29
I ’m stunned, too stunned to even voice what Ford’s done for me. Hours ago, we left the ranch, and he drove us to Bozeman. Now, I’m in a plush leather chair, in a therapist’s office. I stare out the window at Ford, who’s pacing near the tailgate of his truck. His presence soothes me.
“Reese?” Dr. DiFeo’s voice pulls me back. “Where would you like to begin?”
“Do you have a time machine?”
Dr. DiFeo makes a soft, amused sound. She’s an older woman with a stylish auburn bob and a low voice. Sitting across from me, she holds a notepad in her lap.
“Have you done this before?”
“A few times. My manager found someone to see me. We didn’t vibe.”
“I see.” She makes a note. “Are you on medication?”
“I was.” I pull the bottle out of my purse and hand it to her. “I stopped taking them when I got here. They made me tired.”
As she examines the bottle, an expression I can’t place crosses her face. Then she smiles. “I’ll check on the meds you were taking and prescribe you something if you need it.”
An awkward silence. My eyes dart around the room—sheer curtains, warm beige walls, rustic décor—glad to have something else to focus on.
“Why don’t you tell me about your life the last few months, and why you’re here.”
I flinch. A clammy, tense feeling overtakes me. “Just talk?”
“Just talk.”
I do. It all comes out. Well, as much truth as fifty minutes allows. I talk about everything from my parents to Gavin and his contract, to my suicide attempt and the way I left everything behind to run.
“I feel stupid. Like an idiot.”
“Tell me why.”
“Because I waited so long to leave.” My voice trembles. “Because I didn’t see.”
“People stay because they want to be loved, even when it hurts.” Dr. DiFeo puts down her pen. “It doesn’t matter if you left after the first time or the twelfth. It takes a lot of strength to break a tie, Reese. It takes a lot of self-love to choose yourself.”
Tears well in my eyes.
“Why do you think it’s your fault?” DiFeo asks, pulling my attention. “Why do you think you are in the wrong?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. I just do. Sometimes I feel so crazy.”
“Crazy. Who taught you that word?”
It comes automatically. “Gavin.”
I was crazy when I wanted medication. Crazy for wanting to write my own songs. Crazy when I needed a break.
She purses her lips. “Have you ever tried to leave him before?”
“Once.” Memory wells. I close my eyes and see Gavin. “The day of the shoot. I told him I was done, and then he…” I clasp my bangles.
“I see.” She makes a note.“There’s a lot to unpack here. You’re in the high stages of trauma, Reese.”
“No shit.” I cover my mouth. “Sorry.”
She smiles. “How do you feel where you are now versus where you were?”
My heartbeat skips. “I feel happy. I feel scared. I feel silly. I left everything behind. Who does that?”
“I think the fact that you’re scared and feel a bit silly is a great sign.” DiFeo nods. “Use this time to write. To know it’s not your fault.”
Warmth spreads through my chest. Maybe I knew that, maybe I didn’t, but it’s nice for someone to take my side.
DiFeo’s eyebrow lifts. “Write songs that you’d be proud to give the world, Reese. And be free.”
Dust spewing in the air, tires squealing, Ford shifts the old Chevy in gear. Arm draped over the steering wheel, he steers us out of the parking lot, onto the freeway.
“How was it?”
“Good, actually,” I tell him. “It’s just feels good.”
I feel good. Happy. Lighthearted. Like the first step in a series of steps to get me somewhere else.
“We made some telehealth appointments. Twice a week for the next month.” I blow out a breath, stare out the window at the gray skies and acres of land. “And she gave me a low-dose prescription for an antidepressant.”
One of his hands, large and tan, settles on my thigh. Squeezes. “I’m proud of you, Birdie.”
I smile at him. “I’m proud of myself, too.”
He nods. “Look in the glovebox.”
I do.
Speechless, I stare. “What is this?”
“A present.” A crooked grin pulls at his mouth, all boyish and embarrassed. “For you.”
Awed, I lift it up the gold necklace. This time, a little cowboy boot hangs in the center of it.
“You went shopping,” I say, affixing it around my neck next to the other necklace. I pretend not to notice the way it hangs low. Close to my heart.
His throat bobs. “Positive reinforcement. Make you a cowgirl, after all.”
My heart is a throbbing warm ache. I sniffle.
“Birdie, don’t cry.” His gaze lands on my face, a sweet kind of panic in his eyes. “I can’t fucking stand it.”
Ford’s phone rings.
CHARLIE.
“Aren’t you going to take that?”
“Later,” he grits out, his eyes on the road.
“Ford, you can’t be mad at your brother forever.”
“Watch me. Longest grudge held is me and Wyatt. Lasted from Christmas Day to Easter. It’s a family record.” He scoffs at the memory. “You don’t touch another man’s razor.”
I roll my eyes.
Releasing my seat belt, I scoot closer to him. “Well, you may be a stubborn cowboy, but I love the necklace. Thank you, Ford.” I press a kiss to his cheek. His neck. The corner of his lips.
Ford’s hand comes up to catch my chin. “Reese, you want me to crash this fucking truck?” His voice is low, hungry.
My eyes latch onto his. “Live dangerously, right?”
With a hint of a smile pulling on my lips, I lean in and unzip his jeans. Ford’s breath hitches as I take him in my hand, stroking his hard, warm length.
