“Better now.” His eyes did a quick once-over of my body which I almost missed because I was having a hard time looking directly at him. I felt my cheeks flame with heat, but Ford’s eyes flicked over my shoulder to the living room, where Noah was now singing “Old MacDonald” to the background noise of a demolition derby.
Ford let out a soft, involuntary laugh. “Your boy’s got a future in stunt driving.”
“He’s got a future in something, I hope,” I said, then instantly regretted it. “Come in. Sorry about the mess.”
He stepped further inside and glanced around. His gaze didn’t linger on the chipped baseboards or the duct tape patch on the couch; it went straight to Noah, who was now circling thecoffee table with both trucks in hand, making “vroom” noises like it was his last day on earth.
Noah stopped abruptly and stared at Ford, eyes wide. He grinned, then sprinted over, brandishing the blue truck. “Hi! You’re Ford. Like the truck!”
Ford squatted down so they were eye level. “That’s right. You must like trucks.”
Noah considered this, then nodded with gravity. “Do you like trucks?”
Ford nodded solemnly. “They’re my favorite kind of trouble.”
“Cool! Wanna play?” He shoved the blue truck at Ford, who took it without hesitation.
“Absolutely,” Ford said, as if there were no other possible answer. He set his bags down and followed Noah, settling onto the carpet with a smoothness that made it seem like he did this every day.
I watched for a moment, stunned. The guy looked like he’d never set foot in a home with a toddler, yet he was already expertly lining up trucks for a head-on collision.
I caught myself staring and jerked back into the kitchen, where the timer had started shrieking again. I yanked the meatloaf out of the oven, then realized I’d forgotten to turn off the potatoes and they were now the texture of glue.
Perfect.
I plated everything with trembling hands, arranging the limp carrots and overcooked loaf so that at least it looked intentional. I threw a handful of salad on each plate, then set the table, triple-checking the silverware and napkins.
“Dinner’s ready,” I called, voice higher than I meant it to be.
Noah came running. Ford followed, taking the time to help Noah climb up onto his booster seat before sitting down himself. He put the paper bag on the counter.
“I brought wine,” he said, holding up the bottle. “It’s not fancy, but I hope it’s okay.”
I felt less guilty about my own wine plans and reached for the corkscrew, but Ford beat me to it, popping the cork with a quick practiced twist. He poured two glasses, then lifted his in my direction. “To fixing things.”
I snorted. “Cheers.”
We all dug in. For a while, the only sounds were forks scraping plates and Noah slurping mashed potatoes.
“This is really good,” Ford said, after the first bite. “I haven’t had a home-cooked meal in . . . a long time.”
I tried not to glow, but it was impossible. “Glad you like it. I didn’t have chives, but?—”
“Chives are overrated,” he said, already going back for another bite. “The meatloaf’s perfect.”
Noah nodded, mouth full. “Yummy, mama. Told ya I liked meat-woaf.”
I giggled, but stopped when I caught Ford watching me.
We ate, and the conversation drifted. Ford asked Noah about trucks, and Noah asked if Ford knew how to do wheelies on bicycles. (He did.) I asked Ford about the ranch, and he told a story about trapping a raccoon in the attic, which made Noah giggle so hard he nearly spit carrots onto the table.
It was easy. Way too easy.
I caught Ford looking at me again and again, and every time, his expression was somewhere between curiosity and amusement, like he was still trying to solve a puzzle no one else could see.
After dinner, I started to clear the plates, but Ford stood up and collected them before I could stop him. He set them by the sink, then rolled up his sleeves again, higher this time, exposing more of the tattoos winding up his arms.
“Mind if I take a look now?” he asked, pointing at the sink.
