Page 37 of Broken Reins (Whittier Falls #4)

Twenty-One

Lily

T he only real light in the apartment was the palm tree lights and glare from the street, sliced into stripes by the cheap plastic blinds.

I sat on the couch, knees up, feet tucked under me, a ratty throw pillow wedged in a death grip between my arms. Ford sat next to me, but not too close—just enough that his knee brushed the edge of my thigh if I moved wrong.

Or right, depending on how you looked at it.

He didn’t touch me. Didn’t try to make small talk, either.

Just sat, elbows on his knees, hands folded between them, head bowed like he was waiting to be called up to the principal’s office.

He’d left his boots at the door; his socks didn’t match, they were both black, but one had a little logo on the toe.

I kept staring at his feet so I wouldn’t have to look at his face.

I had a speech prepared. Or at least, I’d rehearsed some lines in my head after Caroline left. And then again on the walk to pick up Noah. But now that Ford was here, the words kept rearranging themselves, turning into a mess of tangled feelings I didn’t want to expose.

“Noah asleep?”

“Yep. They had Fall Field Day at pre-school and then two birthday celebrations at daycare. He was blissed out by the time he got home. Practically fell asleep on his plate of chicken nuggets.

He laughed, and the warmth of his smile reached his eyes. It always reached his eyes when he smiled at me or Noah. My chest tightened.

“I was an idiot,” he said abruptly.

The words hung there, low and gruff and a little bit helpless.

I blinked, unsure what to do with that. “What?”

He turned to face me, expression open and oddly earnest. “The car. I didn’t think about how it would feel.

I just—” He ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it up until it was sticking out in all directions.

“I saw a problem, and I fixed it. That’s what I’m good at.

But I should have asked you. Or at least talked about it first.”

His voice was quiet but steady. The kind of tone you use when you know you’ve screwed up and you’re trying to own it without making things worse.

I squeezed the pillow tighter, then forced my hands to unclench. “You didn’t have to?—”

“I know,” he said, cutting me off, but it wasn’t sharp.

It was gentle, as if he already knew every argument I was about to make and was sparing us both the trouble.

“I wanted to. I wanted to do something special for you. Make you feel special. But I never you to feel like you didn’t have a choice. I’m sorry if I messed that up.”

I let out a breath. The tension in my chest loosened a millimeter.

Ford’s blue eyes fixed on my face, searching for a signal.

“I wasn’t mad about the car,” I said. “Not really.”

He tilted his head, like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I tried to explain, but the words didn’t come out in the right order.

“It was just . . . the timing, I guess? After we . . . you know, last night, I felt good—better than I had in forever—and then you did this huge, generous thing. And it was like, I don’t know, suddenly I was back where everything is out of my hands.

Like when I was with Jim, and every good thing came with strings. Even if you don’t mean it that way.”

Ford listened, really listened, and didn’t flinch at Jim’s name.

“That’s why I freaked out. I just—I didn’t want to feel like I was for sale.”

He nodded, once. “I get it. I do. I promise you, there’s no price on you, Lily. Not for the car, not for anything. God, I didn’t even think about it that way. Only that, last night was fucking incredible and it solidified us to me in a lot of ways. And I don’t know, I guess I leapt a bit too hard.”

I looked down at the pillow in my lap, running a finger over the worn edge where the stuffing was starting to show. “I know you didn’t mean it that way.”

Ford shifted, closer this time, but still leaving me enough room to breathe. “You want to know something else I was stupid about?”

I shrugged, and he went on.

“I talked to Walker today. Told him what happened. And he told me some stuff about your past. Stuff I probably should have learned from you.”

I expected to feel angry, or violated, or at least embarrassed. But I didn’t. I just felt . . . tired. “Walker’s not great at keeping things to himself,” I said, forcing a weak smile. “But it’s fine. If anyone gets to tell you about my baggage, it’s him. He was there for the worst of it.”

Ford smiled too, but it was sad. “He said you used to be a completely different person before Jim.”

I barked out a laugh that sounded brittle even to me. “Yeah. I used to talk a lot, and wear dumb hair colors, and annoy the crap out of everyone in town.”

“I bet you were adorable,” he said, and the sincerity in his voice knocked the wind out of me.

