11. Ford
CHAPTER 11
ford
I pushed the door open to the mudroom and Peyton let out a little gasp. Her eyes widened and she went pin-drop silent. And Peyton was never silent. It was one of my favorite things about her. She drowned out all the noise in my head.
We took turns popping our shoes off using the boot jack. She’d worn a pair of cowgirl boots I’d bought her for Christmas—brushed brown leather with pastel embroidered wildflowers. Without her boots on, her bare legs were completely distracting. Tan, toned, and silky smooth. It was taking all my willpower not to run my hand up one of her calves.
I smiled at her bubblegum pink toenails. They hadn’t been pink yesterday. I didn’t know how long it had been since she’d had a proper pedicure but I planned to remedy that soon enough.
My sisters-in-law left this morning to head to Honeyville to buy supplies. Then they’d spent the afternoon decorating the inside of my house while the guys and I spent the day putting the lights on the trees.
An array of wildflowers—every color of the rainbow—lined the path leading out of the mudroom. The ladies had bought every flameless candle they could find—said they wiped Target, Walmart, and Michaels out—but it was worth it. My house was twinkling like something from a high-budget romance movie.
Peyton and I walked in silence through the kitchen and great room and down the hall. When we got to the top of the basement stairs, we could hear voices. My family was downstairs hissing at each other to be quiet. A little girl squealed. Maddie, Sophie, or Anna’s daughter, Belle. I couldn’t tell.
“You pulled my hair.” It was Sophie. Silas and Lemon’s youngest was a spitfire, like her namesake, my oldest sister, who passed away fifteen years ago.
“Knock it off!” I heard Lemon say in a terrifying tone that would’ve shut me up.
Peyton gaped at the stairwell like a spider’s lair was waiting for us below. “Is this what I think it is?” she whispered.
I gulped. “We’re going to get your boy back.”
A watery-eyed smile split her beautiful face. “We are?”
“We are.”
She flung her arms around me so fast an oof escaped my lungs. “Thank you,” she said, her voice a mere tiptoe. “I can’t believe you went to all this trouble for a fake proposal.”
I wanted to tell her it was anything but fake. To me, at least. But instead, I practiced the words my family had coached me to say. “It was nothing.” I placed a kiss on her forehead.
Her tight hug was heavenly. “It’s not nothing. It’s everything.” She rolled her shoulders back and gave me one decisive nod. “Oh, wait.” She pushed up on her tiptoes and whispered in my ear, “Do they know?”
My fingers toyed with the bow sitting at her waist. “Do they know that I love you? Yes.”
“Ford.” She scowled but her cheeks looked flushed.
“Everyone over the age of eighteen knows except my parents,” I whispered. One look told me I didn’t need to say anything else. My mom would never go for something like this. Therefore, Dad didn’t get to know either. And honestly, though we could talk about it later, I needed this to look real. The last thing I needed was the media to find out I’d agreed to this ruse.
Even Jeff, my longtime bodyguard, who had a small cottage down by the entrance of the ranch, thought this was legit. The fewer people who knew, the better.
She chewed her lip. “I wish Momma was here. And Daddy.”
“Yeah.”
Her blue eyes sparkled with hope. “Is Cash down there?”
“I tried.” My tone had lost all of its enthusiasm. “But your d-bag ex wouldn’t listen to a word I said.”
She blanched. “Did you tell him?”
“That I was proposing marriage to his ex-wife, who he’s ridiculously possessive about?” I frowned, anticipating the trouble that man was going to give us. “Didn’t know if you wanted that bee’s nest stirred up quite yet.”
A groove formed between her brows. “Should we talk about rules?”
I’d anticipated this question. “There’re only two rules, Peyt. I won’t touch you until you ask me to?—”
“Until? Cocky much?”
I’d never felt less cocky in my life. What if I did this and she never wanted me to touch her? To love her? To be her husband for real? My head gave a little shake. This was not the time for doubt.
“Not really,” I said, hating how vulnerable I sounded. “Anyway. There are exceptions, of course. Sometimes, we’re going to have to touch.” I cleared my throat. “You know, like married people do. This has to be believable.”
“Yeah.” She nodded, but she looked a smidge terrified. Was the thought of touching me that repulsive?
