Chapter 9 Stormy
Stormy
Nestled in the back of Ford’s black truck, I allow myself to soak in the details this time. It’s old, though I couldn't say what make, having no real knowledge of cars or trucks. But despite its years, it seems to be well looked after. Someone, likely Ford himself, has lovingly taken care of it.
Inside, the tan seats are worn but inviting, the upholstery carrying the scent of man—smoky and rich, edged with amber and a lingering sweetness, like rum or whiskey.
A baseball cap, softened by time and use, is carelessly tossed onto the dashboard.
And from the rearview mirror, a black cord suspends a pendant shaped like an animal skull.
It sways gently with the rhythm of the truck’s motion, like a silent metronome, ticking off the quiet seconds.
Buddy leans out the open window, ears flapping in the wind, his chocolate-brown fur ruffled by the breeze. The same gust tears into the back, lifting my hair and whipping strands against my face, forcing me to push them away from my lips.
Ford’s grip is tight on the wheel; his gaze locked on the road ahead.
From this angle, I can see the muscles in his jaw flexing.
I watch him for a moment, my gaze lingering on the firm, muscular lines of his shoulder.
As his jaw flexes, the muscles in his neck ripple subtly.
His hair, curling slightly at the ends, is tousled, messy in that effortless way, as if his fingers are constantly threading through it.
A sudden urge to run my own fingers through those unruly strands, tugging at their softness, courses through me.
But just as quickly as the thought arrives, I push it away.
I try to relax, letting my head rest against the seat, the tension slowly unwinding from my shoulders.
I relish the warm wind against my face as my eyes drift to the scenery rushing past, a stark contrast to the grey monotony of London, with its endless rows of buildings and perpetually overcast skies.
Here, the world feels open. Just being here shifts something in me, lifting all the weight I had been carrying.
I don’t remember the last time I felt this free.
Free to move, to breathe, to go where I want, do what I want, without anyone standing in my way.
Well, except for Ford. He’d just appeared, all brooding authority, insisting on driving me back.
And truthfully, though I’d claimed I was fine, I’m grateful he did.
My arms had begun to ache under the weight of those bags, far heavier than I’d anticipated.
I don’t know what I was thinking, assuming I could manage the walk back.
My eyes catch the rearview mirror, and for an instant, a pair of green eyes lock onto mine.
Not just a passing glance, but something heavier.
Yet, the moment he realises he’s been caught, his expression tightens, and his gaze snaps back to the road like it had never strayed.
He hadn’t wanted me to notice, but I did.
I glance toward Buddy, enjoying the wind against his face and without thinking, I let out a casual observation, to break the silence.
"He must be a good dog to get shotgun every time,” I say with a teasing lilt to my voice.
Ford glances briefly at Buddy before shifting in his seat. There’s a pause, a slight consideration, then, a gruff, quiet response. "He’s earned it."
I raise a brow, intrigued.
"Oh, yeah? How so?"
Ford keeps his eyes on the road, but the corners of his mouth twitch, just the slightest bit.
"Doesn’t whine, doesn’t chew up my stuff, doesn’t try to talk my ear off. Just sits there, enjoys the ride, minds his business."
I smirk.
“I’m starting to think Buddy’s a little spoilt.”
Ford lets out a small, huffed laugh.
"He’s a good dog."
I rest my chin against the seat, watching as Buddy lets out a contented sigh, as though agreeing with the words Ford says.
I grin and lean back, my face then slackening with a sobering thought.
"Must be nice. Being spoiled like that."
Ford doesn’t say anything, but when I catch him stealing a glance in the rearview mirror again, he’s looking at me funnily. Like he’s assessing and trying to piece my broken pieces together, to understand something I haven’t said.
I see it, but I don’t fully register it as my eyes drift back to the view out the window, thoughts turning to Sam, how, for all the good in the beginning, he never did anything truly selfless. Never made me feel like I was worth spoiling.
The realisation settles in my chest, bitter and quiet, but instead of lingering, I let out a short, amused breath.
