She worked at it, laughed through it, made a mess, and made something that’s hers.
Sure, I could probably smooth it out, tidy the edges, and make it look more professional. But the truth is, I don’t want to.
I glance over and catch Stormy studying the wall. Her eyes are soft with quiet pride. She’s still flushed from laughing and working, but the way she looks at what she made lights something up inside me. She’s proud, and that makes me proud. So no, I won’t fix it. I won’t change a thing. Because in this moment, it is perfect. Stormy leans her head on my shoulder, her smile gentle and fond.
After a beat, I glance down at her, brow furrowed, my thoughts replaying every moment I’ve spent around her. One word keeps surfacing, something Missy and Stormy have tossed around more than once. I know it’s book-related, obviously, but I’m completely clueless.
“What’s ‘Bookstagram,’ by the way?” I ask.
She pulls back slightly, amusement dancing in her eyes as she looks up at me.
“Wait, you’ve never heard of Bookstagram?”
“Nope. Is it like Tinder, but for people who read?”
She laughs.
“No, although that would be a great idea. It’s the book community on Instagram. People post about what they’re reading, review books, and share recommendations. It’s amazing. You can talk freely and openly about stories that matter to you. You make friends and it brings people together.”
I nod slowly. “So … it’s like a book club, but with hashtags?”
“Exactly,” she says, eyes bright. “That’s the kind of thing I want for this shop. Not just a place to sell indie authors’ books, but a space where people connect. Where stories bring people together. Where someone can walk in and feel seen.”
I look around at the half-renovated space, the patched walls, and the stacks of books waiting to be shelved.
“Books were my escape,” she says softly. “When things were bad at home, when my dad was … when I needed somewhere to disappear, I’d hide with a book. It was the only time I felt safe. Like I could breathe.”
I don’t speak. Just let her keep going.
“And later, with Sam, when I felt like I was vanishing, books reminded me I still existed. That I mattered. That there were worlds where people were kind … where girls like me got to be strong and loved and free.”
She looks back at me.
“That’s why I want this shop to be more than just shelves and sales. I want it to be a refuge. A place where someone can walk in and find a story that makes them feel less alone.”
I reach for her hand, threading my fingers through hers.
“You’re building that,” I say. “Not just for them. For you too.”
Her smile wobbles, then steadies.
“Yeah. I think I am.”
I think back to the months since Stormy showed up. I kept my distance, didn’t want her here, didn’t want the mess she stirred up. Thought it’d be easier if she just left. But she didn’t. She stayed. Worked. Built something out of nothing. And now, sitting in this half-finished shop, hearing what it means to her … it hits me.
She’s poured herself into this place. Every patched wall, every stacked book, it’s her. Her strength. Her heart.
She’s amazing. Strong in ways most people never learn to be. Kind, even when the world hasn’t been kind back. Sweet, stubborn, and beautiful inside and out.
After everything she’s been through, she still shows up. Still tries.
She deserves to be treated right. And I’m going to be the one who does that. No more screwing things up. No more keeping people at arm’s length. Stormy’s a priority now.
And I’ll make damn sure she knows it.
52
Ford
