He grins, eyes flashing as he leans in, kissing me sweetly, and then finally pulls back with an effort to leave.
I watch him walk away, shirt in hand, bare back golden in the fading light, muscles shifting with every step. He turns once, all smiles, and my heart stumbles.
I’m still staring when I realise something.
“Ford,” I call out. “You forgot your hat!”
He glances back, eyes catching mine.
“You keep it,” he says, voice teasing. “It looks good on you.”
And then he’s gone, leaving me flushed, still catching my breath, and wearing his cap like I’m his, even if he didn’t say it.
37
Ford
The rhythm of the morning had settled into something manageable, but the pit-stop with Stormy at the swing hadn’t been part of the plan. All I’d meant to do was say hello.
But fuck, that unexpected moment was … incredible. The way she felt, the way she responded to every touch, every kiss, the flush in her cheeks as she came on my tongue … It’s seared into me. I barely held myself together—nearly losing control right there in my jeans.
Now, a few hours later, with the sun climbing higher in the sky, I find myself at Mom’s front door, boots dusted with the work of the morning and thoughts of Stormy still lingering.
I step inside, the familiar creak of the floorboards greeting me like an old friend. The scent of coffee and baking hangs in the air. I head down the hallway, drawn by the sound of voices. Turning the corner, my eyes catch on Stormy sitting on the couch beside Mom, deep in conversation, a book resting in her lap. She’s wearing light denim shorts and a white tanktop, her legs curled beneath her, soft and so god damn tempting. She looks effortless. Beautiful. Like she belongs here.
I pause in the doorway, my gaze trailing up her legs, over the curve of her hip, the slope of her shoulder, the way her hair catches the light. I don’t mean to stare, but I do.
And that’s the problem.
Missy knows. She’s got a mouth on her, sure, but I think I trust her to keep it quiet … for now, at least.
But the rest of the world? That’s different.
I don’t know how to be around Stormy in front of Mom, or anyone else. Whatever this is between us, it’s new and raw—still finding its shape. I’m not ready for questions or assumptions, or for people turning it into something it’s not ready to be. And I don’t even know if Stormy wants people to know. I don’t want to make her feel exposed, but I also don’t want her to think I’m hiding her. I’m not. Still … There’s a knot in my chest that I can’t shake. I like her. Hell, I like her more than I meant to. More than I expected.
And God knows, I want to see where this goes. But what if I fall and she does end up leaving? What if it ends like everything else—with me alone again, nursing wounds I swore I was done collecting. I want that knot loosened and smoothed out. I want to be able to give her all of me, no second-guessing.
I watch as Stormy’s face lights up with laughter from something Mom said. Her face is soft and open—totally unaware of the war going on in my head. And I know she’s fighting one of her own. After everything she’s been through … what if she can’t afford to let me in? We said we’d try. Said we’d give this a shot. But I don’t know where her heads truly at.
Still, if I don’t try … where does that leave me? Old, grumpy, and bitter like John from across town? That’s not the life I want. That’s not the man I want to be. So yeah, I’m scared. But I owe it to myself to see this through. Tobelieve, just a little, that it could work out. And for now, that’s enough. At least I’ll know that I haven’t let this amazing woman just slip through my fingers. At least I’ll know I tried.
But I want to keep it just us for a little while longer. Let it breathe before the world starts poking at it.
She catches me in her peripheral vision, lips twitching into a sweet smile, her cheeks turning an adorable shade of pink. I smile back, helpless to do anything else.
Then, Mom turns her head and notices my boots. She narrows her eyes with that look of disapproval that’s so familiar.
“Ford Walker, how many times do I have to tell you not to wear those filthy boots in my home?”
I roll my eyes.
“They’re not filthy. They’re ranch-worn. Adds character. I’m not about to wrestle with laces for a one-minute visit.”
Stormy giggles, sipping something iced from a mason jar. Her eyes sparkle like she’s trying not to laugh too hard.
I step further into the room.
“You ready to go then, Mom?” I ask, already bracing myself for an afternoon at book club.
