Chapter 28
TWENTY-EIGHT
L andyn
I wake to rain tapping softly against the windows.
It takes me a second to remember where I am—the way the morning light slips through the curtains, the quiet rise and fall of his chest beneath my cheek.
Ford’s arm is wrapped tightly around me, his palm splayed low on my back like he’s anchoring me in place.
For one long, blissful moment, I don’t think about the truth I haven’t told him. I just breathe and remember last night. God, we were reckless. God, he’s still good at it.
The way his mouth moved down my body like he didn’t care how long it took to make me come, only that he got to be the one to do it.
His hands pinning me to the bed. His tongue stroking me until I was panting his name.
I had forgotten what that kind of pleasure felt like.
And when he finally pushed inside me, it was like my body had been waiting for that exact moment, that exact stretch, that exact man.
It wasn’t just the best sex I’ve had in years—it was the best sex I’ve had in my life.
It was more than just chemistry, just desire.
It was history. It was what we used to be, what we still are, even if we don’t know how to name it anymore.
But as incredible as it was, the secret I’m still carrying feels heavier than ever in the morning light.
“Hey,” Ford murmurs, voice still thick with sleep, lips brushing the top of my head.
“Hi,” I whisper back, but don’t look up at him. I don’t want to move. I’m not ready for this to end.
His hand slides up my spine, then down again, slower. “You sleep okay?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
He shifts so I’m facing him, and for a second, I think, this is it . The moment I tell him. The moment everything changes.
I open my mouth?—
And his phone rings.
He groans, dragging a hand down his face. “I’ll ignore it,” he says. But a few moments later, it rings again. He sighs and grabs it, squinting at the screen. “It’s Noah.”
I sit up, clutching the bedsheet to my chest as he swipes his phone screen to answer the call.
“Yeah?” A pause. Then his tone shifts, sharpening. “Wait, what? When?”
He glances at me. “I’ll be there in 30.”
The pit in my stomach forms fast as he hangs up and sits up fully, rubbing the back of his neck. “One of the factory reps flew in early. The walk-through that was supposed to happen tomorrow is now happening this morning. They need me there… now.”
“Oh.” I try not to sound as disappointed as I feel, but he seems to sense it anyways.
“I’m sorry, Lan,” he says quickly. “This just got dumped on us. Believe me, I hate having to leave you after everything we just did.”
“I get it,” I say, even though my heart is thudding with everything I didn’t get to say. Everything still sitting in my throat.
He stands, pulling on his jeans and grabbing a Cove polo shirt from his closet. “Will you wait for me until I get back?”
I hesitate. “I should probably head home.”
“Already?” he asks, sounding deflated.
I offer a small smile, hoping it reassures him. “I have a few things I need to do today.”
He watches me for a long moment, eyes narrowed slightly, like he wants to press but he doesn’t. “Okay. I’ll call you later?”
I nod. “Yeah. Call me.”
He closes the space between us, his fingers brushing my cheek, then tilting my chin just enough to press a soft kiss to my forehead. “Last night was perfect,” he says, before kissing me slowly.
And then he’s gone.
The house is quiet after Ford leaves, and for a while, I just sit on the edge of his bed, the sheets tangled around my waist, trying to remember how to breathe.
Eventually, I gather my clothes from where we dropped them, get dressed and wander into the kitchen, the hardwood cool under my bare feet.
Stella instantly greets me, and I crouch down to stroke the soft fur behind her ears.
I putter around the house for a few minutes under the pretense of tidying up—not because the place is messy (this is Ford, after all), but because I’m curious.
The kitchen is spotless. No coffee cup left in the sink, no leftover toast crumbs scattered across the countertop.
I move into the living room, noticing the large, polished wood bowl on the coffee table, the soft, heather-gray blanket folded neatly on the end of the couch.
Stella follows me as I walk down the hall, past the closed door to his office, past the framed photos of him alongside his brothers. I stop when I come to a picture of Ford standing beside a Cove van, caked in dirt with the biggest grin on his face.
A lump forms in my throat.
Suddenly I can see it all—how easy it would be to exist here.
It’s like watching a movie in my head, envisioning how this place would stretch and grow to become a home for us.
A second coffee mug on the counter. Poppy’s crayons in a drawer.
Her sparkly, pink rain boots beside his rugged black ones in the closet.
I press my fingers to my lips and will the tears not to fall. This house feels like somewhere we could build a life together. If I could somehow find the courage to tell him what he deserves to know.
The door creaks open as I knock lightly and push it open. “Hey, it’s me,” I call into the familiar entryway.
“In the kitchen,” my mom answers.
I toe off my shoes and step inside my parents’ modest home. Poppy’s giggle comes from somewhere down the hall, likely her makeshift playroom. I find my mom sitting at the kitchen table in a robe, her hair still damp from a shower, an untouched cup of tea in front of her. She looks pale, tired .
“Are you okay?” I ask instantly, setting my purse down and crouching beside her chair.
