Wild Love (Rose Hill, #1)(24)
The way he let me touch him with no hesitation.
Yeah. I’m gonna kick his ass all right.
Ford is already here, sitting at the old desk, phone propped between his shoulder and ear. He looks relaxed—arms crossed, feet kicked out, so he’s leaned back. I can faintly hear someone talking on the other end, and while he listens, I try not to stare at him or what I now know is a hard chest under his cable-knit sweater. Beaded bracelets stacked on top of a watch that is just shiny enough to draw your eye.
Mussed hair. Scuffed boots. His stubble a little longer than it was yesterday.
He’s basically a flashing red light. There are so many reasons I shouldn’t let my brain proceed.
My brother. My maybe boyfriend, maybe roommate. I need to keep my eyes on my work and not on whatever transformation Ford has gone through in the past decade that has left him oozing sex.
I steel myself as I offer him a firm wave and turn away with a new sense of direction. Or at least a new sense of which side of the road to avoid veering off into.
But when I actually look at the space, I come to a screeching halt. Straight across from Ford’s desk, approximately twenty feet away, is another desk. With another chair. Facing him.
Basically, my own personal torture chamber. Am I supposed to spend all day working while facing Ford? No fucking way.
I storm toward the desk but come up short when my eyes catch on what’s sitting on top.
The book cover has a pattern of butterflies in a field of flowers. They dance along the tops of the blooms. The hard cover was shiny once, but it’s a little water-stained now. A little dirty in one corner.
I place my hand on my chest, rubbing it in slow, firm circles as I stare back at my diary. The same one I threw out the window all those years ago. The steel clasp is broken, but the heart-shaped lock still clings to the two rings meant to hold it shut. But now, it might as well be wide open.
If someone wanted to go through it, they’d be in for a wild ride through my unfiltered thoughts and feelings. In fact, if I remember correctly, the first page says something along the lines of “Read at your own risk. I might have talked shit about you in here.”
With a few steps forward, I’m standing right above the book and trailing my fingertips over it. Feeling where the cover changes from glossy to matte.
My eyes well with tears, and I’m not sure why. Possibly because I’m coming face-to-face with a lost artifact from my girlhood.
I turn my head, chin grazing my shoulder as I peek over at Ford.
His eyes are already on me, and he doesn’t bother dropping my gaze as he responds to the person on the phone, “That’s a great plan. Why don’t you run it past them and get back to me?” He hangs up without saying goodbye. To some people, that might seem rude, but I’d be willing to bet that, in Ford’s head, it’s just efficient.
“Did you put this here?” I point at the diary as I turn my entire body to face him. I don’t pick it up yet. I’m not sure I’m ready.
“I did.” He tips forward to toss his phone on the desk before returning to his leaned back position, lifting his arms and linking his hands like a hammock behind his head.
My throat goes dry. “Where did you get it?”
“From the side of the road. You managed to clear the ditch and land it between a fallen log and a poplar tree.”
My face scrunches up in confusion, because not a single part of this makes sense. “It was still there after all these years?” Even as I ask, I know it’s the wrong question. It wouldn’t be in this condition after ten years spent on the forest floor.
“No, I went there the day after you threw it and searched for it.” His head tilts as if he’s considering his next words with extra care. “It took me a few trips.”
I blink, trying to wrap my head around his words. “Are you saying you went back more than once to look for my diary?”
He shrugs. A silent affirmation.
“Why?” I can’t for the life of me understand why he’d do that. The time. The effort. All spent on his best friend’s little tag-along sister, who spent every summer doing her best to annoy him.
Then it hits me, and I point an accusing finger. “You wanted to read it, didn’t you?”
He stares at me blankly, and I walk toward him, delighted I’ve found a brand-new thing to tease him about. “Did you read my journal, Junior? Was it juicy?—”
“I never read it.” He sits up straight and pulls himself toward his desk. Without sparing me a glance, he flips his laptop open dismissively. “I wouldn’t do that to you. But I figured you might want it one day. You’d left for college by the time I tracked it down, and I just forgot about it. Haven’t seen you since then anyway.”
“You’ve seen West.”
He nods, still avoiding my gaze. If I didn’t know better, I’d say Ford was nervous right now. Embarrassed even.
“You could have given it to him.”
“I could have,” is his impassive reply.
And suddenly, I’m the one who feels nervous. This man did something sweet—tender, even—a really long time ago, and I have no idea how to respond.
He clearly didn’t want anyone who might read it to have it. And West would have definitely read it because he’s that type of shit-disturber. Probably would have made a hit list of every guy mentioned in it too. Or cracked an awkward inside joke at Christmas dinner.