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“Of course you were.” He plants a noisy kiss on her cheek.
“Daddy, ew!” She recoils, laughing, and beside me Eliza laughs too.
He kisses her again, giving her tummy a tickle. She dissolves into a fit of giggles.
My pulse throbs. Ford catches me staring, and he smiles.
“Bryce,” he says to the little girl, “I’d like you to meet my friend, Miss Eva. Eva, this is my daughter, Bryce.”
My heart is somewhere in my throat now.
Still. A reply pops out of my mouth, bright and clear.
“Hi, Bryce. It’s very nice to meet you.”
She looks at me for a full beat, expression suddenly serious. Part of me wants to laugh. Another part wants to find a bathroom where I can throw cold water on my face. It’s burning up.
Come on, my rational mind tells me. As if I needed another reason not to ogle Ford, he’s got a kid. And I do not want kids. I have nothing against parenthood or kids in general. They’re just things I don’t want for myself.
The universe is throwing out sign after sign that I should hightail it back to the barn and keep my distance the rest of the day.
“Bryce.” Ford gives her a gentle nudge. “Say hello.”
“Hi,” she says.
Ford looks up at me and grins. This amused, proud, fatherly thing that looks so damn good on him. An ache gathers along the sides of my ribcage.
“Sorry,” he says. “She takes a minute to warm up. We’re working on our manners, aren’t we, bun?”
He calls his daughter bun.
He’s a dad.
A very hot, and apparently very single, dad.
Immediately I think of Jude Law’s hot single dad in The Holiday. I get the appeal. Really, I do. There’s a reason it’s one of my all-time favorite rom-coms.
Single dads just aren’t my cup of tea. Why, then, this weird ache?
We chat for a few more minutes, Bryce’s eyes on my face the whole time. Probably because it’s red as a beet. I’m flustered. Awkward.
Stop! So what? You’re fine.
I keep telling myself those things. Even as I can’t help but wonder what Ford’s story is. Is he divorced? A widower?
One thing I don’t wonder about is what kind of dad he is. There’s this easy confidence in the way he holds Bryce, the way he talks to her and makes her laugh, that screams excellent.
No surprise there. Ford was excellent at everything.
Excellent at breaking my heart and shattering my world.
I head back into the barn and manage to avoid Ford the rest of the day. It’s for the best.
Even if the ache in my chest stays there, throbbing.Chapter FourFordIt’s only six, but the bar at Henley’s Tavern is already filled with a buzzy, good-looking Friday night crowd. I’ve got a sweating Old Fashioned in my hand and a potential investor at my elbow.
I scan the people around me for what feels like the hundredth time, looking for a head of dark, wavy hair and a pair of even darker brown eyes.
And for the hundredth time, I try to convince myself that taking a meeting at Eva’s favorite “fancy pants hometown hang out spot” (her blog is full of cleverly worded recommendations like that one) doesn’t make me a stalker.
Since running into her at Grey and Julia’s shower, I may or may not read her blog every morning. And she may or may not have mentioned in today’s post that she was heading out with friends tonight on East Bay Street, where Henley’s is located.
God, I am a stalker. And a loser.
I just can’t stop thinking about her. I was so drawn to her creativity, her daring, when we first met as college sophomores.
I was drawn to it again at the shower.
I’ve played it safe over the past decade, following a relatively stable, relatively corporate route. But hearing how Eva never wavered from making her writerly and culinary dreams come true made a long dormant part of me sit up and take notice.
When was the last time I talked to someone who radiated passion like that? Freedom?
Didn’t hurt that she looked more gorgeous than ever. The way that sexy dress showed off her tits—
I shove the image from my mind. Focus instead on the task at hand.
Work. I’m here for work.
Chatting ROI and project pipelines is nothing new. My brother Greyson and I founded Montgomery Partners, our venture capital firm here in Charleston, seven years ago. I’m well versed in wooing investors over cocktails and smooth bar beats.
One thing that is new? The fact that my mind keeps wandering to decidedly un-businesslike topics. Like Eva.
And whether or not my four-year-old daughter Bryce is eating the pot roast and sweet potatoes I left in the fridge. Hannah, my full-time nanny, is probably at the kitchen table with Bryce right now. I smile at the image of my daughter’s potato-smeared face, even as my heart falls at the thought of missing dinner for the second time this week.
