Page 15
My stomach is still a mess, and I tell myself I’ll have some calming tea when I get home. Before my dinner of instant ramen—again. It’s the worst kind of irony to love food as much as I do and be unable to afford to cook anything good.
After walking the few blocks to my apartment, I take the stairs to my floor and unlock my front door, pulling my coat in close around me. It’s been freezing in New York this December, and my apartment usually feels like a walk-in fridge. Keeping the thermostat cranked up is a luxury I can’t afford.
I step inside, rubbing my hands together against the cold, then blink in surprise.
The light is on.
And even more shocking than that, Ford is sitting at my rickety kitchen table. Well, he’s not sitting at it so much as commanding it, his large frame making my small apartment seem even more tiny.
“Wha—?” I blurt out, freezing in place.
“Why did it take you so long to get here?” he asks, his voice a low rumble that seems to vibrate through the air between us.
“I take the bus,” I say automatically. “Why are you here?”
“You gave me a key.”
It’s not really an answer to my question, but I nod anyway. He’s right. I left him a key so he could pick up some files at my place when I had to go visit my mother several months ago—a brief, painful visit that I never told him about, except to say I’d be out of town. I didn’t want him feeling sorrier for me than he already did.
“You kept it?” I ask.
He gives me a look I’ve seen a million times, the one where a single brow arches upward in a response that clearly says, Of course. Don’t be ridiculous. “I don’t like to be kept waiting.”
“I don’t think even you can control the city traffic,” I point out.
“Your cookware is nice,” Ford comments, his gaze flicking toward my small, open kitchen.
That takes me by surprise. “Um… thank you. Were you looking through my stuff?”
“I needed something to do while I was waiting for you. It’s the nicest thing in this place.”
“Well, we all have our priorities.” Even if I can’t afford the ingredients, my cookware is sacred. A small, tangible piece of a dream I refuse to let go of completely.
“I should have known, with all the pastries you made last year for the holidays.”
“The pastries that you were constantly eating. You’re lucky you hit the gym so much.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t make them so damn good, and I’d be willing to save some for other people.”
I shake my head, forcing myself out of the banter we always fall into and back to the main question. “Why are you here, Ford?”
“Because I can’t accept your resignation.”
I stare at him. “You can’t be serious.”
“Have you ever known me to not be serious?”
That’s a good point. I don’t think this man has ever uttered a word he didn’t mean. Still, I shake my head. “Sorry, but my notice isn’t like an invitation to a party. You can’t just refuse to accept it.”
“Yes, I can. That’s exactly what I’m doing.”
I open my mouth, then shut it again. I can tell by the set of his shoulders that he has no intention of going anywhere until he gets what he wants. But if he’s going to be stubborn, two can play at that game.
With a defiant shrug, I set down my purse and shrug off my coat. Then, without breaking eye contact, I reach under my blouse, unhook my bra, and pull it out through my sleeve. I kick off my heels, sighing softly at the instantaneous relief.
Ford’s eyes track the movement, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m getting comfortable in my home. Where you are intruding.” I walk over to the couch, the only real piece of furniture I own. I see his gaze flicker over my body, and for a split second, I see something flare in his eyes that makes my mouth go dry.
