Page 14 of Broken Reins (Whittier Falls #4)

Nine

Lily

T here were at least ten thousand ways to overthink a simple dinner, but I’m pretty sure I’d discovered a few new ones by the time the meatloaf hit the oven. I’d also nearly worn a groove in the kitchen linoleum before the timer on the oven went off.

Back and forth, heel-to-toe, like I was personally responsible for keeping the earth spinning.

The meatloaf needed another seven minutes.

The mashed potatoes were already whipped to death.

I snuck a look at the living room, where Noah sat cross-legged on the carpet, running two toy trucks into each other with the kind of violence that would make insurance adjusters break out in hives.

Wham. Crash. “Oh no!” he shrieked. “Big accident, Mama!”

“Uh oh,” I called back.

The kitchen was a galley-style nightmare—a single countertop, fake granite curling up at the edges, cabinets that barely shut unless you slammed them.

I’d lined up every single piece of cookware I owned, as if having all my utensils out would make me look more competent when the guy fixing my sink came over.

That the guy in question was a billionaire, at least according to local legend, was just the cherry on top my nervous, jello-brained sundae.

I stirred the potatoes again with unnecessary aggression, trying to picture Ford Brooks’ face when he realized I was feeding him meatloaf from a recipe I found on the back of a soup can.

Would he even eat it, or would he do that thing rich people do and say he was gluten free, or vegan, or only ate meals plated in tiny concentric circles?

Would he look around the place and spot every chipped baseboard, every stain on the ceiling tile?

Would he notice the cheap plastic blinds, the fraying kitchen towels, the dent in my fridge that was probably put there in 1997?

I wiped my hands on my jeans. My heart was in my throat, and I hadn’t even opened the bottle of wine I’d been eyeing since noon.

I didn’t normally drink around Noah, but I felt like having a bottle of wine on offer was something rich people expected.

And it would at least soothe my nerves. Hopefully.

In the living room, Noah provided a steady soundtrack of vrooming and crashing, narrating the fates of various Hot Wheels in a series of escalating pile-ups.

The kid’s world was all cause and effect, no filter.

Sometimes I wished I could borrow that. I checked the clock: six fifty-five.

I should have had everything ready by now, but the idea of Ford seeing me flustered made me double down on perfectionism.

I pulled the meatloaf out to glaze it with a tomato-based sauce I read online was ‘sexy and savory’—whatever that meant—then frowned at how lopsided the loaf was.

Was it supposed to sag? I smoothed the top and shoved it back in, cranked the temperature, then immediately regretted it and set it back to the recommended 350.

In the time it took to do that, Noah had migrated from the carpet to the kitchen doorway, watching me with wide, blue eyes and a plastic truck clutched in each hand.

“Mommy, what’s that smell?” he asked.

“It’s meatloaf, Bug.” I wiped a strand of hair out of my face and forced a smile. “You like meatloaf.”

Noah made a face. “No I don’t.”

“Sure you do.”

He thought for a second, then shrugged. “I like noodles better.”

Me too, kid. “Well, tonight we’re having meatloaf. And potatoes. And carrots.” I watched his nose wrinkle at the word carrots. “And if you eat it all, we can have ice cream.”

He brightened instantly. “Ice cream with the blue stuff?”

“Yep, with the blue stuff.” The magic of sprinkles. My greatest parenting hack.

Noah zoomed back to the living room, careening his trucks into the base of the wall, where a thin crack ran from the floorboard to the socket. I knelt to wipe up a line of potato flakes I’d managed to fling across the linoleum, then went back to my mental script.

It’s not a date, I reminded myself. Just a friend helping another friend. And if he asks about the scars, or Noah’s dad, or anything you don’t want to talk about, you’ll just smile and serve more meatloaf.

A sudden clatter from the living room made me freeze.

Noah had flipped the toy box and was now shoveling the entire contents across the rug, shouting, “AVALANCHE!” at the top of his lungs.

I sighed. The first rule of single-parenting: give up on the idea of impressing anyone, ever.

The second rule: always check the clock, because every minute is a minute closer to bedtime.

I was checking on the carrots—baby carrots, because I’d read somewhere that cutting them yourself was a waste of energy—when the timer for the meatloaf dinged.

I actually yelped, then felt instantly stupid, because it was just a timer and not the start of a natural disaster.

Still, my hands were trembling as I wiped them on a dishtowel, then ran them through my hair for good measure.

