Swear (Landry Family #4)(4)

After working my way through college in Florida, waiting tables and cleaning office buildings, I worked in marketing at an online company for a few years. I paid my dues, strategized, saved, and made my way. And here we are.

The door chimes in the front and Violet looks at me with a furrowed brow. "You expecting someone?" she asks.

"Nope."

"Could be Mr. FU," she teases.

"Oh," I say with mock excitement. "Hold me back."

"You're such a jerk," she laughs. "I'll see who it is. I need to grab my water bottle anyway." She takes off through the doorway towards what will be the sales floor. Her footsteps trail off under the hip-hop music she has playing from her phone through the sound system.

It's a few minutes before I hear her clear her throat. Glancing up, she's standing at the doorway with a huge smile on her face. She wiggles her eyebrows. 

"What's that all about?" I laugh.

"I hope he has a brother," she giggles, walking towards me.

"Who?"

"The security guy. Holy hell, Ellie."

Tossing a checkered blouse back in a bin, I face her. "He's cute, I take it?"

"Cute? Ha! He's tall, but not dark, and so, so handsome. Like, so handsome," she exaggerates, one hand lying dramatically over her heart. "Did I mention he's wearing a suit? I just want to rip it off with my teeth-"

"Down girl," I laugh, shoving her playfully. "Are you going to show him around or what?"

"Do you seriously want to leave that to me? It could be an insurance liability before we ever even open our doors."

Laughing, I see her point. "I'm not sure what the end goal here is, really. I get we aren't in the ritzy part of town, but I'm not sold on the idea we need to pay for security."

"I'd pay for that."

"Violet!"

"Hey, a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do."

"Lord, help me," I mumble. "Okay. I'll show him around and then we can kindly tell him we don't need his services. Sound like a plan?"

"You are so not fun," she pouts.

"Hey, tell Mallory you need security at your house," I joke. "Have her send him to you there where you can really do business, if you get my drift."

She points at me. "You're a genius."

"It's been said." I glance down at my blouse, now a little worse for wear from moving boxes and cleaning shelves. "Do I look decent? I don't have dirt anywhere or cookie crumbs on my shirt, right?"

"No, but check between your boobs," she teases.

"He's not going to be seeing between my boobs."

"Not with that attitude."

Shaking my head, I leave the back room. As I enter the front, my feet stutter-step.

This only happens to me every once in a while, maybe twice a year now, when I'm in a crowded restaurant or a movie theater. Every time, when I think I smell his cologne, my breath catches in my throat. Without fail, I'm taken back to warm summer nights, cheap strawberry wine, and the sound of crickets chirping as the sun goes down. My heart flip-flops and I have to remind myself of the rest of that story to settle myself back down again.

I round a stack of boxes, a couple of cans of paint we're testing on the walls, and a few racks that need assembled. The mess distracts me, especially the swatch of paint on the far wall. It's more of a lime green than a mint one and I hate it. Making a mental note to talk to Vi about it, my head whips to the side and I see a large body standing near the front windows.

"Hi, I'm . . ." My voice drifts away, shoved aside by the sheer incredulity of the moment. "I . . ."

I've often wondered as I've taken a seat in that restaurant or movie theater what would happen if I turned around and the cologne was coming from Ford Landry. Now I know.

My hand trembles as it flies to my mouth as my brown eyes nearly bug out of my head. The organ inside my chest responsible for loving this man betrays the years of telling it I don't anymore. It throbs so wildly I think I'm going to pass out.

The man I haven't seen in so long that I almost convinced myself he never existed is here, in Halcyon, like he just wandered in off the street.

"Oh, my God," I stutter, reaching blindly for something to grab on to.

His head is down, pointed to the floor, as he crouches and examines a box of hats. The hard line of his jaw is angled to my benefit, the expanse of his shoulders and chest awe-worthy. He fills out the pricey black suit stretched over his body like it was made just for him.



       
         
       
        

His hair is lighter now and there are little lines he didn't used to have at his temple. He still carries the regal-ness that the Landry's are known for. Somehow, in all that, he's maintained the sense of approachability that I always loved about him.