather than risk looking at him, I turn my gaze out the window, pulled back into memories from what feels like a lifetime ago.
At first it frustrated me, the way Ford would retreat when he was stressed or anxious, but eventually I came to understand that it was just his coping mechanism.
Over time, we learned to navigate each other’s habits and idiosyncrasies.
A lot changed in seven years, but the more I get to know this version of Ford—the CEO, the entrepreneur, Deep Cove’s success story—the more I realize that at his core, he’s still the same boy I fell in love with.
“Okay, serious question,” he says, snapping my attention back to the present. “What did you miss most about home?”
The softness of it catches me off guard. I think for a moment, watching the pines blur past outside my window. “The quiet. The space to breathe. Bigger cities always felt like they were swallowing me whole.”
When I look back at him, he’s watching me.
“And you?” I ask, shifting the question. “What’s kept you here? With everything you could’ve built somewhere else…why stay?”
His expression changes. It’s not a smile, exactly.
More like the ghost of one. “Because here…people remember where you came from. They remember when you had nothing. Makes it harder to pretend you’re someone you’re not.
” He takes a breath, swallows hard. “Leaving just never felt li ke the right answer,” he adds.
“Not when we built Cove here. Not when this place made me who I am.”
I nod, feeling that. More than I want to admit. Before I can stop myself, I ask quietly, “So who are you now, Ford?”
His jaw flexes, but when he looks at me, there’s nothing guarded about it. “Trying to figure that out, June.”
The nickname lands soft but sharp, hitting right where it hurts. I swallow hard, my throat tight.
“I missed this,” I admit, barely above a whisper.
“What?”
“This. Us. Talking like this.”
His knuckles brush mine where our hands rest between the seats. Not quite touching. Almost. “Me too.”