Wild Love (Rose Hill, #1)(39)

She’s pretty enough to wear any fucking color she wants. And as I watch her sleeping form, I make a silent vow to teach her as much.

When I turn to leave, I skid to a halt. Because Ford followed me up here and has caught me basically baby-gazing at his sleeping daughter. An expression has fallen over his face that I can’t quite place. It’s soft. Laced with longing.

We exchange no words, but as I pass him, his hand hovers over the small of my back. A whisper of a touch— nothing more.

He trails me down the stairs and goes for my jacket, holding it up with that signature bitchy look back on his face. Right where it belongs.

“I’m walking you home,” he whispers roughly.

There’s no may I, there’s no Rosie would you like—it’s just a fact. This is what he’s doing, and I suspect if I told him not to, he’d ignore me and do it anyway.

So, I shrug and say, “Okay,” before sliding my arms into the sleeves.

We step out into the cool night and turn toward the lake. I could take the main road, but step for step, it’s probably three times as far. Plus, I love to pass by the water. Especially when it’s dark out like tonight. When the soft lapping against the shore is the loudest thing within earshot and the crescent moon casts a shimmering reflection off the inky water.

There is water in Vancouver but not like this. Not water like glass. Not water that smells like fresh rain.

“You can leave me here,” I say when we get to the fence line. “I may go hang on the dock for a bit.”

Try to get my bearings.

But Ford doesn’t pick up on my need for space. Instead, he nods and follows me onto the dock, hands shoved into his jean pockets.

I could tell him to get off my dock, stomp my feet, fall back into our comfortable bickering, but I’m too tired tonight. There’s a softness between us right now that I don’t want to ruin.

And whether or not I want to admit it to myself, I like that he followed me out here.

We both stop at the edge of the dock. Side by side, taking it in.

“I missed this,” I murmur.

He’s quiet for a few beats, and then, “Same.”

“It’s so… uncivilized out here. It’s hot, it’s cold, there’s snow, there’s fire. Bears, cougars, leeches. I missed the heart-pounding excitement of being somewhere so untamed. We were so carefree when we were kids here, weren’t we?”

From the corner of my eye, I see him give a stern nod. “The city gets monotonous. It changes you. You adapt. And you almost forget what this feels like.”

My heartbeat quickens. I know he’s talking about living in the city, but somehow my brain interprets it as more. I don’t think I forgot what this place feels like. I was just so focused on being the bright spot for my family—the fun-loving, career-driven child—that I ignored any twinges of longing I had for it.

“Do you think you’ll go back?” He rocks on his feet as he says it.

“Cora asked me the same thing tonight.”

“Yeah? What did you tell her?”

“That this feels like home.”

“The job is yours for as long as you want it.”

I grin up at him. “Until I drive you crazy enough that you lose it and fire me.”

He snorts. “Do your worst, Belmont. But we should make it more official. I’ll file that résumé and you can send me your references. Then no one can ever say you got a handout.”

I freeze. References. Why had I not thought of references?

I want to hug him for knowing I’d never want to be perceived as getting a handout. And I want to pull the tiny hairs at the back of his neck for reminding me that my references are royally fucked.

My breathing speeds up as my anxiety rises. Again, I’m forced to think about a split second in time, an unwanted advance that should be easy to get over. But I’m not over it. I hear that sharp intake of breath echo in my ears and am transported to that boardroom all over again.

“You all right?”

I hear the concern in his voice. Usually, I’d want to do everything in my power to avoid this kind of attention. To smooth things over and not be a problem for anyone.

Maybe it’s too quiet, maybe I’m too tired, maybe I trust Ford more than I ever realized and that’s why I’ve never felt the need to be perfect for him.

But I respond with a quiet, “No.”

That one word has him turning to face me. “What’s going on?”

Tears prick at my eyes, spurred by embarrassment. A heat in my chest that feels like it could choke me as it spreads to my throat. “I can’t give you my references. Or at least not what should have been my best ones.”

“Why not?”

His voice is harsh now, yet I know deep down it’s not directed at me.

Has it ever been?

“Because I got fired.” The words spill from my lips, and it’s such a relief to confide in someone instead of walking around with it all bottled up and feeling guilty.

“Why the fuck would they fire you?”

I nibble at my bottom lip and tears gather on my bottom lashes. One blink and they’ll fall. So I don’t look at Ford. I keep my eyes on the water.

“My boss had a bad case of wandering hands, and I told him where he could shove it. I’m not sure of the company’s inner workings beyond that point, but he clearly got to HR before I did. The company decided it was easier to let me go without cause than hear my side.”