Southern Heartbreaker (Charleston Heat 4)

It’s just an inch now—just the flu—but I imagine there will be bigger problems in the future, especially with everything I’m taking on. Ones that will require me to give another inch, and then another, and another and another and another until I don’t recognize myself or my life anymore. I’ve seen where this path leads, and it dead ends in a situation like my mother’s.

I can’t do this. I can’t give miles.

I can’t end up at a dead end. I’ve worked too long. I finally have the career of my dreams.

Ford and Bryce deserve better. My readers deserve better. My dreams deserve better than this.

I crawl into bed. Cry some more. I’m going to have to tell Ford. I just don’t know how.

And poor Bryce. I feel horrible for letting her down. Horrible to the point that it makes me feel even more nauseous than I’ve been over the past how many days.

But I can’t let myself down, either.

My heart heaves when I hear the knock on my door. I’m not expecting anyone. My mom and Ford usually let me know when they’re coming.

I throw my robe over my ratty pajamas and head for the door. Twisting the deadbolt, the breath leaves my lungs when I find Ford on my doorstep. A brown paper grocery bag tucked into the crook of his arm. Furrow in his brow that deepens as he takes in my appearance.

He’s scruffier than usual. Eyes bloodshot. Looks like he’s slept even less than I have.

My stomach bottoms out. I don’t want to hurt him. But I’d be hurting him more by not being upfront about where my head’s at. I have to be honest. Right?

Right.

It’s the right thing to do. I just had no idea doing the right thing could make me feel so rotten on the inside.

“E,” he says, voice raspy soft with sympathy as he searches my face. “Aw, sweetheart—shit. Just—”

“You shouldn’t be here. I’m still contagious”—I wipe my nose with the back of my thumb—“and I don’t want to get you sick, too. You’re, like, the last man standing at this point.”

He puts his hand on the door. Holding it open, like he’s worried I’ll close it in his face or something.

“You got another thing coming if you think I’m about to walk away leaving you like this. Last text you sent me said you were about to hop on a call with your agent to tell him you wouldn’t be making your deadline. That had to have been awful.” He tilts his chin. “So go inside. Let me take care of you. I got you a few things that’ll help you feel better.”

“Ford—”

“Let me do this, E.” My insides turn over at the hint of desperation in his gaze. “Please.”

Wrapping my robe around my torso, I let out a breath and nod. “Okay. Come in.”

He follows me to the kitchen. Watching him empty the contents of the grocery bag onto my kitchen counter—Saltines, chicken soup, Gatorade—my eyes smart.

See? He’s so good at this stuff. The caretaking. He doesn’t get sick. Doesn’t fuck up at work. He’s cut out for parenthood. He can handle it without losing himself. I can’t.

“Thank you, Ford. You shouldn’t have,” I say.

“Yes, I should’ve. It’s my fault you got sick in the first place.”

I look away. Sniffle. “It’s no one’s fault, Ford. These things happen.” I look back at him. “So, yeah. I officially missed my deadline. My agent is going to try to extend it, but in all likelihood that means pushing back the pub date several months.”

His face falls. “Oh, Eva. Sweetheart. I’m sorry. Really, really sorry.”

“I’m so mad at myself.”

“Don’t be. It’s not your fault. Christ.” He spears a hand through his hair, a muscle in his jaw twitching. “I should’ve never let you coach that fucking team.”

A spark of anger catches inside my stomach. “‘Let me?’”

“That came out wrong.” He drags that same hand across his face. “What I meant to say is that I should’ve pushed back a little more when you volunteered to do it. I knew it was a lot, especially when you were trying to tie up this huge project, too.”

I take a deep breath. Let it out.

“It is too much,” I say. “I see that now. Ford—”

The words stick inside my throat.

“What?” he asks.

“I don’t think I can do this.”

His eyebrows bounce up. “Write the cookbook, or…?”

“This. You and me—the stepparent thing—all of it. I feel horrible, and I’m so sorry I—I thought I could take it on, I really did, but…oh, Ford, I’m just really, really sorry.” My eyes blur as the words hang between us. I want to say more, but I can’t breathe around the lump in my throat, much less speak.

At last Ford blinks. “Okay. No, no, it’s not okay. But I’m not really sure what to say to that right now, other than you’re sick, and you’re in pain, and you should probably go to bed so you can get better and we can talk about this later.”