CHAPTER SIXTEEN
FORD
I knock lightly on Larkin’s door and then step back, hands in my jeans pockets. I slept horribly last night, probably the worst night’s sleep I’ve had in a really long time. And I know it had everything to do with how I treated Larkin yesterday.
After having to cool down the email battle between my siblings, I was pushed into the reality—not by Palmer but by self-realization—that the mock-ups we had done are all shit. And what sucks is that they were all my idea. The colors, the logos, the fonts. I spent hours and hours meticulously going over every last detail, and it’s all led to one terrible conclusion: not only am I not good at my job, but I apparently know nothing about the store.
But those mock-ups—although bothering me—are not what kept me up all night. It was what Palmer pointed out to me. How I spoke to Larkin, how her shoulders slumped as she walked out the door to “retrieve” our drinks. It was callous of me, and I’ve never spoken to her like that before.
It made my gut churn with guilt, and I couldn’t wake up quickly enough to apologize.
It’s early, only eight, but I wanted to clear things up with Larkin before I head to my parents’ for what I know is going to be an immeasurable amount of stress added to the stress I’m already carrying on my shoulders.
And to handle that stress, I need Larkin at my side. I need her . . . helping me.
I need her smile. Her jovial attitude. Her compassionate heart.
I need her as a friend. My, uh . . . my best friend.
After a few seconds, Larkin opens the door wearing her spandex running shorts and matching sports bra. She’s in the midst of tying up her hair as her gaze meets mine, her face completely devoid of makeup. I keep my eyes trained on hers, even though they want to wander down and observe her from head to toe. I can’t deny that my assistant is gorgeous—just like I can’t deny the times I’ve found myself looking up from my desk, just to catch a glimpse of her through the glass walls of my office.
“Ford,” she says, her voice coming out a little breathless. “Is everything okay?”
“Uh, yeah. Do you have a second, or are you heading out for a run?”
“I was, but I have a second.”
I nod toward her bedroom. “Would I be able to come in?”
She props the door open. “Of course.”
I walk into her bedroom, which is significantly smaller than mine but has the same aesthetic, covered in wall-to-wall flowers. Flower wallpaper, flower curtains, flower bedding, even flowers in vases. No matching patterns or coordinating colors—it’s just all thrown together to make you feel acutely crazy.
When she shuts the door behind me, I clear my throat. “I wanted to apologize about yesterday.”
She bends down and ties one of her shoes. “Apologize for what?”
“For the way I spoke to you while Palmer was there. It was uncalled for.”
“You asked me to get drinks; that’s what assistants do. It’s not anything to worry about, Ford.”
But I am worried about it because I can sense tension between us. I can feel it, and Larkin is the one person I can rely on to boost my mood; the last thing I want is for there to be tension between us.
She stands but avoids eye contact with me, something she rarely does. Her mouth is saying one thing, but her body language is saying another, so I reach out and press my fingers against her soft cheek and gently guide her to look at me. When she does, those brilliantly blue eyes cut right through me, almost catching me off guard, as if I’ve never truly looked into them before. “You know you’re more than just my assistant, Larkin.”
You’re my best friend.
My emotional support.
The fun in my arduous day.
And that realization hit me hard last night as I was staring up at the canopy of my flower-covered bed.
She clears her throat. “Well, either way, it’s not a big deal and doesn’t warrant an apology.” She picks up her phone and earbuds and heads to the door again, but I step in front of it. Her eyes widen as she looks up at me.
Hell, I don’t think I’ve ever been this up front with her, this forthright. It’s always been simple business, with an added layer of friendship, but now there’s something different in the way she’s looking at me, as if she’s trying to mask how upset she is.
And that’s what I don’t like. It makes me feel . . . like an ass. I don’t ever want to hurt her feelings or make her feel less than special. Because that’s what she is: special.