Chapter 14 Stormy
Stormy
Iwake to a soft knocking. It doesn’t sound urgent, but it’s enough to pull me out of sleep like a thread unravelling. Umm what?
A dull, throbbing weight presses against my skull, and my throat feels as though it has been lined with sandpaper, every swallow a slow punishment. How much did I drink last night?
Missy groans beside me, buried under the covers like a disgruntled burrito.
“Ughh … tell them to go away,” she mumbles, face pressed into the pillow.
I blink at the ceiling for a moment, and then I peel myself out of bed, bending to squint into the vanity mirror. My hair’s a disaster, half curls, half chaos. I scoop it into a loose ponytail with a scrunchie, wincing at the sight of my own puffy eyes.
Theres a slight chill in the air, so I grab my dressing gown from the hook and shrug it over my shoulders as I pad down the stairs.
The knocking’s stopped now, but I still feel it echoing somewhere behind my eyes. I have no idea who it could be, all my deliveries aren’t due to arrive for another few days.
I crack the door open, just a sliver, and immediately wince. The light outside brutal, sharp and unforgiving. I squint through it and catch the shape of someone walking away.
Ford.
He’s halfway down the path with something in his hands; shoulders hunched like he didn’t expect me to answer.
“Ford?” I call out, voice rough and uncertain.
He stops, glances over his shoulder, and then turns.
And just like that, I’m wide awake.
I pull the door open a little wider, but keep myself tucked behind it, one arm curled around the edge like a shield. The morning light still stings, but it’s not the brightness that makes me squint now, it’s him.
Ford walks toward me, easy and unhurried, like he’s got all the time in the world.
There’s a quiet confidence in the way he moves, broad shoulders, steady gaze, like he knows exactly how he looks and doesn’t apologize for it.
I wish I’d taken another thirty seconds to make myself look at least a little more human before answering the door.
He reaches the door, and I forget how tall he is until he’s right in front of me, towering over me like a statue.
His eyes flit down, just briefly, but I feel it like a caress. They catch on the strip of skin showing between my rumpled crop top and shorts, and I instinctively tug my robe tighter around myself, fingers fumbling at the sash.
“Is everything okay?” I ask, voice low, trying to sound casual but failing.
He clears his throat, and when his eyes meet mine again, they’re unreadable. He holds out a set of keys, dangling from his fingers like an offering.
“You dropped these,” he says. “They were out here.”
I suck in a breath. They’re mine. My stupid keys.
“Oh. Uh … thanks,” I murmur, blinking as I try to stitch together the fragments of last night.
I reach out, and our hands brush. His palm is warm, rough with callouses, and my fingers hesitate for a second too long. My gaze lifts from the keys to his eyes, and something shifts in the air between us.
The weight of Ford’s stare remains for longer than it should before he clears his throat again, shifting his weight.
“Y’know,” he says, voice low but edged with something vaguely disapproving, “probably not the safest move, leaving your keys out here like that. And you should really be locking your door at night.”
I blink, caught off guard by the comment. It’s not mean, exactly, just … Ford, I guess.
“Ahh … yeah. My bad,” I say, suddenly feeling like a teenager caught sneaking in past curfew. “Sorry.”
He nods, like that’s all he needed to say, and starts to turn, but then I notice his other hand. There’s something in it. A small blister pack, crumpled slightly at the edges.
He follows my line of sight and seems to remember it all at once.
“Oh … right,” he mutters, lifting it between his fingers. “Thought you might need these.” He rubs the back of his neck and looks away like it’s no big deal. “After those shots Missy and Jensen were feeding you last night.”
It’s tossed out like a casual observation, but I feel the words land differently.
“Didn’t see any in your grocery bags when I brought them in yesterday, so …”
I stare at the painkillers, then at him.
It’s such a small thing. Barely a gesture. But it’s thoughtful in a way that catches me off guard.
“Thanks,” I reply, softer this time. But then I raise an eyebrow, lips tugging into a crooked smile. “Snooping through my bags, were you?”
His mouth twitches, almost a smile. “Just observant.”
I take them, but before I can reply, a low groan echoes from inside the house.
Ford’s brow lifts, just slightly. He glances past me, then down at what I’m wearing—shorts, crop top, robe barely tied—and I see his eyes darken as the pieces fall into place. Or at least, the pieces he thinks he’s seeing.
He straightens a little, jaw tightening.
“Didn’t mean to interrupt anything,” he says, voice clipped. “I’ll let you get back to … whatever.”
The warmth from before drains out of him, replaced by that familiar wall. So guarded, it’s like he’s already gone.
He takes a step back and I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Because technically, he’s not wrong. There is a guy in my living room. Just not in the way he’s imagining.
“Can you two keep it down?” a voice calls from inside, groggy and annoyed.
A tall figure stumbles into view behind me, rubbing his eyes and yawning like he’s just crawled out of a cave. Jensen. Shirtless, hair sticking up in every direction, looking like he lost a fight with a blanket.
“Love the early morning drama, but could it be quieter?”
I see the tension ease from Ford’s shoulders, just slightly, when he realises who it is. His jaw unclenches and his stance softens.
Jensen squints at the blister pack in my hand, then reaches out and pinches it from my fingers like it’s his birthright.
“You’re a godsend,” he mutters to Ford, already popping the seal. “Seriously. I could kiss you.”
Ford grunts softly, almost amused.
“I’ll find you later,” Jensen adds, handing the packet back to me and turning back toward the couch. “Got the day off. Can help you out on the ranch if you need.”
Ford nods at him, mouth twitching.
“You offering to help, or just planning to supervise?”
Jensen flips him off lazily without turning around.
“I’m a delicate flower today. Handle me with care.”
Ford’s mouth is now as close to a smile as it’s ever been, but as he turns to leave, his eyes find mine again and his expression sobers. “Just … be more careful with your keys next time.”
I watch him walk away, boots crunching against the gravel, and close the door, pressing my back to it, the silence inside suddenly louder than it should be.
Footsteps creak on the stairs and Missy appears, wrapped in a blanket, hair wild, eyes squinting through sleep.
“Was that my brother I heard?”
From the couch, Jensen groans and flips onto his side.
“Yeah,” he mutters, voice thick with sleep. “And he’s got it bad.”
I blink.
“What?”
But Jensen’s already drifting off again, leaving the words hanging in the air like smoke.