“It was everything,” he said, and now the gratitude was raw, unfiltered. “You’re the only one who figured out where she was. Cops didn’t do shit, I didn’t know what to do—” he shook his head, angry at himself. “But you did. You got her home to me.”
I didn’t know what to do with praise, so I just shrugged again, hoping he’d move on.
He didn’t. He just let his hands drop to his sides, fingers curling in and out. “I don’t know what happened with you and Ty Higgins. I don’t know if you ever want to talk about it. But I do know this: you did a good thing for me and my family, Ford. Maybe the best thing anyone’s done around here in a long damn time.”
My throat went tight. I couldn’t decide if I wanted to laugh or break down.
We stood there, staring at each other, until the clock ticked over to the next minute.
“To lost causes,” I said, raising my beer bottle.
He picked his back up and clinked it against mine, the sound sharp and sweet. “To second chances.”
We drank in silence. When I set my bottle down, Mason was watching me with a look that was equal parts hope and warning.
“We ain’t ever going to be what we were,” he said, not unkindly. “But we could maybe be something new.”
I nodded. “I’d like that.”
He nodded back, and for the first time since I got back to Whittier Falls, I believed it might be possible.
After he left, I went to the window and watched him drive off. The dust from his truck hung in the sunlight for a long time, slow to settle.
I thought about what he’d said. About Chloe, and about Ty, and about the things I’d run from. The ache in my chest wasn’t gone, but for once, it didn’t feel like punishment.
Maybe, I thought, there’s still a way forward.
Maybe, I thought, I could stay.
Five
Lily
The espresso machine whined as I finished a latte for a regular, hands moving on autopilot. I barely heard her thanks as she plucked the drink from the counter and I spun around to grab Mr. Benson another scone.
I liked the busy days. When I didn’t have time to stop, I didn’t have time to overthink.
Usually.
I felt him before I saw him. Not in a cosmic, poetic way, but in the literal way someone like Ford Brooks could bend a whole room’s mood just by stepping into it. Maybe it was the hush that fell over the patrons by the windows as he walked up the steps. The bell over the bakery door jingled, and every person in the bakery turned their head to see who it was, though it wasn’t like they didn’t already know. The guy was the most interesting thing to happen here in years, and it had only been a few days since he’d gotten clocked in the jaw by Damon Turner on Main Street. I wondered how long it would take for everyone to grow bored of him.
They weren’t yet. I definitely wasn’t, despite telling myself to stop thinking about him dozens of times the last few days.
My eyes had drifted to the back of the line where he stood staring right at me. Ford wore the same kind of clothes as the other day—dark jeans and a plain black t-shirt, but this time the open flannel shirt he wore over top was blue and gray. I could see from here that it matched his eyes. It wasn’t much different than what most of the cowboys wore around here, but for some reason, he looked better. Maybe because he filled it out so well, or maybe because of the tattoos winding out from under the shirt sleeves and across his knuckles. Or maybe because nobody else in Whittier Falls could pull off stubble and glasses and nine-hundred-dollar boots at the same time. Yes, he wore glasses today. Black square frames that sat neatly on his perfectly straight nose. Another surprise, and another turn-on.
He smiled at me and I choked on my saliva.
Heat crept up the back of my neck and I whipped my towel at the counter, like I could wipe away the fact that something as simple as a smile made me choke.
Making it through my momentary coughing fit—exactly what everyone wants to hear from their barista—I stepped back to the register to take the next order, ignoring the look of disgust from the teen in line. She ordered a cold brew and went to stand at the far end of the counter.
Ford stepped to the front. He was taller up close, and somehow that surprised me, as if I hadn’t been sitting next to him and his bicep the other day. He touched his jaw gently as he reached the counter, eyes flicking to my face and then to the chalkboard menu behind me.
“Morning Lily,” he said. His voice was low but surprisingly smooth. “Just coffee, please. Whatever’s strongest.”
I tried to keep my tone neutral. “Do you want it black or do you want to taste something besides the inside of a barn?”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “Dealer’s choice, but I trust your judgment.”
