It’s been a long time since a man did something just to be kind.
Since someone looked at me without wanting something in return.
And maybe that scares me.
Maybe I don’t know how to trust it yet.
But still, some quiet part of me hopes it didn’t mean nothing.
16
Stormy
Missy drives us to the ranch house in a truck that doesn’t match her. Even after a night of alcohol, she’s effortlessly put together, while the truck, well … it's seen better days. The white paint is peeling, rust creeping in at the edges, and the interior shows its age. It’s the kind of vehicle that looks like it’s been in a lifetime of stories. I glace at her and then at the jumble of loose wires sticking out of the dash and the tears in the upholstery and wonder how the two exist in the same story.
Missy, however, couldn’t care less.
"It gets me where I need to be," she said with a shrug when we got in. "I’m not into trucks or looking good while driving. As long as it runs, that’s all I need."
She pulls up in front of the house, and I follow her to the door. The moment she swings it open, I’m hit with the most incredible smell; home cooking, warm and rich, filling the air like a welcome hug. I don’t know what’s on the menu, but if it tastes half as good as it smells, I already know I’m going to love it.
We both toe off our shoes, leaving them neatly beneath the coat rack.
"Mom, I’m home," Missy calls out, and within seconds, Grace comes down the hallway, a tea towel clutched in her hands. She’s rosy cheeked, wiping at her palms as if she’s in the middle of preparing something important. She looks towards me with a welcoming smile.
Missy grins and pulls me forward.
"I brought Stormy for lunch!"
Grace’s face brightens immediately.
"Oh, that’s lovely!"
I clear my throat, suddenly feeling unsure.
"I hope it’s okay? I don’t want to impose."
"Of course it’s okay," Grace says, waving off my hesitation with an easy confidence. "Happy to have you. The more, the merrier!"
And then she turns towards the kitchen, gesturing for us to follow. "Come join us," she says casually disappearing down the hall.
As I trail behind her, my gaze drifts toward the lounge area, where Jensen and a younger girl are perched on the sofas, deep in conversation. Jensen catches sight of me and waves, while the girl offers me a polite smile. I return it, but my attention shifts abruptly when Missy, beside me, lets out a loud, disgusted, “Eww.”
My eyes snap to where she’s looking, and … oh my god.
Ford.
Standing right there in front of us.
In nothing but his jeans.
My breath catches, knees threatening to give way as my gaze locks onto him. The solid ridges of muscle stretch across his tanned chest and stomach, every defined contour impossibly sharp. And then, oh no, my eyes trail lower. His jeans … they’re unbuttoned.
Stop looking. Eyes up, Stormy. Eyes up.
It takes effort, actual physical effort, to tear my gaze away from the spectacle, and when I finally manage it, I notice his wet curls hanging messily, dripping water onto his forehead. A white towel dangles from his hand, but his eyes, dark, steady, are locked on me.
"Oh."
