The Sweetest Thing

Yes, this was true. Ford always knew exactly what he was doing.

“I was just startled to see you in here is all,” she said. “Given that we… that I-”

“Hate me,” he said mildly.

A knot formed in her throat and couldn’t be swallowed away. “I don’t hate you, Ford. I never hated you.”

He was quiet a moment, just watching her. The earlier spark in his eyes was gone. “They trusted me to do this for you,” he said simply. “Just as, once upon a time, you trusted me, too.” With that, he slid his earphones back in and dismissed her, going back to unpacking.

She stared at his broad shoulders, the stiff back, and realized she wasn’t the only one with some residual resentment issues. Something sank low in her gut at that, possibly a big serving of humble pie. Dammit. She was a lot of things, but a complete bitch wasn’t one of them. With a sigh, she came up behind him. “Ford.”

Not answering, he opened another cabinet and studied the space.

Ducking beneath his outstretched arms, she stepped in between him and the counter and turned to face him.

He looked down at her, and she found herself holding her breath. Unintentional as it’d been, now she was standing within the circle of his arms, and more memories slammed into her.

Good, warm, fun, sexy memories…

Even with the wedged heels that Boyd had resented, she only came up to Ford’s chin. When he’d been seventeen, he’d been this tall, but he’d been much rangier from not having enough to eat, and also from working two, sometimes three jobs in a day. That had been before he’d gotten onto the sailing circuit and made a decent living in endorsements. Though looking at him now, one would never know money was no longer an issue. The man might drive her crazy, but he didn’t have a pretentious bone in his perfect body.

And the body… goodness. He’d filled it out, with solid muscle and a double dose of testosterone. There was also a level of confidence, an air that said he’d listen to whatever anyone had to say but that he wouldn’t necessarily give two shits about it. She met his gaze and drew a shaky breath.

He didn’t move. His eyes were dark and unfathomable, his body relaxed and at ease. He was waiting for her to speak, or maybe, better yet, to go away. “Thank you for doing this,” she said.

“You’re welcome.” His voice was lower now, and slightly rough as well, leaving her with the oddest and most inexplicable urge to reach up and put her hand on his face to soothe him.

She’d done that for him, once upon a time. She’d been there to listen, to ease his aches, to touch him when he needed.

He’d done the same for her.

They’d healed each other.

And now there was a huge gaping hole between them, and she had no idea how to cross it.

Or if she even wanted to.

No, that was a lie. A part of her wanted to cross it. Badly. But before she could go there, he turned away, going back to stocking her cabinets. Which he was doing simply because her sisters had asked him.

They couldn’t have found anyone better equipped for the job. Ford had always cooked. Hell, he ran a bar and grill for fun. He, better than anyone else she knew, understood what a kitchen needed and how it should be organized. She watched as he picked up a twenty-pound bag of flour as if it were nothing and set it on the counter to open it.

He had her pretty flour container next to it, ready to be filled, and she moved in. “Here, let me.”

“I’ve got it.”

“I’m here, Ford. You might as well make the best of it. I’m not going to just stand around and watch you do all the work.”

When he didn’t stop his movements, she gave him a little hip nudge and reached for the bag.

“Fine.” Raising his hands in surrender, he backed up, just as she ripped the bag open with slightly too much force. Flour exploded out of the bag. After a few stunned beats, she blinked rapidly to clear her eyes, and looked at herself. Covered in flour. She lifted her head and eyed Ford, who was wisely fighting his smile. “You did this on purpose,” she said.

“No, that was all you.”

She attempted to shake herself off. “Better?”

He ran a hand over his mouth, probably to hide his smile. “Yes.”

“You’re lying,” she said, eyes narrowed.

“Yes.”

Okay, that was it. She stalked toward him.

Laughing out loud now, Ford straightened. “Whatever you’re planning to do,” he warned. “Don’t.”

“Oh, Sugar.” Didn’t he know better than to tell her what to do by now? “Watch me.” She backed him up against the counter and held him there-plastering herself to him from chest to belly to thigh… and everything in between-on a one-woman mission to cover him in flour, too. “Gotcha,” she said triumphantly as she rubbed up against him. “Now you’re just as big a mess as me.”

His hands were at her hips. “Is that right?” His voice sounded different now. Lower. Rough as sandpaper.

And heat slashed right through her. “Uh-huh.” She bit her lip, realizing that her voice was different, too, and that she was staring at his mouth.

And then she realized something else. She wasn’t breathing.

He wasn’t, either.

Of their own accord, her hands slid up his chest, wrapped around his neck, and then… oh God, and then.

Ford said her name on a rough exhale. Holding her against the hard planes of his body, his eyes filled with a quiet intensity, he lowered his head. “Stop me if you’re going to,” he said in quiet demand, all humor gone.

Tara sucked in some air, but didn’t stop him. Not when his lips came down on hers, and not when he kissed her until she couldn’t remember her own name.

Chapter 7

“Accept that some days you’re the bug, and some days you’re going to be the windshield.”

TARA DANIELS

Dazed, Ford tightened his grip on Tara, hearing the groan that her kiss wrenched from deep in his throat. She was kissing him. He couldn’t have been more surprised if she’d hauled off and decked him. But having her push him up against the counter and kiss him hard like she was… oh, yeah. Way better than anything that had happened all day.

All damn year.

Ah, hell. Clearly she’d finally done it, she’d driven him bat-shit crazy, but she felt so good against him. Warm and soft, willing. Amazing.

And aggressive.

Christ, there was nothing more irresistible than Tara on a mission. And that he was that mission made it even better.

She pulled back slightly and he smiled. “Was that supposed to be punishment?”

“Yes.” Her fingers curled into his shirt. “So be quiet and take it like a man.”

Ford was still smiling when she kissed him this time, but the amusement faded fast, replaced by a blinding, all-consuming need.

All too soon, she pulled back again, eyes dark, mouth wet from his. “Is there anyone in your bed?” she asked, her voice low and extremely southern.

He loved the way her accent thickened when she felt something particularly deeply. “No,” he said. “There’s no one in my bed.” Except for her, hopefully. Soon. Because this was waaay better than pushing each other’s