“But when this girl contacted me, I just felt I had to help. I think she just needs somebody and somewhere to give her a break—a chance.”
I sigh, swipe my finger through the batter, and pop it into my mouth, savouring the rich chocolate and fighting to ignore Mom’s attempts at softening me.
"You’re too kind for your own good," I mumble through the gooey batter.
Mom whips around, catching me red-handed. She flicks a towel at me in warning, but I don’t miss the playful glint in her eye.
"Hey, hands off!" she scolds, but her smirk ruins any real sternness.
I scowl out of habit, desperately trying to keep my lips from curving up to match her own grin.
Mom’s always been soft … too soft and too giving. Losing Dad only made it worse. She channels all that grief into caring for others, as if keeping busy makes the loss hurt less. I know this, and yet, it still frustrates me. Because she’ll give and give until the candle is burnt at both ends, the bright flame snuffed out.
"I just don’t want you dealing with another headache, especially after the last disaster. You shouldn’t have to stress over this again."
“Oh, Ford,” she says, her voice mellowing as she moves to gently pat my cheek with a small, flour-dusted hand.
“For all your grumpiness, you really do have a soft side.” She winks and I jerk away, levelling her with a flat, unimpressed look.
“I’ll be fine,” she continues. “The girl seems lovely. and besides, you’re going to help me, aren’t you?”
Her tone is knowing, expectant. More of a fact than a request. I groan, letting my head drop back against the cabinets and giving in to my inevitable defeat.
Of course she was going to ask, and of course I was going to help. I always do. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.
"Fine," I mutter reluctantly, pushing my fingers through my hair. "I’ll help you, but …" I hold up a finger, making my stance clear. "… any issues, and she’s gone!"
Mom pats my arm, a warm smile playing on her lips.
“You grumble, but I know you’ll always do the right thing. You might be grumpy, but you’ve got a good heart.”
I open my mouth, to say something, but what, exactly? Not the truth, that’s for sure. Not that I’ve felt like a shadow of a person ever since Clara left and Dad passed. Not that I have a hard time believing I’m a good person. But before whatever meaningless excuse I can come up with has the chance to leave my lips, the doorbell chimes, cutting through the moment.
"Oh," Mom exclaims, momentarily flustered. "That’ll be her."
She glances down at her flour-dusted hands and messy apron, then looks back up at me with a sly smile tugging at her lips. "Get the door for me, will you? I need to clean myself up."
3
Stormy
Ihear heavy footsteps approach, then the soft creak of wood as the door begins to open.
“Hi,” I begin “I’m Stormy, I …” and then the sight renders me speechless.
Forest green eyes find mine.
A man stands before me. He’s tall and broad with tight muscles that ripple under a black t-shirt. His skin is sun-kissed, and tattoos climb up the side of his neck, bleeding out of the cuff of his top, across his entire arm, and onto his hand. Dark brown stubble covers his masculine jaw before it merges seamlessly into unruly wavy hair, as if careless hands have run through it repeatedly.
I’m blindsided. Like the unwritten words in the ink of a pen, I’m suspended in mid-air, waiting for the next part of the story to be written.
He doesn’t speak. Just watches. For a heartbeat, something shifts. His eyes lock onto mine, and the air between us thickens. There’s a flicker, like he’s been caught off guard, derailed by something he didn’t expect. His gazedrags over me, slow and unfiltered, and I see the way his breath hitches, the way his shoulders go rigid, like maybe I wasn’t supposed to walk through his door today. It’s not subtle. It’s raw. Then, like a door slamming shut, it’s gone. His jaw tightens, his expression hardens, and the moment vanishes behind a wall of indifference. Whatever it was, he buries it deep. A rush of heat floods my veins, and my pulse pounds as if desperate to break free.
“Ummm …”
I feel the heat crawling up my neck to my face. His jaw clenches, and his fist tightens just slightly at his side, a flicker in the edge of my vision.
He looks at me with confusion, his brow furrowing, creating deep lines in the space between his eyes.