“For instance,” I said tentatively. “I’m going to need to cash in on that kiss you owe me in a few minutes. And I need you to kiss me back without kneeing me in the groin.”
Yes, she’d done that once six years ago when I’d made a move on her. I’d learned very quickly that Peyton was in charge of this relationship.
Her expression softened. “Obvs. That might tip people off. The second rule?”
“I get the first right of refusal,” I said without missing a beat.
“First right of refusal?”
“It’s a term used in the recording world. But for all intents and purposes, it means that when Cash graduates, I get the first right to refuse a divorce.”
She pursed her lips. “Like I said, you’ll be sick of me by then.”
I pulled her close and tipped my forehead to hers. “I’m going to prove you wrong.”
One of her fingers drew a two-inch, back-and-forth line along my lower back. “We’ll see,” she said in a hush.
“Yup,” I murmured. “We will.” I stepped back, gesturing for her to lead the way. “After you.”
She shook her head. “No. Together.” She squeezed my hand with the grip strength of a rock climber clinging to the last solid handhold above a thousand-foot drop—and we were off.
The basement was even more ridiculous than the rest of the house. Balloons, candles, twinkling lights. We followed the wildflower lined path that led across the room to the big screen TV, which had the words Peyton and Ford: The Beginning of Forever displayed in pale pink letters. I’d told my sisters-in-law and Anna to spare no expense and to ignore every protest Mom made about spending too much. And they’d delivered. All the furniture had been moved out of the room except for my massive bean bag chair, where the wildflower trail ended.
As we made our way across the room, Peyton nudged me in the rib and nodded toward the bar—a useless feature in my home. A tiny foot peeked out from the left side. From the size and red toenails, I would’ve placed my bets on it being Jane, Ashton’s five-year-old. I chuckled low enough that my family couldn’t hear. I wasn’t sure where they were all hiding, with the furniture gone. But they could worry about that. I had a big enough job coming up.
When we reached the bean bag chair, I sat first and opened my arms for Peyton. She played her role perfectly, settling her head on my shoulder, half of her back resting against my chest. At that touch, my whole body came alive. Her Hawaii-scented hair tickled my nostrils, filling my lungs with every breath, making me dizzy. Making me want to bury my face in the crook of her neck and breathe her in until I drowned in the ocean waves.
“Ford,” she hissed. “Why are you gripping the bean bag? Wrap your arms around me like a normal hot-blooded man who’s about to sign his life away because he’s so stupidly in love.”
She didn’t need to ask me twice. I slid my arms across her stomach, locking her between them. The heat of her body seeped through our clothes, warming places inside me that hadn’t been warm in years. This was torture. This was heaven. This was everything I'd ever wanted and nothing I could keep.
That thought almost made me come out of my skin.
A throat cleared at the back of the room. Peyton heard it. The giggle that escaped her chest gave it away.
“Crap,” I muttered. For a moment, I’d forgotten the plan. I reluctantly freed an arm and pretended to scratch the top of my head. It was the signal.
Immediately, the lights lowered, and the video with guitar music I’d pre-recorded in my studio late last night began playing on the TV. It was a slideshow of snapshots of me and Peyton through the years. Down at the lake roasting marshmallows. Getting up hay. Riding horses. The AMAs. The two of us dancing at Ashton and Tally’s wedding. Of us body surfing with Cash at Dupree Family beach week.
When a selfie of us at last year’s Charlottesville concert popped up, she let out a melancholy sigh. A flicker of heat burned in the center of my chest and I pressed my nose into her hair, so grateful I hadn’t married Georgia.
The pictures continued—a visual scrapbook of our friendship. My pre-recorded voice began singing to the accompaniment.
I've been watching from the sidelines
Holding onto every smile
Been your friend through thick and thin
Loving you all the while
Like magnets drawn together
No matter where life leads
Every road brings me back
To where my heart believes
She turned her head to look at me. “What is this? This isn’t one of your songs.” Her gaze was burning into me, demanding answers.
I would’ve teased her about how she’d have to know every single one of my songs by heart to know that. Miss I Hate Country Music, Most Especially Yours. But this wasn’t the time.
“Apparently, it is,” I said. “I’m the one singing it.”
