Chapter 11 Stormy
Stormy
Missy leads me through the doors of the bar—Hideout, I think she called it.
She had insisted on getting ready at mine earlier, and when I opened the door to her, I’d nearly lost it.
Half-ready, hair still in rollers, makeup unfinished, and a mountain of clothes in her arms, she’d looked half-crazed, a total whirlwind of chaos.
She practically stumbled into the place, her clothes spilling across the sofa as she threw herself onto it with an exhausted sigh.
"I couldn’t decide what to wear," Missy had said, gesturing vaguely at the fabric explosion around her.
I was already dressed in a simple pair of jeans and a nice top, but Missy had shaken her head in immediate disapproval.
"Nope, its nice. But not special enough for your first proper night out."
She’d raided my wardrobe—which I’d only just finished filling that day—but there wasn’t much to choose from.
I was rarely allowed to go ‘out’, I had no friends to go anywhere with anyway, and Sam hardly ever took me on dates.
Still, eventually she landed on a pale blue, floaty dress.
Holding it up like a rare treasure, she grinned. “Perfect. This is so cute!”
I had helped her choose an outfit too—a tight-fitting red dress that hugged her curves and hit mid-thigh, accentuating every part of her beautifully.
For shoes, I stuck with my white Converse—comfort over fashion any day.
Missy, however, opted for a pair of strappy black heels that wrapped around her ankles and calves like something straight out of a designer catalogue.
I don’t think I’ve ever worn shoes that nice before.
I don’t even own any. She had helped curl my hair, given me a few makeup tips, and before I knew it, we were ready to go.
It was nice, having a girlfriend to get ready with, to chat nonsense with. Just the kind of fun I hadn’t realised I was missing.
Now, as I step into the bar, I smile. The atmosphere hits me immediately.
The lighting is dim, but neon signs are scattered across the walls, giving off a warm, colourful glow.
The interior is all dark wood, with classic deep red booths lining one side of the room and clusters of tables tucked neatly around them.
Towards the back, a small dance floor gleams under soft, shifting lights, and in the centre of the room sits a pool table, surrounded by groups of people leaning against stools, laughing, and chatting between shots.
Missy tugs me to the left, towards the bar, where bodies press together in easy conversation, and drinks clink under the hum of country music. It’s busy, but of course it is. It’s Friday night.
As Missy and I approach the bar, a couple of guys vacate their stools, giving us the perfect opportunity to slide onto them.
She greets the bartender like an old friend, her voice light and familiar, before grabbing a cocktail menu and sliding it between us.
"Okay, so I’m normally a whiskey drinker," she says, flipping it open and scanning the list. "But tonight, I’m in the mood for a cocktail. What do you think?"
I lean in, glancing at the menu.
"Well, I’ve never had whiskey before, so cocktails sound good to me. I usually like a …"
"Wait." Missy cuts me off, eyes snapping to mine in disbelief. "You’re telling me you’ve never tried whiskey before?"
I laugh.
"No, I haven’t. It’s just not something I’ve ever thought to try."
Her expression morphs into mock offence, hand pressed to her chest like I’ve just insulted her entire existence.
"Well, that’s about to change."
She turns toward the bartender with a dramatic flourish.
"James, two of your best whiskeys, please … this girl here’s never tried the stuff."
James laughs and grabs a bottle, pouring two shots of something amber and rich over ice before sliding them toward us. Missy lifts her glass, beaming.
"To Stormy and her newfound love for whiskey!"
I clink my glass against hers and take a breath before tilting the liquid into my mouth.
And it’s ... awful. The taste is sharp, deep, far too strong.
It burns all the way down, my throat protesting the assault.
I cough until I’m spluttering, barely suppressing the grimace that stretches across my face.
Missy watches me with an unreadable expression for half a second, then she bursts into laughter, clutching her stomach and I can’t help but join her.
"Okay, okay,” She wheezes, still grinning as she slides the menu back to me. “Let’s stick to cocktails then."
After a moment of deliberation, we settle on a Cosmopolitan—my favourite.
The first sip is a delightful burst of tart sweetness, a refreshing contrast to the sharp, lingering bitterness of whiskey.
I don’t think I’ll ever understand the appeal, that burn, the heaviness.
But Missy downs both our drinks in swift succession, before signalling to the bartender for our cocktails.
We watch as James moves with practised ease, crafting our drinks with the precision of an artist, the cocktail shaker’s rhythmic rattle echoing through the space between us.
His movements are hypnotic, each flick of his wrist sending ripples through the deep crimson liquid.
He slides us our freshly made drinks and I take a sip savouring the taste.
Then, my bag vibrates.
Another Instagram notification probably.
My phone has been buzzing all evening. The response to my latest post about the book I’d just finished has been overwhelming.
I love these moments—the way stories connect strangers, how words bridge worlds.
But as I pull my phone from my pocket, my stomach sinks. The name on the screen … Sam.
A text. And the first words cut through me like a blade:
Sam: Stormy, ring me now…
I want to throw up. A chill creeps up my spine, the warmth of my Cosmo abruptly overshadowed by the weight of his words. Missy notices immediately and she rests her hand gently against my lap, grounding me, her voice laced with concern.
"You okay?"
I swallow hard, forcing the oxygen back into my lungs. My expression shifts, a practised reassuring smile smoothing over my features as I meet her stare head on.
"Yeah, I’m alright."
Without another thought, I delete the message, and the phone disappears into my bag like it never existed.
"You sure?" she presses, eyes scanning my face.
Instead of answering, I grab my drink and toss it back in one go, the liquid burning just enough to silence the thoughts. Setting the glass down with a deliberate tap, I turn to her, my grin widening.
"Another drink?"
