Chapter 5 Stormy
Stormy
Iwasn’t expecting anyone to roll out a welcome mat, but the way he watched me wrestle those suitcases and stood there like it was a spectator sport?
It got me more than it should’ve. I’d said I could manage, and I’d meant it.
But part of me had hoped … for maybe just a flicker of old-fashioned courtesy.
Isn’t that what country men are supposed to be made of?
Not that I should be surprised after the type of men I’d left back in London. Maybe I was naive to think this place would be any different, or that here, kindness might come without strings.
But I’ve learned not to expect better. Disappointment doesn’t cut as deep when you stop hoping for more.
So now, we sit here in silence. Nothing but the low hum of the truck’s engine and the crunch of the rocky ground beneath the tyres.
The journey to the cottage has barely scraped three minutes, yet it drags like an eternity. Is there something I do subconsciously, something about me, that invites this treatment? That makes men hold back their kindness and their effort, as if they see something in me that says I don’t deserve it.
I sneak a glance at him; he sits rigid in the driver’s seat.
His hands, big and strong, tighten around the steering wheel and the way he stares ahead, with his focus locked on the empty road before us, makes me think he’d rather be anywhere else.
I feel like I should apologise. But for what? I don’t know.
No. I won’t let this affect me.
My focus has to be on myself, and on moving forward to build the life I want. Surely, I won’t have to deal with this man too often. And even if I do, I’ll just be myself. I know that I’m a good person.
At least I got the satisfaction of pointing out the flour on his face.
A small, petty victory. Oh, how I wish I had lingered just a moment longer—just enough to catch the precise expression that flashed across his features when he realised.
But I had been too annoyed and too determined to maintain some semblance of cool after my own spectacle, struggling like an idiot with my cases while he stood watching.
I clear my throat just to break the quietness, and his shoulders twitch ever so slightly, betraying that I’ve pulled him from whatever brooding abyss he’d been sinking into. But he doesn’t turn his head. Doesn’t acknowledge me beyond that brief, barely-there reaction.
"Is it far?" I ask.
His gaze snaps to mine then. It’s mostly unreadable, but there’s something tight in it. He looks at me like I’ve asked him to speak a language he’s forgotten how to use.
"The cottage," I prompt, lifting a brow. "Is it far?"
His eyes return to the road, and he shuffles in his seat. A beat passes, long enough to make me wonder if he’ll ignore me entirely.
Then, finally, a quiet response, "Just a few more minutes."
His voice is even and controlled, but there’s something rigid beneath it, like he’s an elastic band pulled taut.
The tension sits heavy in the cab, thicker than the silence that had settled before.
His fingers flex against the steering wheel, only a subtle movement.
I should let it go, let the tension settle back into the silence, but something about his reluctance, about the way his restraint presses against the edges of his discomfort, makes me want to push just a little further. Just to see if he’ll crack.
"You always this talkative, or am I just lucky today?"
The old me wouldn’t have dared speak to a man this way. But I’m fed up of being treated like nothing. Like I don’t matter. Fear flickers as the words leave me, but I won’t be made to feel small again. The words hang between us for a beat before he reacts. His eyes flick toward me, questioning.
"What?"
His voice is guarded, but I don’t flinch. I’ve spent too long swallowing words to back down now. Let him bristle. I meant what I said.
I raise an eyebrow, keeping my expression neutral, easy, unbothered.
"I said …"
“I heard you,” he replies, voice low and measured. He exhales through his nose; eyes fixed on the road ahead. His foot presses a little firmer on the accelerator—not aggressive, just enough to suggest he’s eager to get this over with.
I let the quiet settle again, but only for a moment before I push just a fraction further, not enough to be unfriendly, but enough to test his restraint.
"I just meant … you don’t have to be so tense. I was only making conversation”
He doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, his grip shifts, his thumb tapping absently. Finally, after a beat that lingers too long, he exhales.
"It’s not far," he mutters, his tone still guarded but lacking the tightness from before.
It’s not exactly warm, but it’s something.
The rest of the journey passes by silently, and the quiet stretches between us like an unspoken truce.
It gives me the opportunity to take in my surroundings, and I let my gaze drift beyond the passenger window.
When I first saw this place listed on the letting’s website, I had fallen for it instantly.
