As she steps out of the truck, her gaze drifts towards the back of the barn, landing on my acoustic guitar leaning against the wall.
“You play?” she asks, tilting her head.
I glance at it, debating for a second before giving a small shrug. “Sometimes.”
Her eyes linger on me, waiting for more. For some reason, I give it to her.
“When things get a little … too much,” I admit, scratching the back of my neck, “it helps to come in here and have a play. Clears my head.”
I don’t know why I just told her that. I don’t talk about this kind of thing. To anyone.
Stormy studies me like a puzzle, then gestures toward the guitar. “Can I have a go?”
I hesitate, just for a breath, before stepping over to pick it up.
21
Stormy
Ford holds the guitar out to me, a flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes. My fingers twitch, eager, but just as I reach, he pulls it back, just out of grasp. A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. His gaze sharpens, assessing.
“Ever played?” His eyebrow arches, as if already predicting my answer.
I shake my head, but flash what I think is a convincing grin “I haven’t, but surely it can’t be that hard, right?”
His laugh comes easily, warm and full-bodied. It settles between us, loosening something in the air, and I find myself smiling without thinking.
“Show me what you’ve got then, Sunshine,” he challenges, extending the guitar towards me again.
There’s that name again—Sunshine. And why do I suddenly like hearing it? The other times he said it, I’d hated it. But now … something feels different. More like a term of endearment than a nickname.
My cheeks heat as I take it, the wood cool and smooth under my fingers. But the moment I try to strum, the sound is all wrong, discordant,awkward. Ford sucks in a sharp breath, lips pressing together, and his shoulders shake slightly as he holds back laughter.
“Maybe it’s out of tune?” I joke, my voice a little too hopeful.
That’s all it takes. His laughter bursts free, rich, and unapologetic. It wraps around me, warm and addictive, and I laugh too.
It’s strange—nice even, to see this side of him. The softness, the laughter. It’s a far cry from the brooding silence he wore like armour when we first met. I wonder why he keeps it tucked away like a secret. Sure, Missy said he’s been through it, and I get that … but still. Moments like this, like yesterday, make me wonder how much more there is to him than just the rough edges.
“It’s not out of tune,” he says, still grinning. “Here, let me show you.”
He takes the guitar effortlessly, fingers moving with a quiet confidence, plucking out a melody. The notes roll out like water, settling into the space between us. His expression shifts, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes as the last note fades into silence.
“Okay,” I admit, exhaling in defeat. “Maybe not out of tune then.”
Ford huffs a soft laugh, and I reach forward, fingers brushing the strings with a featherlight touch, coaxing a soft whisper of notes. His eyes track the motion, then lift to meet mine.
“Can you teach me something?”
For a moment, he hesitates, the question hanging between us like a delicate thread. He shifts his weight and his throat bobs as he debates, then finally relents.
“Okay ...” he says, voice low, uncertain. He hands the guitar back, nodding toward the crate beside me. “Sit here.”
I ease onto it, pulling my phone from my back pocket and setting it beside us. Ford sets himself up behind me, close enough that I can feel the heat of him against my back. His fingers, rough, strong, capable, slide over mine, guiding and positioning them on the strings with quiet precision.
His masculine scent floats between us, and it fills my lungs as I inhale.
“I’m going to teach you something simple: part of a song called Smoke on the Water” he says, voice a little lower, closer.