Missy lets out a laugh and throws her head back with a gleeful shake.
"Ohh, I like you." She swivels toward James, lifting a hand with a flourish. "Two more Cosmos, please."
I push the text from my mind. There’s no point in dwelling on it.
He’s thousands of miles away, and I’ll never see him again.
I just have to remember to block his number.
But that feeling, just for a second when I saw his name nestled among my other notifications, it had crept in like a ghost. That quiet, familiar presence.
Like he was checking in on me, just as he always had.
That sense of being watched. Monitored. It had been years of it…
of his shadow trailing me. And for a moment, my body responded as if caught in time, frozen in that terrible, suffocating grip.
Then—Missy’s voice. Sharp and bright. A lifeline.
She’d pulled me back, reminded me … I am free.
Free from him. Free from that weight pressing against me.
We wait for our cocktails, chatting about utter nonsense, and as Missy looks at me through her sharp green eyes, I’m reminded of a certain grumpy neighbour. My curiosity flares as she hands me my cosmo, and I take it, casually asking, “So … what’s the deal with Ford?”
Missy lifts a brow, smirking like a cat that’s caught a mouse.
“You like him or something?”
I nearly choke.
“Oh, no. No, no,” I stutter, waving a hand in front of her like I can physically swat the idea out of the air. But even as I deny it, my mind betrays me. I think of his taut forearms as they lift my suitcase with ease, veins like rivers under sun-warmed skin.
And then this morning, colliding with him, chest solid, hands steadying me. Big, calloused, warm. There was something about Ford’s grip that made me forget the way men’s hands have hurt me before. The weight of his hands hadn’t felt like a warning; it had felt like an anchor.
Missy clears her throat.
I blink, jolting out of the daydream. Oh God. I just full-on spaced out, mentally ogling her brother.
“No, really,” I blurt, cheeks heating. “It’s not like that.”
She’s not buying it, and truthfully? I can see why. Her eyes narrow and she takes a long sip of her drink, like she’s trying to decide just how much trouble I’m in.
“I was just wondering why he’s so ... grumpy,” I add, swirling my glass and trying to look nonchalant.
Missy snorts.
“He’s always like that. But honestly? He’s a good guy.
He’s just been through it … After Dad died, and then his ex leaving him, he kind of took everything on himself.
The ranch, the bills, the family. He’s got this man of the house complex, feels like he’s got to do everything himself.
It’s annoying as hell sometimes, but ...
he means well. He just doesn’t always know how to show it. ”
I let Missy’s words settle over me. There’s something raw in the way she says it.
She’s peeled back a layer of her brother I hadn’t dared imagine.
And suddenly, the gruffness, the brooding, the sense of weight he seems to carry, it all clicks into place, and it makes my chest ache a little.
The kind of ache that sneaks in when you realise someone’s been fighting battles that you didn’t know existed. I know how that feels.
Missy must notice a shift in my expression because she lets out a dramatic sigh.
“Ugh, okay … vibe check. We’re spiralling into Sad Town, aren’t we?” she mutters, scrunching her nose like the thought offends her.
I give a little laugh, grateful for the release.
“Just a bit.”
She leans in close, eyes glinting with mischief.
“Wanna hear something that would absolutely make him die if he knew I told you?”
“Always,” I say, straightening like I’ve just been offered front-row tickets to the best gossip in town.
She grins, wide and wicked.
“Ford wasn’t always the human thundercloud you know today. Once upon a time, his favourite band was that British girl group the Spice Girls. You know them?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.
I blink at her, mildly offended.
“Do I know them? Me and my sister loved them! We had matching scrunchies, and I always wanted to be Baby.”
Missy snorts.
“Of course you did.”
My jaw drops, backtracking on what she’d said.
“Wait … Ford liked the Spice Girls?”
“Oh, yeah. We were obsessed as kids. But it gets better.”
I lean in so far that I’m practically hanging off my stool, hungry for whatever bombshell she’s about to drop.
“We used to choreograph routines in the lounge. He’d raid my closet to pick the perfect outfit. I’d be Posh or Sporty Spice, and he was always Scary. That boy loved leopard print like his life depended on it.”
I snort into my hand, already wheezing.
“Oh, we’re not done,” Missy continues, biting her lip to hold back a laugh. “He even smudged on a little of my mom’s eyeliner once. Said it gave him more stage presence.”
Laughter explodes out of me before I can stop it, nearly sending me off the edge of my stool. “Oh my God. I am never, never, going to be able to look at him again without picturing that.”
“Good,” she says, sipping her Cosmo with exaggerated innocence. “Just don’t tell him I told you.”
We both burst into roaring laughter, the kind that makes your stomach ache and your drink slosh dangerously close to the rim. I’m still wiping a tear from the corner of my eye when a voice cuts through the hum of the bar.
“You two look like you’re having fun.”
We both turn, still giggling as we face the interruption.
A man stands behind us, watching with an easy, lopsided grin. Auburn hair, bright eyes. Handsome, but not in a rugged way. It’s the kind of handsome that’s curated by good skincare and a well-used mirror. He’s tall, but not towering, athletic in that effortlessly confident way.
A white button-down shirt hangs loose on his frame, the top buttons left undone, revealing just enough skin to make it intentional. The shirt is tucked neatly into dark jeans, cinched with a leather belt. And of course … boots. His eyes roam over me, lingering. Assessing.
“Oh. Hi, Will,” Missy says flatly, barely sparing him a glance before turning to order us new drinks. Her words are clearly dismissive and uninterested—like he’s not worth the effort.
But his grin doesn’t falter. His eyes drag down my body, like he’s cataloguing something. He wants me to know he’s doing it.
Then he leans in just enough to make it personal.
“Well, aren’t you a pretty little surprise.”