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CHAPTER TWELVE

JULIET

I’ve had many awkward cleanings in my line of work. The ones where men are a little too enthusiastic about seeing boobs. Or the ones where they ask a million questions, thinking they are going to be the ones to make you see the errors of your ways and realize you can do so much better than cleaning topless.

This one, though…this one is by far the most awkward.

Ford doesn’t watch me. Not that I expect him to. It’s not like I’m topless and bending over to organize his piles of Dungeons and Dragons sourcebooks. But he doesn’t even look up from where he’s currently standing at the kitchen island, over beating the poor eggs he just cracked. I might as well be in another universe entirely with the way he’s avoided me from the moment I stepped into the room.

Unlike him, I can’t stop myself from sneaking a look at him every chance I get.

He’s an anomaly. Everything he shouldn’t be. The revelation has sparked a never-ending battle between guilt and hope. I’m not even sure why I feel guilty anymore. Is it because my presence here, in his apartment, is a clear betrayal of my husband, who hated him? Even though the reasons for his ire have more holes than a piece of cheesecloth. Or maybe because I never thought to question if everything Tyler told me was true.

That thought strikes an invisible chord that reverberates the ugly truth of how complicit I was in the making of my situation. Not that I knew it at the time. But hindsight being what it is, I could have done more to stand up for myself.

What I still don’t understand is why, despite everything,Ford is helping me.

Lower lip caught between his teeth, Ford concentrates on the gluten-free quiche recipe, oblivious to the fact it’s going to be a rubbery mess thanks to all the protein molecules he’s destabilizing in the eggs by over whipping them. I have to admit, it’s almost endearing to watch him try, though. It’s more than Tyler ever did.

The stray thought echoes in my mind. I’m not sure when I started actively comparing the two brothers. Maybe it was when he paid the debt he had no business paying. Or maybe when he took the time to look up how my autoimmune disease affects my everyday life. One thing is for certain: They are not the same.

After another minute of his mindless beating, my little chef heart can’t stop itself from intervening. “You’re going to ruin the eggs.”

Ford lifts his chin and glances up through his thick lashes. “Hmm?”

“The eggs,” I explain. “If you keep beating them like that, they’ll be tough when they cook.”

“Oh, shit.” He drops the fork. It misses the side of the bowl and clatters to the counter. A few choice curses follow as Ford grabs a paper towel and frantically cleans the mess.

“Here. Let me.” I abandon the stack of books I’ve just organized andjoin him at the kitchen island. Taking the bowl of eggs, I dump it into the sink and pull six fresh eggs from the open carton.

Ford steps back, allowing me the space to work. “I’m pretty sure I’m the one that promised you breakfast.”

“Considering I haven’t had a home cooked meal like this in months, I’m happy to help make sure it’s edible.” That is, if you don’t count the takeout and ready-to-heat meals he sent to my apartment.

I absolutely don’t. Home-cooked meals come from taking single ingredients, combining them with heart, and creating something that feeds the soul.

God, it’s been so long since I’ve even considered the space food once held for me. It’s so different now that my diet is restricted. The meals that once inspired my love of cooking are things that now would leave me rotting in bed for days, unable to move.

Ford chuckles, not privy to my inner revelations. His eyes capture my every move. Cracking the eggs. Whisking them gently. Gradually adding the heavy cream.

“Did you learn to cook from your dad at the restaurant?” he asks.

“The basics, yes. But how to expertly whip an egg?” I ask, gesturing toward the bowl. “That I learned at culinary school.”

“You actually went?”

I snap my gaze over my shoulder, brows raised. “You sound surprised.”

“I vaguely remember you mentioning to Mrs. Chari that you loved chemistry because it was like cooking and that someday you wanted to become a chef.” His eyes soften, carrying what I can only describe as a hint of awe and pride beneath the surface. “I just didn’t know you actually followed through with going to school.”

My eyes widen. The memory feels like a lifetime ago. I completely forgot Ford and I shared a chemistry class my sophomore, his senior year. I was the youngest one in the class, having decided to switch from homeschooling to public school since neither of my parents was adept in the maths and sciences I wanted to take, and they didn’t like the idea of me taking it at the nearest community college.

It was my favorite class. Chemistry just made sense to me. The building of molecules is so similar to blending food within recipes. Stripping down flavors and elements to make something beautiful.

An easy smile splits my lips. It’s been so long since I’ve allowed myself to think about all that time. Life was so simple then—just dreams and possibility.

It breaks my heart that reality beat them out of me.

My gaze falls, taking with it the joy of those memories. There’s a part of me that recognizes the genuine curiosity in Ford questions, but a much larger part of me demands I protect myself from it.

