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NO PROMISES.
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The genius plan forming in my head didn’t include yeast, at least not for our part of it, but it didn’t hurt to keep her guessing. Tucking the phone in my pocket, I took off for the butcher, a spring in my step, despite the ache in my legs.
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I LOOKED AT my phone and grinned like a little kid. I was a grown-ass woman with real responsibilities. It didn’t stop me from dropping everything every time Ford texted. It was ridiculous, and the tendency showed no sign of abating. Leaving him in the hotel had been harder than I expected.
I’d had to fight to stay focused through my dinner meeting and not relive every detail of my time with Ford. I’d still managed to sign the client, but it was a much dodgier proposition than I was comfortable with—or usually allowed. Controlling variables was my thing. Ford added variables by the handfuls, as evidenced by the whole cooking at my house/beignet yeast thing.
I’d warned him off yeast next time, but part of me hoped he ignored me. I liked having the extra time with Ford, talking about books, our families, and pretty much anything but work. So far, I’d liked everything about spending time with Ford, except the part where it had to end. And the way he’d wormed his way into my thoughts even when he wasn’t around.
It wasn’t like I hadn’t fallen in love before; it just didn’t sit comfortably with me. The thought pulled me up short, and I dropped into my chair, still clutching my phone.
I was not in love with Ford.
He was funny and generous, both in bed and out, and so sexy, there really ought to be a different word to describe it. He made me laugh and challenged me, both of which were my own personal catnip. Every time we’d been together, I’d learned something new, even if it was just that I wasn’t entirely comfortable leaving him. I liked him a lot—more than I ever intended or expected—but that wasn’t the same thing as love.
I could almost see Alex’s smug expression in my mind. See Meredith’s hopelessly romantic gaze and Elena’s pragmatic one. Hear Kindra’s gently probing voice asking me if I was living my authentic truth. None of which were helping with the sudden elevation of my blood pressure.
Fuck.I rocked back in my chair, closing my eyes as if that would somehow banish the pesky thoughts.
“Late night?” My paralegal Alison’s voice snapped me back to the present.
“No more than normal. What’s up?” We weren’t friends, but I liked the younger woman. She was good at her job, which made it easier for me to be good at mine.
“Abigail Mendez is on line two. Sounds like Mr. Mendez is moving his girlfriend into the family home. Mrs. Mendez is not keen on the couple’s children continuing visitation while the other woman is there.”
“She told you all of that?” Mrs. Mendez was volatile under the best of circumstances. Nothing about her divorce so far had been the best of circumstances.
“I think her actual words wereIf that fucking asshole thinks he can move his slut whore secretary Barbie into our home to play mommy to my kids, he’s a crazier dumbass than I thought. Or something along those lines.” Alison gave me a sympathetic look. “I think she’s just getting started. Want me to bring you some coffee before you jump into the fray?”
“That would be great. Thanks.” Mrs. Mendez must be in rare form to get Alison to offer to fetch coffee.
She had a right to be. Aside from the obvious indignity of having her soon-to-be ex-husband move another, much younger woman in to replace her, the woman in question worked for him at a business that Mrs. Mendez helped build and still held a considerable interest in. A sexual harassment suit would hurt more than her pride. It would hurt her ability to maintain the kind of life she’d had before the dumbass—by far her favorite term for Mr. Mendez—decided to toss her aside for his secretary.
“Abigail,” I said, holding the receiver a few inches from my ear to protect my hearing when the yelling inevitably started. “How can I help you today?”
The raging woman on the phone had come a long way from the heartbroken woman who first sat in my office, trying to make sense of what her life had become.
She also reminded me exactly and in painful detail why falling in love with anyone—even someone as compelling as Ford—was a terrible idea.
I PULLED MY CAR INTO a parking space a couple spots from Jackson Square. Charlotte had been unusually quiet since I picked her up and told her we had to go to the Quarter to grab some ingredients for that day’s cooking lesson. It almost made me rethink the wisdom of my plan, but the closer we got to Decatur, the more her innate curiosity seemed to kick in.
“Now are you going to tell me what we’re making?” she asked as I turned off the engine and unbuckled my seat belt.
I’d put her off the first couple of times she’d asked, sure if I told her before we left her house, she’d find an excuse to say no.
“The operative word is making. Today’s lesson is muffaletta.”
“That’s a sandwich.” Her brow creased, and I could almost see the objections moving across her face.
“Oh cher, a muffaletta is not just any sandwich.” I got out of the car and was around to open her door before she could protest. “It’s the perfect sandwich.”
I offered her my hand, which she reluctantly accepted. I don’t think I’d ever really appreciated that my car sat close to the ground the way I did when Charlotte slid her shapely bare legs out the door. Legs I’d had wrapped around my hips. On either side of my shoulders.Fuck.