I let the silence sit for a moment, then added, “Walker and Caroline saved my life. Not just that night, either. They kept me going after. So whatever he told you, it’s probably true. And I’m glad you know.”

Ford didn’t push, just sat there, letting me say as much or as little as I wanted. The room felt warmer than before, the old heater rattling in the corner but managing to keep the chill off.

I took a breath, then started talking, my voice shaky at first but steadying as I went.

“Walker’s right. I was loud, and I was bright, and I thought nothing bad could ever happen to me.

And then I married Jim, and it was like .

. . the world got smaller. Every day, a little less light, a little less air. Until I didn’t even recognize myself.”

Ford didn’t say anything, but I could see him clenching his fists, knuckles white.

I went on, because now that the floodgates were open, it felt like I had to get it all out.

“It wasn’t just the physical stuff. He wanted me to need him for everything.

Money, food, even what shows I watched. If I ever said no, or tried to make a choice on my own, he’d find a way to punish me for it.

I got so used to it, I stopped even thinking about having opinions.

I felt stuck and it was easier to just go along with it all than risk it. ”

Ford’s voice was thick when he said, “You don’t have to tell me this.”

“I want to,” I said, and was surprised to realize I meant it. “Because I need you to understand me. Why I get panicked when people are too nice to me. I never want to feel that powerless again.”

He reached out, slow and careful, and rested his hand on my knee. It was warm and solid and didn’t feel like a claim—just a point of contact, grounding me to the present.

“I promise you,” Ford said, “I would never take your power away. Not ever. Your power is one of the things I love most about you. And the truth is . . . you’re my hero.”

I let myself believe it. Just for a minute.

“I guess I don’t know how to accept help without feeling like I owe someone,” I said. “It’s dumb. I know it’s dumb.”

“It’s not dumb,” Ford said, and there was no hesitation in it. “You survived something I can’t even imagine. You did it all on your own. That’s not dumb, Lily. That’s strong.”

My eyes stung, and I blinked hard, willing the tears not to fall. I hated crying in front of people, but with Ford, it didn’t feel humiliating. It just felt . . . safe.

He squeezed my knee, not letting go.

“I care about you,” he said, voice rough around the edges. “You and Noah. And if I ever do something that makes you feel trapped, I want you to tell me. Even if it’s yelling. Even if it’s throwing things. I’ll listen.”

I tried to laugh, but it came out as a hiccup. “I’ve got good aim.”

He grinned, the dimple in his cheek appearing for the first time tonight. “I bet you do.”

For a while, we just sat, side by side, the pillow now forgotten and Ford’s hand still on my knee. The world inside was just the two of us, breathing the same stale, heater-warmed air. I could feel the tension draining from my body, leaving something softer in its wake.

I looked at him, really looked, and saw that he meant every word. He wasn’t afraid of my past, or my baggage, or even my sharpest edges.

He just wanted me.

And for the first time, maybe ever, I wanted to be wanted.

I rested my head on his shoulder, and he let me, holding me close but not too tight. Not a cage, not a leash. Just an anchor.

We stayed like that, letting the minutes pass, the silence no longer something to fear.

Eventually, I whispered, “Thank you.”

He didn’t answer, just kissed the top of my head, lips lingering against my hairline.

I closed my eyes and let the sound of his heartbeat, steady and slow, drown out the last of the noise in my head.

Somewhere between the sound of the heater and the silence in the apartment, everything shifted. I couldn’t say when it happened, only that it did—a quiet pivot from comfort to heat, from sharing oxygen to wanting more of it, and all of it tangled up in the ache I’d been holding at bay for weeks.

Ford’s hand rested on my knee, not a question, not a demand, just there, grounding me. The last time someone touched me like this, it was to make a point. Now it just made my skin burn, in a good way.

He turned, just enough that I could see the sharp edge of his jaw. I could tell he was waiting for me to make the next move, and that was almost too much—like the power had passed from him to me in a single, unspoken agreement.

I put my hand over his, and the moment it happened, we both laughed a little, a nervous, exhale-laugh that might have been relief or just the absurdity of how easy it was.

“I really want to kiss you right now,” Ford said, low and rough.

The tension, the nerves, the years of second-guessing—all of it burned away with those words. “Okay,” I whispered. “Do it.”