“Maybe if you didn’t disappear on us, you would have known.” My words come out harsher than I intend, and Ford flinches like I’ve struck him.

“I—why do you do that?”

“What?” I feign ignorance, grabbing the meat and veggies out of the fridge to distance myself.

But Ford doesn’t grant me any reprieve.

“Every time I show an interest in you, in your life, you pick a fight.”

He’s right. But I can’t help it. Every time Tyler took an interest in me, it was only so he could use it against me later. For so many years, I believed it was because he loved me. Until the patterns became clear. Then it was a choice not to see them.

But I can’t tell Ford any of that. I won’t. Because admitting it beyond the confines of my mind makes it real. And I’m trying to move forward. Not dwell on the past. At least that’s what I’ve been telling myself.

So, I come up with the simplest lie to tell him. “Because I don’t trust you.”

God, it tastes bitter. I’m a horrible person. He’s done nothing but help me. And yet I can’t bring myself to let my damn walls down, even for him.

“Which I understand. And you can walk away right now if you want, but I’m trying here, Juliet.” He steps back. Leaning against the opposite counter, he runs a hand through his thick hair. “You are the only family I have left. I know we’re not blood. We’re not even friends. But I don’t want to fight with you.”

Family.

I thought he was kidding when he mentioned it before, but by the way his unnervingly genuine blue eyes glisten, I can tell he means it. Ford is standing here, with his heart on his sleeve, offering me the one thing I didn’t realize I’ve been so desperately missing.

It’s true, he might not be my blood, and he definitely isn’t someone I fully trust, but something deep within me snaps. My walls break, and even though it’s faint, my heart finds a way to whisper the truths I’ve kept inside for so long.

“I attended culinary school when Tyler was in the minors, then worked as a line cook to help make ends meet.” I reach for the cutting board and the spinach to top the quiche with, needing to keep my hands busy.

Ford shakes his head and scoffs. “I’ve always thought they should be paid more. Those guys are the future of most franchises.”

“Unfortunately, the powers at be don’t see it that way.” I think back to our first apartment in North Carolina. “We struggled every month until Tyler was called up to the majors.”

“Is that why you stopped cooking?”

“The wife of a star athlete doesn’t work.” The mimicked tone rolls off my tongue before I can stop myself. The knife in my hand clatters to the counter, and I inhale a sharp breath, waiting for Ford to berate me for my actions.

But he doesn’t.

He’s not Tyler.

“Well, that’s bullshit.” He huffs as he steps up to the island and grabs another cutting board to start chopping the bacon.

When I don’t respond immediately, Ford swings his over observant gaze in my direction. “Wait, is that what Tyler told you?”

I don’t know how to respond. I don’t want to further ruin his image of his brother, but I also feel the weight of my past with Tyler pressing down on my chest. As much as I want to move forward, it’s always there and with each day that passes, it demands I take notice. Until now, it’s been easy to focus on untangling the strings he tied me in.

Now I just want to be free.

“Juliet.” His tone is kind, but demanding. “Is that what he told you?”

My chin hits my chest. “Yes.”

“Damn it.”

“But—”

“No, don’t try to justify his actions.”

“I was still the one who quit working.” I hate that I’m even defending him, but Ford wasn’t there. He didn’t have to live with the cold shoulder turned isolation when I tried to plead my case. He didn’t come home to harsh stares or have to sleep on the couch because the bedroom door was locked.

“He made you believe that. After he—” Ford’s eyes harden under furrowed brows, holding back his thoughts. It’s clear he’s been talking to his teammates. Or rather the one teammate that would know anything about Tyler.

“After he what?” A maniacal laugh bubbles from my chest, and it’s at this moment I know I’ve truly cracked. “Cheated on me? Left me in debt? Made me believe I was the problem?”

Ford’s lips part, and he nearly drops his own knife. “You knew.”

“Not at first.

He sets his knife down and turns, leveling with me. “But you stayed.”

It’s not a question.

“I did. For too long.” Admitting it frees a chunk of the weight from my chest, and I feel indescribably light on my feet. “This is weird, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?” Concern plagues his face, and rightly so. I might be on the verge of a nervous breakdown. At this point, I’m no longer sure, but I’m on a roll and I’m not about to stop now.

I gesture between our chests. “Us being here. You, the white knight. Me, some form of tortured princess. And yet, Tyler is still the King who holds all the strings—tangled up secrets between us, so neither of us wins. Aren’t you tired of being his puppet?”

Maybe it’s relief, or maybe it’s understanding that has the corner of Ford’s lip tipping upward, revealing a mischievous dimple I didn’t know he had. “So, what do we do to stop the prick from winning?”

What I’ve been needing to do for far too long.

“We lay him to rest.”