Page 18 of Broken Reins (Whittier Falls #4)

Eleven

Lily

B y the time the spaghetti water boiled down into a starchy sludge and the last of the salad leaves wilted in the bowl, I’d gotten exactly nowhere on my promise to keep the apartment “civilized.” Noah had managed to spread both sauce and noodles across a five-foot blast radius, and the floor had a new sticky spot I’d have to tackle with baking soda tomorrow.

The moon was already high in the sky out the small kitchen window.

I was scraping plates with one hand, shoveling leftovers into a Tupperware with the other, and negotiating with a toddler over whether toy trucks had to be washed before going to bed.

I’d just surrendered and let Noah zoom his favorite dump truck straight through a puddle of red sauce when the knock came at the door.

It wasn’t the aggressive, “open up or else” kind of knock you get from a landlord or a cop, but it wasn’t tentative, either. Just firm, no-nonsense, and a little impatient.

Noah went silent, his face going solemn, then he gasped, “Someone here!”

“Probably just the neighbor,” I called, but my heart was already tripping over itself. The last time someone knocked unexpectedly, it was a certified letter from the courthouse. The time before that, my ex’s mother, holding a box of mismatched baby clothes and a look of reluctant pity.

I wiped my hands on my jeans, checked my reflection in the microwave door (still color in my cheeks, still the new blonde streaks refusing to blend), and made sure the hallway was clear of anything that might trip me. I opened the door a crack.

Ford stood in the hallway, toolbox in one hand, the other gripping a plastic bag.

He wore a gray t-shirt and dark jeans, his hair a little messy, face clean-shaven but for the stubble along his jaw.

The sight of him here—again, in my world—felt unreal.

I half-wondered if I’d conjured him out of thin air.

“Evening,” he said. His voice was low, casual, as if he made surprise house calls every night of the week.

I took a step back, holding the door open with my hip. “What are you doing here?”

His eyes went straight to the kitchen, then flicked back to me, a smile tugging at his mouth. “Well, someone’s gotta keep these pipes in line.”

The tiny dirty spot in my mind set off flares, but I shut it down fast.

Noah appeared at my side, clutching the spaghetti-crusted truck. “Hi, Ford! My truck’s stuck.”

Ford crouched, coming down to Noah’s level, and held out his palm for a high-five. “That’s a tough break, little man. Think you can help me with your mom’s sink first, then we’ll rescue your truck?”

Noah nodded, completely entranced.

Ford’s boots thudded on the linoleum, and the scent of cold air and cedar trailed in with him. He set his toolbox on the counter, then pulled the new faucet from the shopping bag, holding it up like a prize on a game show.

I tried to play it cool. “So this is really happening. Again.”

He grinned, unfazed. “Second time’s the charm.”

I gestured toward the sink, biting down a smile that wanted to show itself. “Alright, well. I guess have at it.”

“I plan to,” he said, already rolling up his sleeves.

He started unpacking tools, laying them out with the kind of efficiency that spoke of a man who worked with his hands, not a techie who sat behind a screen all day. The more I got to know Ford, the more entranced I was.

I hovered by the kitchen table, pretending to organize the mail, but really just watching him. There was something different about Ford tonight—his movements more at ease, his focus sharper. He seemed lighter, somehow, like a man who’d left a bag of stones behind.

Noah ran his trucks up and down the table leg, then brought one over to show Ford. “My biggest dump truck. His name Monster.”

Ford nodded, examining the truck with the seriousness of a NASA engineer. “Monster, huh? Bet he gets a lot done.”

“He’s strong. Like you,” Noah said.

Ford’s face softened, but he kept his attention on the toy. “That’s a good compliment. Thank you.”

Noah beamed and ran off, leaving tire marks in his wake.

Ford went back to the faucet, twisting the old one loose with practiced hands. “You’re gonna love this,” he said.

“What, the faucet?”

He shot me a sidelong look, glasses slipping down his nose a notch. “I’m told a nice faucet can change your life.”

“I’ll take your word for it. I’m just happy when things don’t leak.”

He chuckled, and for a second the kitchen was filled with something softer than tension. I decided to stack dishes to appear busy, but I couldn’t help glancing at him every few seconds.

He worked quietly for a while, head bent under the cabinet. When he finally surfaced, he wiped his hands on a rag and looked at me. “Can you grab the new faucet for me?”

