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“That’s okay, Autumn. We’ll get you knitting winter sweaters for Ritchie in no time,” Jack Trainer said. “I dropped in to check how the playdate was going on the way here, and all parties are having fun. When I left, they were outside with Joe’s power tools.”
She looked at him in horror.
“That was my husband’s really poor attempt at a joke,” Rory said, slapping Jack over the head.
As far as Autumn could see, Rory was there to make tea and annoy everyone. She didn’t seem to be knitting, although Mr. Goldhirsh had told her she could but didn’t enjoy it. He also thought that with the exciting news of his next grandchild arriving in seven months, perhaps Rory could be coaxed into picking up her needles again.
Autumn listened as the knitters caught up on the local gossip and let her mind wander. She felt accepted here. Like this could be her forever home. Where she could raise her son and be happy.
Was Ritchie really okay?
She’d walked around the house tidying and wondering what the hell she was meant to do now after she’d dropped him at Joe and Bailey’s. He’d had playdates before, but never a sleepover. The only time they’d been parted was when she’d come here for the interview, the day after Ford Winter had carried her to her room with a migraine.
“You dropped a stitch, dear,” Pearl said, jabbing her needle at the gaping hole in Autumn’s heart.
“Thanks.”
She’d shared an explosive kiss with Ford, and his hands had caressed her body. If that noise hadn’t stopped them, she had no doubt they’d have made love. But instead, he’d left after telling her what they’d done was wrong, which to be fair, she’d said first.
But it hadn’t felt wrong.
“Is that someone at the door?” Rory asked.
“I’ll get it.” Happy for the reprieve, Autumn left the room and went to the front door. The smile she’d had ready for whoever stood there fell away when she saw who had arrived.
“Hi.”
“Hi.” Ford stood on her doorstep, looking big and brooding. Kismet charged by him and inside to greet her.
“Hey there, girl.” She petted the soft head.
“I wanted to bring you these.” He held out a bag.
She took it and looked inside. There was an iPad and a model of a pickup truck painted pale blue with writing on the side.
“You don’t need to give us your iPad, Ford.”
“I don’t use it.” His eyes held hers, and she saw the turmoil then.
“The pickup is amazing. Ritchie will love it. Thank you. Was it yours?”
He looked down at the toes of his boots and then back to her. “I made it. Models are kind of my hobby.” He looked uncomfortable talking about it.
“No way. This is amazing.”
“Thanks.”
“Has something happened, Ford?”
“Why do you think something’s happened?”
“I don’t know. You’re here, and your eyes—”
“Not you too with the eyes thing.”
“What?”
“Apparently, according to Mr. Goldhirsh, the eyes are the window to the soul.” His mouth lifted on one side.
