Then I turn to Jensen.
“So … tell me what you know.”
25
Stormy
I’m wrapped up in a blanket, legs crossed on the sofa, laptop balanced on my knees, when there’s a knock at the door.
Missy maybe. She’s been coming around a lot lately to help, but I’m sure she said she had work today, so I hesitate before uncurling myself slowly and padding over to open it, the floor cool beneath my bare feet.
Ford stands there, a toolbox in his hand, his eyes steady but unsure. I blink at him, still clutching the blanket around my shoulders like it might shield me from whatever this is.
“Hey,” I say, voice thinner than I mean it to be. I’m confused.
Ford shifts the toolbox in his hand, eyes flicking past me into the room before settling back on my face.
“Yeah. Uh, hey.” He clears his throat. “Jensen said your sink’s acting up,” His voice is gentler than I expect. No edge, no grumble. Just … pleasant.
I’m thrown by the softness after the way he last spoke to me. “Oh, no, it’s fine … I can sort it myself.”
He shifts his weight.
“Just thought I’d lend a hand …” He pauses, like he’s debating whether to say more and then lifts the toolbox slightly, “I’ve … got the time. If you’ll let me.”
I hesitate. I’m not sure what this is. Is it some kind of peace offering? A guilt trip? Either way, I’m not going to turn down the free help. Truth is, I haven’t had time to deal with it myself, and ithasbeen annoying me.
I step back, letting him in before I can second-guess it and he walks in, not like he owns the place, more like he’s hoping I won’t send him back out.
I follow him over to the sink
“You don’t have to do this,” I say, leaning against the counter opposite.
“I know.”
He crouches in front of the cabinet and starts clearing out the clutter beneath the sink. His voice strains slightly as he lowers himself onto his back.
“I’d like to help.”
I hover, unsure what to do with myself. He doesn’t say much, just works, focused and quiet. His sleeves are pushed up, forearms flexing with each movement. When he shifts, his shirt rides up, exposing a strip of skin and the sharp lines of his stomach.
I catch myself staring.
He glances at me, and our eyes meet.
I look away fast, heat rushing to my cheeks.
“Why’re you here, Ford?” I ask, trying to sound casual. “Thought you told me to stay away.”
He pauses, hand stilling on the wrench.
“I did,” he says softly. “But I shouldn’t have.”
I nod, not sure what to say to that, and turn away before he can add anything else.
I pad back to the sofa and sink back into the warmth. The laptop waits where I left it, screen still glowing, and I curl into my spot, legs tucked under me, trying to focus.
Ford works quietly, the occasional clink of metal and low grunt breaking the silence. I try not to listen, but it’s impossible not to notice the way his presence shifts the air in the room.
