Page 9

9

FORD

M y steps are slow as I trudge up Gram’s porch, carrying the bag of food.

My muscles are tense, already bracing for whatever fresh hell she’s about to unleash.

I blow out a breath as I unlock the door and step inside. “Hey, Gram.”

She’s in the living room, the TV blaring while her knitting needles steadily move in her hands.

I nearly choke on a laugh when I see what’s on the screen.

The Golden Girls.

Jesus Christ. I just talked about this with Harper.

I turn to her with a smirk. “Didn’t this show end years ago?”

“I can stream it anytime.” She stares at me intently, critically assessing me.

I school my features because she sees too damn much.

She always has.

“How was your night?”

Her eyes drop to her knitting. “Didn’t get a blow job or laid tonight, huh?” She tsks, shaking her head. “You need to up your game, boy.”

“How do you know… I don’t need to ‘up’ anything.” I set the bag of food on the coffee table. “Harper and I are just?—”

“Don’t say it.” She holds up her hand, shaking her head. “I could tell by the look on your face you didn’t get sucked off or laid. You’d be happier.”

I splutter, staring at her in shock. “Gram!”

She continues like I didn’t speak. “I’d bet money you had a hard-on the whole time you were with her. You’re probably going to get blue balls.”

“Fuck. Can I go deaf? I don’t ever wanna hear you say blue balls again.”

“Course, I’m not looking. I’m your Gram. If you were Connor, that’d be a different story.”

“Gram! Jesus!” I slap a hand over my eyes, wishing for immediate unconsciousness.

She just smiles, still knitting like she’s not mentally scarring me for life. “What?” She shrugs. “I’m old, not dead. I’m not blind, either. The guy’s hot.”

A sly smirk curls her lip. “And Harper. Damn, boy, that woman’s got curves for days!”

I groan. “Jesus Christ!”

She points a knitting needle at me. “Stop taking the Lord’s name in vain.”

That’s what she’s worried about?

She was just talking about hard-ons and blue balls, for fuck’s sake.

She resumes knitting, still eying me. “Don’t deny it. Harper has curves for days.”

Can I go deaf?

Her gaze flicks to the TV before moving to me. “You’re not innocent, Ford. Far from it.”

Neither is she, but I’m not about to point that out.

She shakes her head. “You think I didn’t know you had your hands and mouth all over that girl every time I walked out of the room? You were crazy in love with her.”

I gape at her, so angry and stunned I’m speechless.

And annoyed as hell that she’s right.

Her gaze sharpens. “This could be your last chance to fix things with her. Once that house is sold, she won’t come back.”

Her words hit me like a ton of bricks square in the chest.

I wince before I can stop it.

“Uh-huh. There it is. I knew it. You’re still gone for her.”

And here comes the fucking torture.

She knits another row, completely unfazed. “And who could blame you? Harper is gorgeous, smart, thick?—”

“For the love of God?—"

“What? Is that offensive? In my day, the men called it ‘more cushion for the pushin.’ Same thing.”

“Can a fucking asteroid hit me right now? Just blast through the damn roof and take me out?”

She barks out a laugh, shaking her head. “You’re so dramatic, puck boy. Can’t handle a little truth, huh? The big city has gone and made you soft.”

I exhale sharply, annoyed by the conversation.

But she keeps going. “You still love her, Ford. You never got over her.”

Her words are a punch to the gut.

My chest locks up, breath sawing in and out.

“This is it. The moment of truth. Make it count.”

Make it count.

Her gaze softens, a faraway look in her eyes. “Isn’t that what Pap would say if he were here?”

Grief rises fast, wrapping around my ribs like barbed wire.

I picture Pap on the frozen lake behind this house, teaching me how to skate.

His weathered fingers handing me my first hockey stick.

His name is on the rink where I played in high school.

Hockey and Pap… they’re synonymous to me.

Gram gives me a watery smile. “Shoot your shot, center boy.”

Shoot your shot . Pap’s favorite saying.

Her fingers still. “A biscuit in the basket.”

I grin, my throat tight.

She’s channeling him now.

Giving me his words, his wisdom.

“Light the lamp,” I murmur.

She nods, her smile widening. “You’re making me miss my show, boy.” She winks. “Go on and sneak around the lake to Harper’s house like you used to.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “So you knew?”

“I always knew. So did Pap. But we kept quiet.” She levels me with a look. “You’re unstoppable when you want something.”

I lean over and kiss her cheek. “I’m gonna go get a shower.”

She squeezes my cheeks. “Go rub one off. I’ll be down here, watching my show.”

Who the hell taught her the expression “rub one off?”

“Can the damn floor swallow me now?” I pull back, my brows drawn in annoyance as I shake my head. But there’s a smile on my face. “Thanks, Gram.”

“Anytime, lucky seventeen.”

I walk away, feeling Pap’s ghostly presence permeating the house.

My jersey number is 17, which is also the day I was born.

Pap used to say seventeen was his lucky number.

Gram’s words echo in my ears as I head upstairs. “You’re unstoppable when you want something.”

She’s right.

And what I want now is the same thing I’ve always wanted.

Harper.

Now I just need to figure out how to get her.

I jolt awake to the shrill ringing of the landline.

My brain fogs.

Who the hell still has a landline?

I blink rapidly, trying to clear my vision.

Oh, right. Gram.

Her voice floats down the hall, but I can’t make out what she’s saying.

I rub my eyes and lean over, checking my phone.

Who the hell is calling at 2:08 in the morning?

I swing my legs over the bed just as Gram throws open my door. “Ford.” Her voice is tense. “It’s Harper. She sounds upset.”

Ice floods my veins.

I grab the phone from her hands.

“Harper. What’s wrong?”

A shaky breath fills the line. “S-Someone threw a rock through my window.”

Every hair on my body stands on end.

“What?” My voice is deadly.

Dangerous.

“T-There’s a note. It’s threatening.”

I’m already moving, grabbing my cell phone as I head to my closet.

“I’m coming over.” I pull up my contacts. “Give me your number. I’ll call you on my cell and talk to you until I get there.”

She releases a shaky exhale. “O-Okay.”

It’s not okay.

Not even close to fucking okay.

She rattles it off, her voice trembling.

I punch it into my phone. “I’ll call you right back.”

Hanging up Gram’s phone, I hand it to her while I grab a sweatshirt from my closet.

“I’ll be back,” I grit out, storming down the stairs.

I call Harper back as I shove my feet inside my shoes, adrenaline firing like a bullet through my veins.

I pretend not to hear the pure glee in Gram’s voice as it follows me to the door.

“Go get your girl.”

I don’t correct her.

Because she’s right.

Harper is mine.

Even if she doesn’t realize it yet.