My jaw drops, backtracking on what she’d said.
“Wait … Ford liked the Spice Girls?”
“Oh, yeah. We were obsessed as kids. But it gets better.”
I lean in so far that I’m practically hanging off my stool, hungry for whatever bombshell she’s about to drop.
“We used to choreograph routines in the lounge. He’d raid my closet to pick the perfect outfit. I’d be Posh or Sporty Spice, and he was always Scary. That boy loved leopard print like his life depended on it.”
I snort into my hand, already wheezing.
“Oh, we’re not done,” Missy continues, biting her lip to hold back a laugh. “He even smudged on a little of my mom’s eyeliner once. Said it gave him more stage presence.”
Laughter explodes out of me before I can stop it, nearly sending me off the edge of my stool. “Oh my God. I am never, never, going to be able to look at him again without picturing that.”
“Good,” she says, sipping her Cosmo with exaggerated innocence. “Just don’t tell him I told you.”
We both burst into roaring laughter, the kind that makes your stomach ache and your drink slosh dangerously close to the rim. I’m still wiping a tear from the corner of my eye when a voice cuts through the hum of the bar.
“You two look like you’re having fun.”
We both turn, still giggling as we face the interruption.
A man stands behind us, watching with an easy, lopsided grin. Auburn hair, bright eyes. Handsome, but not in a rugged way. It’s the kind of handsome that’s curated by good skincare and a well-used mirror. He’s tall, but not towering, athletic in that effortlessly confident way.
A white button-down shirt hangs loose on his frame, the top buttons left undone, revealing just enough skin to make it intentional. The shirt is tucked neatly into dark jeans, cinched with a leather belt. And of course … boots. His eyes roam over me, lingering. Assessing.
“Oh. Hi, Will,” Missy says flatly, barely sparing him a glance before turning to order us new drinks. Her words are clearly dismissive and uninterested—like he’s not worth the effort.
But his grin doesn’t falter. His eyes drag down my body, like he’s cataloguing something. He wants me to know he’s doing it.
Then he leans in just enough to make it personal.
“Well, aren’t you a pretty little surprise.”
12
Ford
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Jensen demands, brows drawn together as I rip the beer from his hand, needing something, anything, to drown the feeling clawing at my chest. I tip the glass back, taking long gulps, nearly draining half before Jensen’s hands shoot out, attempting to pull it away.
“Hey, man, that’s my beer.”
“I’ll buy you another,” I mutter, taking one last swig before setting it down, more calmly than I feel inside. My forearm wipes across my mouth as I throw myself back into the chair, defeated.
Jensen watches me like I’ve lost my mind.
The air feels suddenly too thin, my shirt too tight, the fabric pulling against my chest. I struggle to shake the feeling, to gather myself. Because when my eyes landed on her at the door, my stomach flipped. It actually flipped. That reaction makes me all kinds of furious. But also ... That feeling. I haven’t felt it in years. And I can’t decide if it’s welcome or not. I’ve been telling myself it’s not.
“Earth to Ford.” Jensen’s voice drags me back, yanking me out of my thoughts. “You still haven’t told me who that is with your sister,” he says, pointing toward the bar.
I tap my thumb against the table, forcing indifference into my voice.
“Oh her? Yeah … she’s just the new tenant at the cottage.”
I pull my phone from my pocket and begin carelessly scrolling through my social media feed, aimless and unfocused. Anything. Anything to keep myself from glancing over at Stormy again.
Jensen’s face twists in confusion, trying to figure me out.
