I don’t really know what to say. Everyone in this room appears to have been rooting for me and…Ford?
Not Archer? The man I spent half my life loving, crushing on, pining after? But Ford?Ford? The man I’mpretendingto be with to keep them out of my hair for the day?
What alternate universe have I stepped in?
They’re careful not to say a bad word about Archer, which I appreciate. He’s a good man, and I care about him. Besides, he’s Ford’s brother. It’s not like they can sit here insulting him.
But they definitely play up how much theyalwaysthought Ford was a better fit for me. He’s more outgoing than Archer, which is likely a better match for my personality. He’s also analytical and strategic, focused and reliable, which are probably necessary traits in a partner to my complete and utter hot mess chaos.
But the truth is that my family probablyknewFord better than they ever got to know Archer. That’s partly Archer’sfault since he doesn’t letanybodyget to know him, but I suspect more of it has to do with the fact that Colton and Ford played football together. They were in the same grade. They were old friends who lost touch after high school.
But he’d eat dinner at our house once in a while. As he grew apart from his brother, he grew closer to mine—and other guys on the team. It’s not like Colt and Ford were best friends or anything, but they played the same sport and spent plenty of time together.
And now I come to find out that my brother saw me ending up with Ford all along? Mom and Dad, too?
I’m so confused. So very, very confused. It’s like I invited them in, and we all entered the twilight zone together.
Except we didn’t. We’re still right here in Tampa.
And is that a boner digging into my ass?
Is Fordturned onby the fact that I’m sitting on his lap? Or is that just my own wishful, lustful thinking?
What the hell is happening right now?
After that one kiss we shared when he pulled away, I focused on Archer. I didn’t allow myself to look past Archer to see Ford standing right there, but suddenly, pieces start falling into place.
When I asked if I could come stay with him after Archer and I broke up, the answer was immediate.
When I asked if I should buy the Winston Manor, he did me one better by offering to put up half, pushing us together as not just friends but business partners.
When Archer took me to our senior prom and Ford was home from college on spring break, I didn’t miss the somber look in his eyes. I didn’t know it was because Archer asked him to snap some pictures of the two of us, oblivious to what might’ve been simmering between us. Maybe I was oblivious, too. I thought Ford wasn’t interested. That he forgot about that kiss.
My God. Does it span that far back, and I just never knew? Or was there some other reason his eyes lit up when I walked in the room in my fancy purple dress but turned dark when I took my spot beside my date?
I won’t know if I don’t ask, but as instances such as these continue hitting me over the head, I feel the sudden need to get some space. I’m just not entirely sure if I need space from my family or from Ford and the boner by my ass as I piece together exactly what I’m feeling.
“I need to go check the food,” I mumble as I push to a stand.
“I’ll help,” Ford says.
It’s an open floor plan. It’s not like we can whisper in the kitchen about how long he might’ve had feelings for me, or whether I’m delusional, or how I’m suddenly discovering that maybe I have feelings for him. And oh, by the way, was his cock hard while I was sitting on his lap, or did he just have a giant pipe in his pocket?
I’d never ask that last one, just for the record. No matter how freaking curious I am right now.
I mash the shit out of those poor potatoes, and Ford slices the turkey.
“Can I help?” my mother calls from the family room.
“It’s all under control, but Dad, if you want to pour the wine, now’s your time to shine,” I say, and he joins us in the kitchen.
Ford bumps into me, and I nearly drop the potato masher thing at the sudden electric spark that passes between us.
“Oh, honey, use the hand mixer. It’s so much faster,” my mom says as she approaches us.
“I like them a little lumpy,” I mutter. If I wanted her help, I would have asked her to bring the potatoes. I realize how bratty that sounds, but this fake thing with Ford wassupposed to help keep my family out of my personal life today.
Not flip the script to make me see how I was with the wrong brother all along.
