His presence alone surprises me, as I haven’t seen him around since I got the keys to the bookshop.
The horse fusses over me, licking my ear and tugging at my hair with its teeth. I laugh, trying to push it away, but it’s too big for my efforts to make much difference.
Ford’s face softens as he watches our interaction.
"Leave her be, Raven," he tells the horse, tugging lightly on the reins to guide her back.
"Oh, I love the name," I say, turning back to the horse, running my hand gently along her cheek.
"And I really don’t mind you fussing over me. Makes me feel special," I tell her, my voice light with amusement.
"Thanks," he says, his gruff tone sending an unexpected shiver down my spine. "Don’t know what her name was before she got here, but she seems to like it."
For a fleeting moment, the conversation feels … easy. Then, almost as if catching himself, he morphs his face back into its usual indifference.
"Missy said you need a truck," he says.
I nod, unsure where this is going.
"I've got one I've been working on. It'll run. You can take it.” He pauses for a moment before continuing “... if you want?"
I blink, caught off guard by the offer. Why would he do something like this for me? Jensen had been adamant Ford was into me, kept saying it like it was obvious, but the way he’s kept his distance, the way he doubted my bookshop, made me believe otherwise. Suspicion lingers, but the need for a car outweighs it. After a pause, I finally nod.
"That would be really great. Thanks."
He shrugs as if it’s no big deal. Our eyes connect, and Ford opens his mouth as if to say something, but a wet drop lands sharply on his cheekbone, cutting him off. He pauses, touching the wet patch just as I feel adrop land on my nose. We both glance up at the sky, realising too late that dark clouds have been gathering above us.
Within moments, the heavens break open, unleashing a torrential downpour. Rain crashes down, soaking through my dress, turning the fabric heavy against my skin. My hair clings in damp strands to my face and neck as I lift my hands, watching the droplets bounce off my palms. A smile tugs at my lips, despite the chaos, there’s something refreshing about it, something freeing.
I turn back to Ford. He sits there, unmoving, rain streaking over his face, tracing a path through the scruff on his jaw, dripping down his neck. I notice a quiet smile playing at his lips, so small, so fleeting, but undeniably real. My stomach flips as my gaze locks onto his, catching the softness there, the depth. A look that says so much without saying anything at all.
“My books!” I gasp, sudden panic flooding my chest. I scramble for them beneath the tree, but to my relief, the thick canopy has shielded them from the worst of the rain. I sigh, clutching them to my chest.
Ford shifts in the saddle searching his saddle bag before jumping down, moving toward the fence with effortless ease. Without a word, he hops over it, landing beside me and holds out a bag.
“Here,” he mutters. “It’s waterproof.”
I take it, blinking in surprise as he rubs the back of his neck, looking as though he wants to say something else but isn’t sure how.
Finally, he exhales.
“You can ride back with me.”
He looks up, scanning the storm. “Doesn’t look like the rain’s stopping anytime soon. Hate these sudden summer downpours.”
The words are offered carelessly, like it doesn’t really matter to him whether I accept or not. But the hesitancy in his posture, the way his fingers twitch slightly at his side, tells me otherwise.
I hesitate. The day is still warm, but I don’t want to risk catching a cold with everything I need to get done. Slowly, I nod. “Okay.”
I pause at the edge of the fence, and Ford reaches for my hand, his grip steady but gentle as he guides me up and over the fence with practised ease. His other hand hovers near my elbow, not quite touching, but close enough to catch me if I slip. I land on the other side with a soft thud, and he follows, swinging over effortlessly.
He doesn’t say anything. Just stands beside me, close but not crowding, his presence solid in the downpour.
This Ford, this version of him that moves slow, that watches without judgment, that steadies me without making a show of it, I like him. The one who doesn’t need to be rough to feel strong.
I glance at him, wondering if he even realises how gentle he’s being. If he knows how much that matters. Maybe not. Maybe this is just instinct for him from years of being an older brother to two sisters. Quiet care is tucked beneath all that grit and guardedness.
But I feel it. And it’s enough.
