“The Deep Purple one?” I ask.
“That’s the one,” he tells me, nodding his head. “It’s easy. Even a kid could play it.”
I turn my face towards him, tilting my chin, brows raised. “Are you calling me a child?”
His lips pull into a smirk, his eyes settling on mine for just a second longer than necessary. Instead of answering, he leans forward, showing me the chords, his touch firm but careful guiding my hand up and down the neck of the guitar, showing me where to add pressure with my fingers.
His presence presses against my senses, and the moment is warm and pleasant.
After he’s shown me a few times, he circles around, standing in front of me.
“Now play it without my help.”
I try, stumbling through the melody, fingers stiff, movements unsure. He watches me closely.
Then, slowly, he crouches, hands reaching to adjust mine again.
I glance at his face. His usual gruffness is softer now, his edges smooth, and his expression tender. Something I wouldn’t have noticed if we weren’t this close.
Ford lifts his eyes, and his brows furrow slightly.
“What is it?” I ask, uncertainty creeping in.
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, his hand lifts slowly. The rough pad of his thumb brushes along my cheekbone, featherlight, drawing warmth in its wake with a slow drag of heat.
“There’s flour on your face,” he murmurs, voice quieter now. His hand remains, his fingers resting against the skin on the back of my neck, his touch unexpectedly gentle.
A quiet laugh slips past my lips before I even realise, because I remember. The first time we met, I had pointed out the flour smudged across his face. It’s a thread that ties now to then.
His thumb drags away reluctantly, and our faces are suddenly too close, breaths shallow.
My stomach flutters as his eyes flick downward, to my lips, tension swirling between us. The heat of his eyes on my mouth is like static, all charged anticipation, and I tug at my bottom lip with my teeth before I even think.
A small, low sound slips from the back of his throat.
The rest of the world softens and blurs. All I can hear is the rush in my ears, the echo of my pulse … and the cool touch of the guitar still in my hands.
I shouldn’t want this, I know I shouldn’t.
But my eyes drop to his mouth anyway; soft and parted. The moment stretches, uncertain but electric. The smallest shift and we’d dissolve the space between us. Our lips would collide.
Then, my phone buzzes.
The sharp vibration cuts through everything. The surface ripples, then breaks, and I gasp like I’ve just come up for air.
Ford’s gaze snaps to the screen, the soft glow casting shadows across his face. And suddenly, everything shifts. The warmth evaporates. His features lock down, hardening into something unreadable.
I glance at my phone, a text from Sam.
Sam: Stormy, I love you ...
Anxiety clenches my stomach, tight and sudden. My fingers spasm with uncertainty before I grab the phone and delete the message. It feels like the air’s been yanked from my lungs. Just seeing his name, another message, sets my nerves alight.
Ford doesn’t move at first. He just stares at the space where my phone had been. His brow furrowing, jaw ticking like he’s trying to make sense of something that doesn’t quite add up. Then he pushes to his feet, abrupt, his movements clipped.
He clears his throat.
“I’d better get on with work.”