A sprawling ranch and animal sanctuary, cradled by towering mountains, with its own campsite for hikers and climbers—what was not to love about that?
Now, seeing Mountain View Ranch in person …
it’s even more breathtaking than I had imagined.
Outside, the sun sinks lower, spilling amber light across the rolling fields, and casting long, golden shadows that stretch over the land.
Some fields remain untouched, like vast canvases waiting for nature’s brushstrokes, while others pulse with quiet life, cattle grazing in slow, rhythmic movements, and horses flicking their tails as they wander near weathered wooden fences.
A cluster of old barns stand in the distance, their beams worn and sun-bleached and closer to the mountains, where the last light grazes the peaks in warm hues.
The campsite is barely visible—just a scattering of structures nestled against the wild, untamed landscape.
Yet its presence lingers, like a quiet promise of adventure.
Beside me, the man—whose name I suddenly realise I don’t even know—takes a turn onto a narrow dirt track. The road winds upward towards two cottages perched at the top.
He pulls the truck to a stop outside the first one, and my breath catches.
It’s exactly as it had appeared in the photos.
The rustic stonework, the branches of a climbing plant curling gently along the edges, the way the sunlight casts dappled patterns against the wooden shutters.
A slow smile tugs at my lips. This is home.
My grumpy chauffer pushes open the truck door and steps out.
I unbuckle my seatbelt and follow, the light air immediately brushing against my skin.
My eyes drift toward the two cottages ahead, taking them in; their sturdy, timeworn exteriors stand against the backdrop of open fields and distant peaks.
They’re just as picturesque as I had imagined, but the knowledge that one of them is where I will live makes them even more striking.
Circling to the back of the truck, I pause briefly, my gaze flicking toward the neighbouring cottage.
"Who lives next door?" I ask, keeping my tone neutral.
He pulls open the boot with little care, the movement brisk, impatient.
"That’s where I live."
"Oh …"
The response slips out before I can stop it, not in surprise, exactly, but as if I hadn’t quite prepared for that answer.
He lets out a breath and then nods toward the suitcases.
"You want help with these? Or are you going to insist you can manage only to wrestle with them again?"
He looks at me one eyebrow raised, and I swear the corner of his mouth twitches. Maybe he’s not quite as grumpy as he pretends to be.
I narrow my eyes at him, aiming for reluctant amusement but probably showing some of my annoyance too. "You can help," I concede, if only to avoid the inevitable struggle he’d clearly be waiting to enjoy watching. "Thanks."
He doesn’t reply, just nods and takes hold of both cases, one in each hand, and hauls them out with effortless ease.
His strength is evident, but there’s no showmanship, just efficiency, as if he’s eager to be done with this.
I hesitate for a beat before falling into step behind him towards the cottage.
"So," I say, my tone light in an attempt to ease the tension, "Since we’re going to be neighbours, it might help if I knew your name?"
"Ford," he answers. A brief pause, then: "… but you probably won’t see much of me."
I blink at his quick dismissal, tilting my head slightly.
"Why’s that?"
He shifts the weight of my bags in his grip.
"I work, Sunshine … keeps me busy."
Sunshine. That name again. I don’t like it. There’s no warmth in it, no teasing edge, just something vague and dismissive, as if he couldn’t be bothered to remember my name.
Why he’s decided to refer to me this way, I have no idea. But it bothers me more than it should.
I nod, adjusting the strap of the bag across my shoulder. "What if I have any issues with the cottage?"
He puts down the cases at the door.
"There shouldn’t be any," he replies, searching his pocket, before pulling out a key. "But if something comes up, our contact information is on the paperwork.”
I study him, trying to assess what has him so tense, what, exactly, has put his back up yet again. He holds the key out, waiting, but his gaze flicks to mine, noticing my stare.
"Why you lookin’ at me like that?"
He casually wipes a hand across his face as if expecting to find more flour lingering there.
I cross my arms, tilting my head slightly.
"Just … trying to figure out if grumpy is your default setting …"
Ford says nothing, just holds the key out, expectant, his expression unchanging. I sigh, stepping forward to take it, and as my fingers graze his, a sharp pulse snaps through the touch. I tense for half a second, surprised, but it’s gone just as quickly as it came. A static shock, surely.