Southern Heartbreaker (Charleston Heat 4)

I haven’t cooked for people I love. Which I got to do yesterday, and now again today.

Feels good.

Really, really good. I may not know what I’m doing when it comes to Ford and his family. But I do know my way around some comfort food.

By the time I’m sliding a rimmed baking sheet of French toast slices into the fun little warming drawer I discovered beside the ovens, I’m humming. I head over to the coffee pot and pour myself another cup. Turning, I almost have a heart attack when I see Ford standing on the other side of the island. Quietly watching me.

He’s leaning one shoulder against the doorway. Arms crossed, one leg bent. He’s wearing black sweats and a broken in t-shirt. Scruff, bed mussed hair, bare feet.

But it’s his expression that turns my knees to jelly. There’s an intensity to his gaze I haven’t seen before. A pensiveness.

Like he’s feeling it all—the weight of what’s going on here—all at once, too.

“I like this look on you,” he says. His voice is rumbly with sleep. “My shirt.”

I grin. “Couldn’t resist.”

“It smells fucking amazing in here.”

I nod at the plate, napkin, and silverware I set out on the kitchen table. “Sit. I’ll pour you some coffee. Still like it with milk?”

Ford pushes off the doorway and stalks toward me. A pulse of heat hits me squarely between the legs, making the soreness there ring.

“I can pour my own—”

“I know you can.” I put a hand on his chest. “But I want to do it for you. Sit.”

He looks at me. I expect a twitch of his lips. A flash of naughtiness in his eyes.

Instead, those light brown eyes soften, and so does everything inside me.

“Okay,” he says after a beat. Then he leans in, bending his neck, and kisses my mouth. The kind of lazy, scruffy, pre-coffee kiss that smells like toothpaste and tastes like heaven.

Oh my.

Oh my.

My hand is still on his chest. A futile way of protecting myself.

Like I could ever, ever push this man away.

He’s quiet as I make him his coffee and fill up our plates. I set one in front of him.

“Holy shit, E. This looks insane. Thank you.”

“Kinda random, but you had most of the ingredients, and I didn’t know whether you’d want savory or sweet, so…”

He grins. “So you made both.”

I lift a shoulder. “Figured the leftover French toast might appeal to Bryce, too. I know I loved it when I was little.”

“You made extra.” His grin fades. “For my daughter.”

“Does she not like it?”

“She loves it. Especially with this whipped cream stuff. Don’t tell me you—”

“Made it from scratch? Of course I did.”

I can’t read his expression, and it’s killing me.

“Let’s eat. I’m starving,” he says at last.

I sit beside him. We eat in silence that grows more uncomfortable by the minute.

“I took a little tour of your house,” I say. “Ford, it’s gorgeous. Cozy but really beautiful.”

“Thanks. I bought it after Rebecca passed away. Figured it was best if Bryce and I had a fresh start, you know?”

I swallow my migas, wiping my mouth on my napkin. “I get it. I’ve been searching for a fresh start of my own—one of the reasons I moved back to Charleston.”

Ford stacks several bites of French toast onto his fork and puts them in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. Then he looks at me.

“This is delicious,” he begins. “So good, Eva. Seriously. You should put this recipe in your cookbook, too.”

“I just might do that.”

He’s still looking at me. “So I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something.”

“Yeah?”

“Our breakup. Or, rather, me breaking up with you on graduation day.” He does this half smile, half wince thing that has my stomach doing a backflip. “I know we’ve talked about it already. But I want you to know just how sorry I am. The way I handled it—Eva, I seriously, seriously regret everything about the way that day went down. Not that it’s any excuse, but I was putting a ton of pressure on myself to build this big, successful career right out of the gate. I loved you. So damn much. But everyone was so focused on their futures—all the job offers they had, the money they’d be making—that I got caught up in the bullshit. I said some really awful things, and I’m truly sorry.”

I give him a tight smile. “I appreciate you saying that. Thank you.”

His gaze is imploring. “I’m sorry I broke up with you, and I’m sorry I was such a dick about it. You were always true to who you were then, just like you’ve stayed true to yourself in the decade since. I should’ve worshipped that about you—I get how rare it is now, how special—but instead, I derided you for it, and that was wrong. I hope I’ve made you understand just how much I admire you for having the balls to go after your dreams, and go after them fearlessly. I’m trying to adopt more of that free spirit you have into my own life again. The way I did when we first met.”