Southern Heartbreaker (Charleston Heat 4)

“I know so. Anything you do, you give it your all. I guarantee you try to be the very best DILF you can.”

He laughs again. “Thanks. I appreciate that. I’ve been feeling a lot of guilt now that I’m working full time again. I constantly question myself. My decisions. Am I spending enough time with Bryce? Am I a bad dad for, I don’t know, letting her have this much screen time, or having someone else make her lunch? I’m all that she’s got. My parents help out a lot, and Hannah—our nanny—is really wonderful. But I’m her parent. Her only parent. At the end of the day, it’s my responsibility to keep her safe. My responsibility to give her every opportunity for happiness that I can.”

“Ford.” I put a hand on his arm. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, eyes alive with pain and hope and that want. “That sounds really, really difficult.”

“It is.” He lets out a breath. “Which is why tonight was awesome. I really needed this, Eva. I can’t remember the last time I went out and just…you know, let loose and had fun. I’d like to do it again. So while I won’t take you home tonight, even though it kills me not to”—he drops his hand from my hair and digs his phone out of his pocket—“I will take your number. Please.”

My heart swells with feeling, and I can’t tell if it’s good or bad.

Good, because this gorgeous, generous, hot DILF in a suit wants to see me again?

Bad, because I don’t know if I can trust him, and even if I do, I know this will just end in disappointment for us both?

Best case scenario, we have a great time and maybe have great sex.

Worst case, I get my heart broken all over again. Or I break his. As much as he hurt me, I’d never intentionally return that favor.

My rational mind tells me I’m being silly. That I’m thinking too far ahead. Assuming too much. Ford is asking for my number, not my hand in marriage.

Then again, I don’t want to lead him on when I know anything we started—anything we did—isn’t going anywhere. It’s starting to become obvious that he’s turned out to be a good guy.

A guy who is worlds more mature and open-minded than the one who broke up with me a decade ago.

A guy who can dance.

Who, in a few short hours, made me feel like I was capable of tackling anything. My cookbook. Mt. Everest.

Him.

I want to tackle him.

His eyes are on my mouth again.

Maybe that’s all this is. Lust.

I can do lust. It doesn’t require trust. Doesn’t require a commitment.

My number tumbles out of my mouth in a rush. The whole time, my mind is shrieking whaaaaat are you dooooinggg?

I should go. But I can’t move. I stand there, waiting.

Ford tucks his phone back into his pocket. His eyes meet mine.

“Just texted you so that when I call, you’ll recognize the number,” he says.

I scoff. “Don’t write checks you can’t cash.”

“Oh, I’m gonna cash that one, Eva. Believe me.”

I do.

I should tell him not to call. I should tell him to erase my number and find someone else to have Friday night fun with.

Instead, I wait.

A gigantic black SUV pulls up to the curb, hazards flashing. Looks like some kind of limousine service.

Ford tilts his head. “My Uber. Gotta get home to the sitter. Can we drop you off along the way?”

The venture capitalist in him is coming out—no regular old Uber X for him. He’s gotta get the black car service that’s five times pricier.

“Nah. I live about three blocks from here. I’ll just walk.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure. Don’t want to hold you up any more than I already have. You gotta get back.”

Still, the stuff inside my chest tightens in disappointment. I bat the sensation away, reminding myself that this is exactly why I don’t date guys who have kids. They’re tied down by schedules. Sitters. Stomach bugs, the flu, foot and finger disease or whatever that gross sickness is called.

Again, I’m not judging. I know plenty of people who genuinely love being parents and are fulfilled by their roles as mom and dad. I just know that that path isn’t for me. It requires you to give up too much of yourself. And I’ve seen firsthand the consequences of that kind of sacrifice.

“I’m glad you came out tonight, Ford.”

“Me too.” He searches my eyes. “Are you going to pick up when I call? I’m getting the feeling you might ghost me.”

“Ghost you? After you slayed those Ludacris lyrics? That’d be hard. Really hard. Then again, doing hard things is kind of my M.O., so…”

He grins wolfishly. “That’s what she said.”

I laugh, the deep kind that grips your belly and doesn’t let go.

Ford holds out his arms, making the fabric of his shirt stretch even more tightly over his chest. “I’d offer you a hug, but I’ve got all kinds of swampiness going on right now. Swamp ass. Swamp crotch. Is swamp shirt a thing? It should be a thing.”