“Yeah. I guess,” I say flatly—almost dismissively—before reaching for my drink again, the cold bottle a poor substitute for the control I’m trying to reclaim.
I’m not going to want her. I refuse to.
But deep down, I know … wanting has never been a choice.
So, I’ll make it one.
I’ll keep my distance. I’ll stay busy, stay quiet, and stay out of her way. Because if I let myself notice, really notice … I won’t be able to stop. And I can’t afford that. Not again. Because whatever this is, whatever she is, it can’t be anything to me.
"Can you take her to the cottage? Show her around?"
Mom barely looks at me as she asks.
The words hit like a dull thud of inevitability, and I exhale. The sound is slow, measured—bordering on exasperated. I shift my stance again, searching for a way out, any excuse, any reason. "I’ve got things to do."
She raises a brow.
"Like what?"
I hesitate.
"Important things."
A pause.
"Name one."
I open my mouth. Close it. Scowl.
She smiles, victorious, before turning back to Stormy.
I shoot a glance towards her … towards the woman who has already made herself too comfortable in the space, too effortlessly present. She’s staring out of the windows, watching as the sun sinks serenely behind the mountains, unaware of the battle unfolding in my mind.
Avoidance? Great start, Ford.
Breathing heavily, Stormy drags her suitcases across the gravel toward my truck. I watch her for a beat, then sigh. Just what I needed. An entire production over two bags.
“You need help with those?” I ask, out of necessity more than choice.
She offers a polite smile, though it doesn’t quite hide the strain in her voice.
“No thanks, I can manage.”
I let out a quiet laugh, more to myself than her.
“Sure thing, Sunshine.”
She scowls but keeps tugging the suitcases behind her like she’s got something to prove.
It’s uncomfortable to watch. Not because she’s struggling, because I’m tempted to step in.
When we reach the truck, I pop the trunk and step aside, letting her load them herself. If she’s set on doing it alone, I won’t argue.
She glances at me, clearly annoyed, but doesn’t ask for help. Just slides down the handles and, with a grunt, hoists the bags inside, awkward, but determined. Once her luggage is loaded, she straightens, looking ridiculously proud of herself and then her mouth curves into a knowing grin as her eyes flick over my face. “You’ve got flour on your face. Did you know that?”
She points to the speck on my cheek before stalking off like she’s just won a victory.
I frown, rubbing at my cheek—the one my mom had rested her hand on just before Stormy arrived. Heat prickles at the back of my neck as I glance down at my palm to look at where the flour dusts my skin.