This dog has it better than I ever did, and somehow, that realisation stings and amuses me all at once.
So, I laugh, soft, breathy, barely there.
A quiet acknowledgment of the absurdity of it all.
The rest of the journey passes quickly and the hum of the engine and the rhythm of the road settle into something almost comfortable.
Ford pulls up in front of my cottage, and though he still hasn’t said much, there’s a noticeable shift in his demeaner.
His frame isn't quite stiff as when he picked me up, not pulled taut like a coiled spring, but silence still clings to him like a second skin.
Without a word, he jumps out of the truck, Buddy following close at his heels. I unclip my seatbelt, push open the door, and climb down, stretching my legs briefly before circling toward the back. But Ford is already moving. He’s ahead of me, bags in hand, striding toward my front door.
He stops, standing there expectantly, and I frown, jogging a few steps to catch up.
He shifts the bags in his grip, voice easy.
“Anytime you’re ready, Sunshine.”
I blink, caught off guard. There’s no bite in his tone, just a dry, almost amused edge that makes my stomach flutter for reasons I’d rather not examine.
“Oh … right, yeah, okay.”
Flustered, I scramble for my keys, rummaging through my bag with far more urgency than necessary.
Fords lips curve lightly, waiting as I fumble.
“I thought you had to work?” I mumble, distracted as I dig deeper into my bag.
There’s a beat of hesitation before he replies, voice low, almost offhand.
“Figured I could spare a minute.”
Something about the way he pauses, like even he isn’t sure why he’s still here, makes me glance up at him, but he’s already looking away, eyes fixated on the door.
Finally, my fingers close around the key, and I pull it free, unlocking the door with a quiet click.
"You can … come in?"
Ford steps inside his presence filling the space instantly. He marches past me, walking straight into the kitchen and depositing the bags on the counter.
Meanwhile, I hang the key on the small hook beside the door and turn, heading towards the kitchen. As I walk, I glance back at Buddy, who has seated himself just outside, his posture firm, almost like he’s standing guard. A beat of affection flickers through me—he really is a good dog.
Then, just as I turn my head back around, I collide, hard.
A solid wall of muscle meets my face, firm and unyielding.
The sudden impact knocks me slightly off balance, and for a split second, all I register is warmth and the distinct scent of aftershave.
Strong hands grip my arms, steadying me instinctively before withdrawing just as quickly, almost like the touch had burned.
A small, startled noise falls from my lips, and I push a hand through my hair, tucking loose strands behind my ear as I glance up, finding Ford staring down at me. His expression is unreadable, but his nostrils flare slightly.
I swallow hard, trying not to let it show. "Uh … sorry."
He doesn’t respond, but his jaw shifts, and he looks uncomfortable for a moment. Not knowing what else to do, I step back, pointing vaguely towards the bags on the counter.
"Thanks … uhh … for that."
Ford breathes in, slow and heavy, like the whole interaction has thrown him off balance. Then, without a word, he shifts his stance and nods once. A small, almost imperceptible acknowledgment of my thanks. Like speaking would cost him more than he’s willing to give.
And as he steps around me, our eyes catch, just for a second. His gaze brushes past mine, something sparking there. Something subtle.
I hold my breath, unsure what to do with it.
Before Ford has the chance to step outside, Buddy lets out a happy bark, his tail wagging excitedly as if he’s just spotted an old friend.
I watch, following the line of his stare, just as a woman appears at the door.
Her long, dark brown hair catches the light, framing her tanned skin.
She crouches slightly, reaching out to scratch behind Buddy’s ears.
"Hey Buddy," she coos, grinning at the dog before straightening and peering inside.
Ford, still mid step, stiffens when he sees her. His expression shifts into surprise before settling into something more neutral. "Missy?" he says, a note of incredulity in his tone. "What are you doing here?"
Instead of answering immediately, she steps further into the doorway, her full form now visible.
She’s taller than me, her stature effortless yet confident.
Her sharp green eyes, exactly like Ford’s, glint with amusement, and her full lips curve into a slow, knowing smile.
