Mortification hits me like a punch to the gut.
“Missy,” I mutter, dragging a hand over my face. “I’m going to kill that girl.”
Stormy bursts out laughing with her head tilted back and her eyes shining.
“She might have mentioned something about a certain boy who used to belt out Spice Girls in his bedroom.”
I groan, but I’m smiling too.
“I was eight. It was a phase.”
“Sure it was,” she teases, eyes dancing. “You still know all the words, don’t you?”
I glance at the road, then at her, then back again.
“No comment.”
She nudges my arm playfully.
“Come on, Ford. You can sing along if you want to …”
I shake my head, laughing.
“You’re lucky you’re cute.”
But the truth is, I wouldn’t trade this moment for anything.
Not the music. Not the teasing. Not even the embarrassment.
Because this here—with her beside me—is exactly where I want to be.
42
Stormy
The sun’s dipping lower now, casting everything in that golden, dreamy light that makes the world feel softer. The music’s still playing ridiculously catchy pop songs that I forced on Ford, but he hasn’t complained. Not really. Just smiled that quiet, amused smile of his—the one that makes my chest feel too full.
He said he doesn’t know this music, but I’m not convinced. I keep catching the tap of his thumb against the steering wheel, subtle and rhythmic. And I’m almost certain I saw him mouthing a few lyrics when he thought I wasn’t looking. It makes me laugh to myself. When I think back to that grumpy rancher I met on my first day here … now look at him. Look at us. On a date.
On our way to a surprise that he planned for me.
I don’t think anyone’s ever done that for me before. Not like this, anyway. And now, we’re pulling into a town I don’t recognise.
I sit up a little straighter, heart fluttering in my chest, and I glance at him, trying to read his face, but he’s focused on the road, calm and unreadable in that maddening Ford way.
The truck slows, then pulls into a small gravel lot outside a shop.
A shop?
“Well, here we are,” he says, throwing the truck into park.
I take it all in, looking out the window. It’s … a grocery store? A small one. The kind with faded signage and a hand-painted chalkboard out front advertising fresh bread and local honey. The windows are fogged slightly from the inside, and there’s a rack of potted herbs by the door. It looks ordinary. Quiet. Nothing flashy.
I glance back at Buddy, who’s perked up in the back seat, tongue lolling.
“What’s going on?” I whisper.
He gives me a dog version of a shrug—head tilt, soft huff, tail thump.
