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“That I was seeing someone.”
“Oh, really?”
Butterflies dance through my gut as I add, “He assumed you were my boyfriend.”
“And am I?”
“I think you are.”
“I think I am too.”
My forehead rests against his. “Fuck. I’ve been stressing about that for days. If I’d known the conversation was gonna be that easy …”
“You should have. You can tell me anything.” His eyes search mine for a moment, and even though he’s brushed off this whole thing, I swear I detect worry in them.
I lean down and graze his mouth with a kiss. “In that case … I’m growing pretty damn fond of you, sweetheart. I hope you stick around.”
“I’m scared.”
His words take me aback. “Why?”
“Because there’s not a single part of me that wants to walk away.”
“Isn’t that a good thing?”
His laugh is dry. “Most people haven’t had their hearts broken. I have. I should be smarter than this.”
“Smarter than what?”
“Than risking it happening a second time.”
27
Orson
Admittingto Ford that my feelings run deeper than casual dating or some fun sex leaves me feeling raw and vulnerable. We don’t have much time to talk about it at the market, and then by the time we pack up and drive back to my place, I’m tired and drained. Between the stupid gossip and then seeing him with Molly, the day was a lot to process, but one thing sank in loud and clear: I’m in love with the man.
Seeing Molly touch him, seeing any kind of connection between them, it hit hard. I wanted to walk over to them and make it clear that Ford and I are an item, and if it’s up to me, he won’t be going anywhere.
But Ford’s a big boy who can handle himself, and the last thing I’m going to do ismakehim stay. He’s a flirt—I love that about him, and that will never change. If I can’t trust him to be himself, then I can’t trust him at all. It’s not like I’m going to walk around following him everywhere to make sure he behaves himself.
He’s a grown-ass man.
And I’m an idiot.
Because if this relationship ends, I’m not sure the pain will ever leave me.
A few months ago, I would never have looked twice at another guy, and now here I am, wanting to hold on to this one forever.
My phone dings with a message, and I pull it out to check. It’s a response to one of the car enquiries I sent out the other day and … hello. The price they’re asking is reasonable.
And doable.
I scroll back up to the picture of the T-Bird. It’s a mess, but I know Ford will love the rust off the damn thing, and I keep imagining his face, coming home one day and seeing this girl parked in his driveway. I meant it when I said life was too short to put things off, and this is important to him.
My imagination is running away from me as I picture us both shirtless and working under the open hood. It’s what possesses me to hit Reply and make an offer.
Fuck it. I’m already all in anyway.