The kind that could charm just about anyone if she wanted it to.
She wears light jeans, snug but well-worn, and a fitted black vest top that accentuates the lean strength in her frame.
A thick leather belt cinches at her waist, and on her feet, of course, are worn-in cowboy boots that have clearly seen their fair share of dirt roads and long rides.
With her hands perched on her hips, she tilts her head, feigning offense with a dramatic sigh.
"Nice to see you too, brother," she drawls, her voice dripping with playful sarcasm.
Ford bristles, but there's no real anger on his face.
It's the exact same reaction I used to have when my sister would purposely wind me up—the same reaction I'm sure all siblings have. Missy’s gaze moves past Ford, landing on me with easy warmth.
A friendly grin spreads across her lips, and she turns back to her brother, amusement dancing in her sharp green eyes.
"Actually," she says, tilting her head with a triumphant glint, "I came to say hi to our new tenant."
Then, without missing a beat, she shifts her attention back to me.
"Hey, I’m Missy! You must be Stormy, right?"
Her enthusiasm is genuine, her presence effortlessly inviting.
Ford glances between the two of us, his expression unreadable, like he’s suddenly aware he’s a third wheel but doesn’t quite know how to extract himself. A beat passes before he makes up his mind.
"Right. Well." He clears his throat, shifting his weight. "I’ll leave you to it, then."
He steps past Missy, already halfway out the door when she calls after him, "Bye, brother."
But then, her hand shoots out, catching his arm before he can fully disappear.
"Oh, wait," she says, "Mom was looking for you earlier. Said something about the cows in the back field wrecking one of the fences."
Ford lets out a low, frustrated sigh. He grumbles something unintelligible, before pulling his phone from his pocket and checking it. His expression doesn’t shift much, but the irritation is clear in the furrow of his brow and the tightness in his jaw.
"How many times do I need to show her how to use her damn phone?" he mutters, shaking his head. "It’s not difficult to call or send a quick text."
Missy smirks but says nothing, clearly used to his snark.
Ford then steps fully outside without another word, whistling for Buddy as he goes. The dog immediately perks up, trotting after him with unbothered ease.
Missy leans against the doorway, crossing her arms loosely as she regards me with a warm smile.
"I hope I’m not bothering you," she says, her voice easy.
"I just wanted to say hi and make sure you’re settling in alright. Mom told me we’ve got a young British woman staying at the cottage, and, well, I had to come meet you myself."
Her friendliness is effortless, and I can tell she’s the type of person who collects friends the way others collect souvenirs.
I straighten slightly, caught off guard by the genuine warmth in Missy’s tone.
"Oh—uh, thanks," I reply, shifting my weight. "I’m settling in fine, I think."
Missy’s smile widens, sensing an opening.
"Good! Well, now that I’ve officially introduced myself, how about we take this welcome a step further?" She tilts her head, eyes glinting mischievously. "Let me buy you a drink. Show you the town a little. You’re new here and it’s only right someone gives you a proper introduction."
I hesitate, my first instinct to decline.
"Oh, I’ve got a lot to do," I say, gesturing vaguely toward the bags Ford had carried in. "Still need to get things unpacked, sort some stuff out …"
Missy’s expression flickers, just for a moment, with disappointment maybe?
I notice it, and before I can stop myself, doubt creeps in.
It’s a fresh start, I remind myself. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to go for a drink, get to know Missy, get to know the town …
maybe even get a chance to figure out what the deal with Ford is.
Since losing my sister, real friendships have been scarce. And Sam, well, he never exactly encouraged them. More like isolated me completely. Maybe it’s time to shake that off. To do something that feels normal again.
"As long as I get some things done today," I say slowly, as if convincing myself, "I guess it wouldn’t hurt to go out for a drink tonight."
Missy brightens instantly, her grin returning full force. "Trust me, you’ll love it. And if not, well … at least the whiskey’s good."
I laugh, finally relaxing a fraction. Maybe this won’t be so bad.