The Single Dad (The Dalton Brothers 3)

Fourteen

Sydney

Ford: Everything going all right?

As I sat with Everly in the kitchen, rereading Ford’s text, positioned almost in the exact spot as the scene of last night’s crime, everything inside me began to warm.

A scene Ford now regretted.

A scene I couldn’t stop replaying in my head.

Oh God.

He’d briefly spoken to me this morning before he headed to the airport, reminding me of a few things he didn’t want me to forget while he was gone. The conversation was pointless; they were things we’d already discussed days prior. I was positive he was just testing my reaction, to see if I was angry or upset.

To see where we stood.

To see if I was going to walk out the door and never come back.

Things I would never do because I cared about him and his daughter, those feelings growing stronger each day.

What happened between us last night wasn’t all his fault.

I knew I was inviting myself to stay in the kitchen rather than go right to bed.

And I had known how risky that was, how out of character that was, what kind of challenges that would create for us.

But unlike Ford, I didn’t regret a thing.

And maybe—just maybe—he would realize that he shouldn’t either.

Me: We’re in the middle of making paper flowers and clay vases. Your island is covered in construction paper and glittery pens and stardust. She’s having a blast.

Ford: I’m going to have the smartest kid in LA because of you.

Me: Her intelligence has nothing to do with me, but thank you for saying that. Seriously, she’s doing fab. After going through one of my cookbooks, she’s decided she wants this fancy egg salad with pickled onions on a brioche bun for lunch. We’re very busy over here.

Ford: I don’t have the peanut-butter-and-jelly kid.

Me: I can’t tell you how happy that makes me. How’s the trip going?

Ford: That was a really cute picture you sent earlier of Eve on the hiking trail. Seeing her face makes the time go by faster. Keep sending more.

Me: You sound … stressed?

Ford: One state down already, three to go. I’m headed to a meeting now and then jumping back on the plane. It’s all good.

Me: Take photos. This way, Everly and I can follow your trip and have a little geography lesson while living vicariously through you.

Ford: Everly would love that. Did you document your travels?

Me: Hold. I’ll show you.

I could feel the tension in his messages. I didn’t know the cause, but I wanted to try to lighten his mood even if it was with my silly, nonsensical photos. So, I opened my Photos app and flipped through the more recent shots, sending him three different ones from the Turners’ private plane. The monitor behind our seats had tracked our location, so I’d always known our whereabouts and which country I was photographing from the sky.

Me: First was in Switzerland. That’s the Alps beneath us. The second, Germany—somewhere around Munich. The third, Finland. I remember how badly I wanted us to land, so I could go explore.

Me: And so I could have all the wine.

Just as I was setting my phone down, Ford texted a picture. The shot could have been any downtown city, but there was no question in my mind that it was Manhattan. Of course, I could have looked at the itinerary his assistant had sent, each of his stops broken down along with the hotels he was staying in. But I didn’t need to. New York had a certain feel, and he’d captured that in the photo—a slight blur of buildings, followed by more prominent tall ones. A yellow cab in the next lane. Smoke billowing from the subway grate ahead.

I could close my eyes and smell that city.

Me: Oh God, I miss New York so much.

Ford: You’d better not miss her too much … you can’t leave me.

A heat whipped across my face, my skin warming to the point of sweat.

I knew he was talking about my employment, but I couldn’t stop my mind from thinking he meant it in a personal way.

That he was replaying what had happened in the kitchen.

That he wanted it to happen again.

Me: I’m not going anywhere; don’t worry.

Me: Have a good meeting.