Between the therapy appointment and the necklace, I can barely keep my hands off him. I’ve never been more turned on. I always thought men like this were a country song soundtrack. Fictional. Too good to be true. But Ford’s heaven-sent. He’s funny, sweet, and patient. And he communicates.
Old Reese doesn’t know how she feels about it all. Only that I’m really happy.
Something’s changed between us after last night. We belong to each other. At least for the summer.
I drop my head, sliding my mouth down his shaft. I go deep, drawing him in.
“Fuck,” he groans, looping an arm around the back of my seat. “Baby, I’m pulling over.”
I feel the rattle of the truck as it slows and takes a trail or a side road. He throws it in park and cuts the engine.
“Reese. Fuck .” His voice is ragged as his hands fall to my hair to help me with the rhythm. My pussy clenches. “I’m so damn close, baby. So close.”
I hold him there, impaled in my mouth as I go deeper, sucking him hard. Ford tenses, and a guttural groan fills the truck as he releases into my mouth. I smile against him, feeling the throb of his cock as he empties himself.
His head falls back against the seat, the taut cords in his neck pulsing with adrenaline. When he lifts his head, he stares at me with heavy eyes for a beat, then he grins wickedly. “Now it’s your turn.”
Before I can argue, he grabs me up and settles me on his lap, so I’m straddling his thighs. I shift my hips to give him better access, and then he’s hard again. And inside me.
My head falls back at the intense, solid feel of him, like steel. So much man I can hardly stand it.
The horn honks, and we ignore it.
“I need you, Ford.” My heart pounds. I squirm on top of him, digging my nails in his broad shoulders.
He holds my arms, pulling me closer to him. His eyes firmly locked on mine. A look I’ve never seen from anyone else. Worship. Adoration. It steals my breath. “Baby, you got me,” he says, voice strangling. “You got me, Reese.”
Here. It’s where I’m supposed to be.
Just me and Ford and broken hearts and broken pasts.
“Good girl,” Ford groans, thrusting slowly. Heat, fire spirals between us. That hook in my stomach jerks, cementing me to him. “Good fucking girl.”
I grip the back of the headrest, roll my hips and ride his cock. Through it all, Ford keeps me in his gaze. We fuck hard and fast until we detonate. Until I collapse on top of him, both of us gasping for air. Ford gathers me close against his iron chest, kisses my temple. We stay wrapped up in each other, sweaty and disheveled, like teenage kids parked at lover’s lane. And for a second, this is all that matters.
Dusk falls, and I stare out over the Montana wild. The sky is dark. Big, ominous clouds loom on the horizon. My mind goes back to our conversation this morning in the garage.
I run my hand over his scruffy cheek. “Will you tell me why you saw a therapist?”
Ford, strokes a hand through his hair, and says in a pained tone, “It’s not pretty.”
“I’m not pretty.”
“Birdie, you’re beautiful.”
His baseball cap casts a shadow over his eyes. Wanting to see him better, I take it off and run my fingers through his hair. “Talk to me, Country Boy. It can’t be worse than what I told you.”
He nods slowly. “After Savannah, I wasn’t the best kind of person. Put shit up my nose, in my veins. I was off the fucking deep end.” His lips quirk. “Pretty much an idiot twenty-four-seven.”
He takes a shaky breath, his body lifting mine with his. “It was night two of the World Series. We were playing against the Dodgers. I was pitching, and I shouldn’t have been.” A ragged sound tears up his throat. “I was fucked up on God knows what so my aim was off. I couldn’t stay on the plate, and I threw a pitch and—” His throat works. “I hit a kid. A little boy.”
I let out a gasp.
He gives a bitter laugh. “Everyone said it was an accident, that shit happens, but it wasn’t.” He closes his eyes, agony on his expression. A war he’s been fighting for so many years. “I fucking hurt that kid because I was an idiot asshole.”
His guilt, his pain is palpable. A crack rips through my chest. “I’m so sorry, Ford.”
“I don’t know who he was or what happened to him. The owner refused to let me reach out to him—said it would be bad PR to admit fault.” His face screws up with disgust. “He didn’t die. That’s all I know.”
My heart aches for him.
Ford’s eyes briefly flutter shut, like he can’t bear the memory. “I got off easy. My coach pulled my ass and told me to go see someone. Which I did. I got on meds and talked until I couldn’t talk anymore.” His eyes flick to mine. “That’s the real reason I left baseball and went to the ranch. Because I’m a fuck-up.”
“You’re not a fuck-up.” I stare at him, hating that he feels that way about himself. When I look at him, I see a man worth everything. A man who’s made mistakes and owns it. A man who’s done more for me than anyone.
A tear drips down his cheek. He presses those long fingers to his eyes. “Christ. I hit that kid, Reese. I hurt him.”
I sweep my nails through his hair, kiss his crown. He wraps his arms around me, holding me tight. “You’re worth it, too,” I whisper against his neck. “You’re a good man, Ford. A good person.” A hot tear slides down my face. “I would never think less of you for your past. You are a man worth everything. Forgive yourself. I do.”
He crushes me to him. “Birdie Girl.” An exhale rattles out of his lungs, like he’s letting it all out. Like he believes my words. Like he’s finally okay. “My Bluebird.”