She watched me for a few seconds, her expression solemn, before returning to her original position, eyes focused on the screen.
We've shared a thousand memories
Laughed until the morning light
Dried each other's tears and fears
Held each other's hopes so tight
And somewhere between hello and forever
Something changed inside my heart
What was friendship turned into something more
A love I can't keep apart
“When did you record this?” she asked over the bridge.
“Last night.”
She turned sideways, not even paying attention to the TV. “But you must’ve written it before.”
I had. During the three months I’d spent in rehab. But I wasn’t going to tell her that the hope of having a life with her someday was a big part of what had helped me walk away from drugs and alcohol for good. It was too much pressure to put on someone, and she had enough to worry about.
“Did you write it for me?” she whispered.
“Yes.”
“Ford,” she said, her thumb brushing over my chin.
I couldn’t handle her scrutinizing gaze, so I glanced back to the TV.
As the final chorus ended, light filtered over to us from the back of the room.
“Oh, that’s my cue,” I said. I leaned forward and she rolled to the side, letting me get up. Then I leaned down and offered her a hand. Her expression was nervous but trusting too. When she stood, she looked away from me and to the other side of the room.
And there, in all its ten-foot-tall glory, was a gaudy, pale pink, silk, rose-covered, heart-shaped arch. A neon sign hung in the middle. It read “Will You Be My Forever?” On either side, filling the entire back wall, was my enormous family. Each smiling, eyes twinkling, kids bouncing on their toes. Mom wiping her tears.
I slipped the ring box out of my pocket like it was the first time I’d tried doing this. Then I dropped to one knee and Peyton let out a little gasp. Dang, she was a good actress. There were tears in her eyes like this was a proper proposal that would lead to a proper marriage.
I held her gaze. “All those times you shot me down? I only fell harder. So, jokes on you, I guess.”
She giggled.
I swallowed. “Peyton Belle Jamerson, will you please finally agree to be my wife?” I flipped open the ring box.
I thought she’d be looking at the diamond. Normally, she was either gawking at it or refusing to. But tonight? Tonight, she only had eyes for me. It could’ve been a ring from a quarter machine and she’d never have known.
She wiped her cheeks and nodded. “Yes. Yes .” She grinned and held her hand out for me. Then, finally, after five years of asking, I slipped it successfully onto her ring finger.
My family broke into cheers as she pulled me to my feet. One of my hands found the small of her back, while the other tangled in her hair, drawing her closer. I looked down into her eyes. “About dang time.”
And then I was kissing her.
Years of restraint fell away and I poured every bit of ache I’d ever felt, every moment of want I’d endured, into that kiss. Her fingers slipped into my hair, and for a brief moment, I thought this would be everything I’d hoped for.
But she was stiff. Cautious.
Her lips stayed tightly closed and she was careful to keep an inch of space between us, chest to hips. Even now, finally wearing my ring, she was keeping me at arm’s length.
What was I thinking? I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t live a life where she didn’t want to be touched by me. I broke the kiss, my chest aching from the letdown.
She must’ve sensed my hesitancy because she pushed up on her tiptoes and pressed one more peck to my mouth before pulling my forehead to hers. “Sorry,” she whispered. “I’m just…overwhelmed. I’ll do better at the wedding.”
I dared a glance at my family, praying my mom bought it. She gave me a genuine smile, her hands pressed to her heart. I stood there, an arm around Peyton’s waist, as they rushed us. I breathed through the disappointment. Silas gave me a look that said, remember your endgame. I forced a smile, letting him know I’d received the message loud and clear.
But the idiocy of this entire idea—that Ford Dupree of Whiskey and Women, who could have any woman I wanted, had been wrangled into marrying a woman who wouldn’t kiss me again until the wedding like we were in the eighteen hundreds—made me doubt this entire thing. I just wanted to love Peyton. To hold her every night. I wanted to know what it would be like to kiss Peyton when she wasn’t holding back. Was that so terrible?
I squeezed my eyes shut at that thought.
Because I already knew.
I knew exactly how amazing it was to be kissed by Peyton, for real. And that was what made this so incredibly hard.
Because Peyton and I had kissed once before.
A lifetime ago.