She waves me off. “It’s nothing. Just been feeling off a little this morning.”
“You should’ve called me. I would have come earlier to pick up Poppy so you could get some rest.”
She shrugs like it’s nothing, but the tightness in her eyes tells me she’s not being entirely truthful.
“What do you need? I can stay,” I offer. “Or take you to the clinic.”
“No, no,” she says, gently squeezing my hand. “Go home, sweetheart. Take care of your girl. I’ll rest. If I start to feel worse, I promise I’ll call.”
I nod but worry curls in my stomach. I stand up just as Poppy barrels into the kitchen, arms stretched high. “Mommy!”
I scoop her up, burying my face in her curls. “I missed you, Poppyseed,” I say into her hair. “Are you ready to go?”
“Can we stop for a donut?”
I laugh. “Yeah, baby. We can get a donut.”
I gather our things and kiss my mom’s forehead on the way out, still not able to unravel the knot of worry that formed as soon as I saw her.
There have been a couple of times since I’ve been back that she’s seemed confused, her hair is thinning, and she has been getting increasingly sluggish, which is not like her at all.
She tries to brush it off, but it’s obvious now that something is wrong.
My mom is always on the go, always vibrant and full of energy.
My dad admitted to me not long ago that he’s worried she’s developing early onset dementia. Today she seemed small, almost frail.
After buckling Poppy in, I slide into the driver’s seat and take a deep breath. I focus on the sound of my daughter humming in the back seat, reminding myself that I need to keep things normal for her, especially when it feels like everything else is shifting.
We hit the bakery for donuts, where she stares wide-eyed at the display case for ages, finally settling on a chocolate one with rainbow sprinkles.
She talks nonstop about her sleepover, about the movie she watched with my dad, about how she thinks she might want to be a “kayak scientist” when she grows up.
I nod and laugh and ask questions, but in the back of my mind, my mom is still there.
And so is Ford.
The memory of last night is still warm on my skin. The way he looked at me, touched me, kissed me like I was still his. The way I let him, and how the guilt had hit me as soon as I opened my eyes this morning.
It’s all tangled together now. Ford. Poppy. My mom. This heavy truth I’m carrying. It all feels like a bomb waiting to explode, ticking louder by the day.
By the time we get home, Poppy’s yawning between bites of her donut, so I scoop her up and carry her inside. She’s getting too big for this, but I don’t care. I need the closeness. The comfort.
Later, when she’s curled up on the couch watching cartoons, I sit at the kitchen table with my phone in my hand, staring at the screen. I should call Ford, but there’s something else I need to do first. I open my contacts, searching for the name of my mom’s doctor.
Hi, this is Landyn Sinclair, Carolyn’s daughter. I’m wondering if she has any upcoming appointments. If not, I’d like to bring her in.
I’m curled up in bed, the room dark except for the faint glow coming from my phone.
Ford: Can’t stop thinking about you in my bed last night. I barely made it through that meeting today.
A slow smile pulls at my lips.
Me: That very important meeting that required your full attention?
Ford: I paid attention. Sort of. Not really. You distracted the hell out of me. All I could see was you riding me with your hands on my headboard.
Heat floods my cheeks as I bite my lip, memories flooding my mind. I shouldn’t encourage him. But God, I want to.
Ford: I miss you, and my bed is way too cold now.
I exhale, sinking deeper under the covers.
Me: I’m sure you will survive. So how did the meeting go?
Ford: Not as good as I hoped. They want to see me again tomorrow. I’ll be tied up dealing with this for the next couple days, still trying to clean up the mess we’re in.
My stomach twists slightly. Work. Reality. Everything waiting to catch up to us.
Me: I’m sorry. You okay?
Ford: Getting there. I just hate that I won’t see you.
Me: I understand. You’ll be busy saving Cove.
Ford: Still gonna think about you. Every night. Every time I close my eyes. I’ll make it up to you, June. Promise. I miss you.
I stare at that nickname like it might break me. Then I write the only thing I can.
Me: I miss you too.
I set the phone down on the nightstand and sink deeper into my pillows, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes to try to hold back the tears that threaten to fall. But it doesn’t work. I pull the quilt up over my chin, hoping to muffle the sounds of my sobbing.
Poppy is asleep down the hall, tucked safely in her bed, surrounded by her favorite stuffed animals.
She is sweet and funny and curious. She has the most infectious laugh, and loves being outside.
She’s perfect. And he has no idea. Ford has missed seven years of milestones that he will never be able to get back—first words, first steps, birthday candles, scraped knees, dance recitals, all the big and little moments that make up a life.
It's my fault that he doesn’t know her. And it’s my fault that I’m falling for him all over again without telling him the one thing that could change everything.
I close my eyes and try to sleep, but all I see is the way he looked at me last night—like I’m something he’s been waiting for.
But the truth is, he doesn’t know everything about me. And the parts I’ve kept from him may end up being more than he can forgive.