Page 85 of Every Little Kiss
“The delivery guys all know you by name,” Ford pointed out. From what he’d seen, her house was like a revolving door for takeout.
“By the time I get off work and get home, Paxton only has a little over an hour before bedtime. I can spend that in the kitchen cooking or hearing about his day. Takeout lets me do both.”
Ford knew that becoming a single mom had reshaped a lot of the ways Liv approached the world. But he’d never stopped to wonder about the daily struggles and sacrifices she’d been forced to make—like something as simple as making her son a home-cooked meal.
Guilt tightened in his chest at the thought of whatever else she’d been forced to choose between.
“Plus, with takeout I know dinner won’t turn into a three-hour standoff over why he won’t eat his broccoli,” she said with a smile.
“I’m in my twenty-eighth year of my standoff with broccoli,” Ford said, and Liv laughed.
“In my house, the topic has caused a filibuster. One time he talked me into submission, claiming that broccoli was Superboy’s Kryptonite, then went on to list every reason why broccoli was the worst vegetable on the planet, including that they fed it to the guinea pig, Buttons, at school and Buttons pooped green pellets. So he refused to eat his greens on the argument of pooping green pellets.”
“My mom used to say it would put hair on my chest,” Ford said, dropping the carrots in the pot. “The fear of broccoli among boys is real.”
“And so is the punishment for not eating your vegetables,” Liv said, channeling her mother-knows-best tone. “Straight to bed with no dessert.”
Ford glanced over at Liv, who had one lean leg crossed over the other, her mouthwatering cupcakes on display, her fingers fiddling with the hem of her dress, and he decided that was a punishment he’d take.
What he couldn’t take was how uncomfortable she was with not participating in the preparation.
“Are you sure I can’t help?” she asked.
“Almost done. I just need to chop the endive.”
She jumped to her feet. “I can do that.”
“Or,” he said when she was about to take the knife from his hands, “you can take your wine out on the deck. I’ll just grab a beer and meet you out there in a minute.”
With a sassy grin, she grabbed him a beer from the fridge and popped the top, before heading through the kitchen and out onto the deck. Her hips swishing the whole way. His hands twitching to touch her until she disappeared.
And it was only when she was out of sight that he was able to fully breathe. He wanted her to relax, but he also needed air that didn’t smell like sheer temptation and questionable decisions.
Ford finished with the slaw, checked the chops, and after counting to ten, with each number imagining the unsexiest thing possible, grabbed the wine bottle and walked out onto the porch, coming to a full and complete stop.
He could have counted to a hundred in a cow pasture for all it mattered. Liv sat on the chaise lounge, her bare feet curled up beneath her, the moon casting a gentle glow on her face and bare shoulders.
She was resting against the back of the chair and looking every bit the peaceful, calm oasis Ford had been craving.
“All I had to do was get you away from the knives for you to relax,” he said, walking over to fill up her glass.
She moved her feet so he could sit next to her, then gave a shy smile. “It’s been a long time since a man has offered to cook me dinner, so I didn’t know what to do with my hands.”
Ford knew exactly what she could do with her hands, but since that wasn’t on the menu, he sat on the coffee table—a good two feet from touching her. “What did you do when your husband cooked for you?”
She thought about that for a moment and then took a sip of wine. “He didn’t really cook all that often. Between his patient load at the hospital and paperwork, he rarely made it home in time for dinner. And when he did, he usually had work to catch up on.”
That surprised Ford. He’d always assumed Sam was the kind of guy who managed to do it all, and do it all well: family, patients, career. A real Dr.McDreamy meets Husband of the Year. “Balancing what we want to do and what we need to do can be hard.”
“I know. Sam had a big heart and even bigger dreams. I loved the way he cared about everything so deeply, but over time he’d commit himself in too many directions to come through for everyone. Something had to give,” she said casually, as if it were no big deal. But the sadness in her eyes told him a different story. A story that Ford had a hard time reconciling with the one he’d conjured about a man whose undying love for his wife kept him going for twelve hours in a blizzard.
“And you think he gave up on you?” Ford asked quietly.
“Sam didn’t give up on anything. Ever. Especially love, and he did love me. And I loved him. So much.” She shook her head, a nostalgic smile touching her lips. “Which is why I knew he’d drive himself ragged trying to be everything to everyone, so I made sure home didn’t feel like another obligation. Which made it hard to be mad when he forgot special days or worked weekends.”
It also made it harder for him to tell her about his connection to Sam. Something he had to do before she confided more details about the marriage. “About Sam—”
“I blew it, didn’t I?” she asked, covering her mouth and looking horrified. “I don’t know what to say. I followed all seven signs, exactly, so I could come over here with a fresh page to add to my story, but somehow I flipped back a few chapters to my marriage.”