My reflection in the microwave was not comforting: cheeks too pink, hair refusing to lie flat, and the brand new blonde streaks I’d gotten on a whim standing out too brightly against my pale skin.

I gave up and went to the window, peeking through the blinds.

Nothing.

Whittier Falls at dusk was all blue shadows and orange light, the air outside already sharp with the promise of winter.

Somewhere down the hall, a neighbor was yelling at her teenager.

Above me, the guy in 3C was learning to play the trumpet again, badly.

The hallway perpetually smelled of pizza and bleach.

I wondered what Ford would think of this place. If he’d judge the paint peeling in the bathroom, or the cracks in the living room wall that never quite got fixed.

Probably not. At least not on purpose. He didn’t seem like the type.

But then again, I didn’t really know what “type” he was anymore, or any man, for that matter.

The buzzer sounded, sudden and shrill. I jumped, nearly dropping my phone onto the threadbare carpet.

“Mommy, someone’s here!” Noah squealed, abandoning his trucks and barreling into the entryway, socks skidding on the floor.

“Yeah, I know,” I whispered, mostly to myself. “Come on, let’s go let Mr. Ford inside.”

Noah saluted, already distracted by a Cheerio stuck to his pajama shirt.

Before we could go downstairs and let Ford in, a sharp knock sounded on my apartment door.

I opened it to find Ford with a smolderingly angry look on his face.

He was standing in the hallway, a paper bag in one hand, toolbox in the other.

He wore a navy henley and dark jeans, sleeves shoved up to the elbows, exposing the lines of ink running up his arms. His hair was damp and freshly combed, like he’d showered just for this.

His glasses sat low on his nose. He looked both entirely at ease and completely out of place.

“Your main door wasn’t secure at all,” he growled out. “Anyone could have just strolled right in.”

“Oh, sometimes it doesn’t latch properly.”

“Well that’s unacceptable. What kind of landlord lets his property go unsecured? It’s not safe. I’m serious, I want to talk to him.”

He didn’t wait for me to let him in, just turned to the side and gently pushed past me, like he’d been here a hundred times. I felt my mouth hang open in surprise, and snapped it shut before I caught flies.

I closed the door and turned around to find him shaking his head and softening his expression.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to get worked up. How are you, Lily?”

“I’m, um, great. Thanks. How are you?”

“Better now.” His eyes did a quick once-over of my body which I almost missed because I was having a hard time looking directly at him.

I felt my cheeks flame with heat, but Ford’s eyes flicked over my shoulder to the living room, where Noah was now singing “Old MacDonald” to the background noise of a demolition derby.

Ford let out a soft, involuntary laugh. “Your boy’s got a future in stunt driving.”

“He’s got a future in something, I hope,” I said, then instantly regretted it. “Come in. Sorry about the mess.”

He stepped further inside and glanced around. His gaze didn’t linger on the chipped baseboards or the duct tape patch on the couch; it went straight to Noah, who was now circling the coffee table with both trucks in hand, making “vroom” noises like it was his last day on earth.

Noah stopped abruptly and stared at Ford, eyes wide. He grinned, then sprinted over, brandishing the blue truck. “Hi! You’re Ford. Like the truck!”

Ford squatted down so they were eye level. “That’s right. You must like trucks.”

Noah considered this, then nodded with gravity. “Do you like trucks?”

Ford nodded solemnly. “They’re my favorite kind of trouble.”

“Cool! Wanna play?” He shoved the blue truck at Ford, who took it without hesitation.

“Absolutely,” Ford said, as if there were no other possible answer. He set his bags down and followed Noah, settling onto the carpet with a smoothness that made it seem like he did this every day.

I watched for a moment, stunned. The guy looked like he’d never set foot in a home with a toddler, yet he was already expertly lining up trucks for a head-on collision.

I caught myself staring and jerked back into the kitchen, where the timer had started shrieking again. I yanked the meatloaf out of the oven, then realized I’d forgotten to turn off the potatoes and they were now the texture of glue.

Perfect.

I plated everything with trembling hands, arranging the limp carrots and overcooked loaf so that at least it looked intentional. I threw a handful of salad on each plate, then set the table, triple-checking the silverware and napkins.

“Dinner’s ready,” I called, voice higher than I meant it to be.

Noah came running. Ford followed, taking the time to help Noah climb up onto his booster seat before sitting down himself. He put the paper bag on the counter.