“Sure,” I said, reaching for the bag. As I pulled out the box, a strip of smooth paper slid out and drifted onto the counter.

It was a receipt. Long, recent, and with the faucet model clearly labeled.

I stared at it for a second, then at the box, then back at the receipt. I remembered what he’d said the last time he was here—something about having extras lying around. For a moment, I wondered if I was mistaken but the date was today and the time was a half hour before he showed up here.

I felt something catch in my chest, a mix of guilt and gratitude and something I wasn’t ready to name. I folded the receipt and tucked it in my pocket without a word.

When I brought him the box, he took it without comment, but I caught a flicker of awareness in his eyes—a subtle acknowledgment, like he knew I knew, and neither of us wanted to make it weird.

Noah came back, this time with a dump truck in each hand, and set them on the counter. “You need help?”

“Always,” Ford said, voice deadpan. “You want to be my assistant?”

Noah’s chest puffed up with pride. “Yes!”

Ford handed him a plastic wrench from the toolbox. Where the hell did he get a plastic wrench? “Alright. When I say ‘go,’ you hand me the wrench.”

Noah gripped it with both hands, waiting for his moment to shine.

I leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “You’re good with kids.”

He glanced at me, eyebrows raised. “I was one once. Not that long ago.”

“I don’t believe that for a second.”

He grinned, then turned back to the sink. “Go.”

Noah handed the wrench over and Ford pretended to use it to make the final adjustment, then looked up at Noah. “You ready?”

Noah nodded, solemn. Ford turned on the water, letting it run in a clear, strong stream.

“Want to test it?” Ford asked.

Noah crawled onto the step-stool and reached for the handle. He twisted it left, then right, then back again, giggling at the sound of the water hitting the metal basin.

“It works!” he yelled, jumping off the stool and running to the living room to spread the news to his trucks.

Ford wiped down the sink, then cleaned up his tools. I watched him move around the kitchen, quietly efficient, like he belonged here.

When he finished, he washed his hands and shook off the water. “All set,” he said. “Should last you a while.”

I nodded, searching for something to say that wouldn’t sound like a line from a Hallmark movie. “Thank you. Seriously. You didn’t have to do this.”

He shrugged. “I wanted to.”

I could feel the unsaid words hanging in the air between us. I wanted to ask him why he bothered, what he got out of fixing things for people who couldn’t pay him back. I wanted to ask what he saw when he looked at me—if he saw someone worth saving, or just another broken thing to put right.

But I didn’t. Noah wandered back in, climbed into my lap, and rested his head on my shoulder.

“Let me get him settled and I’ll be back.”

“Of course. Night, little man.”

“Night night,” Noah said, his voice soft and sleepy.

By the time I helped him brush his teeth and washed his face off, he was ready to pass out. I carried him to his bed and settled him in, wondering how long I’d be able to do that after my back protested the movement. I kissed his forehead, and whispered “I love you forever.”

I returned to Ford in the kitchen, where he gave a quick, shy smile, then started packing up his toolbox.

There was a tension in the air, the kind that hovered just on the edge of something more.

I didn’t want him to leave—not yet, not with the memory of his hands working in my kitchen and his laugh still echoing off the tile.

“You want coffee? I think I have decaf. Or, I don’t know, there’s still some wine from the other night?”

Ford smiled, and for a moment, all the edges around him softened.

“You know, I’d love a glass of wine.”

I reached into the fridge, found the half-empty bottle of Pinot Noir, and two mismatched wine glasses. “You want to sit for a minute?” I asked, only stumbling a little on the words. “Noah’s out for the count, and it’s not every day I have company that isn’t plastic and made by Fisher-Price.”

Ford’s smile widened, and he nodded. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

We settled onto the couch, leaving a solid foot of space between us, which felt both deliberate and still impossibly close. The only light came from the streetlights out the window and a string of LED palm tree lights I’d left up since summer. It was warm, intimate, a little bit ridiculous.

He leaned back, balancing the wine glass on his thigh. “This is a nice place.”

I snorted. “You mean the peeling linoleum and secondhand furniture? I know it’s not what you’re used to.”

He tilted his head, looking around like he was memorizing every inch. “Feels lived in. Cozy. A real home. Not a lot of places like that anymore.”

I sipped my wine, surprised by how fast my nerves settled. “You probably have a mansion back in California.”

He shook his head, and for a moment, something sad flickered across his face. “No mansion.”

I rolled my eyes and he laughed.