Chapter 20 Ford
Ford
Stormy follows me to the truck, slipping into the back seat without hesitation when she spots Buddy already settled in the front. She gives him a quick fuss, scratching behind his ears.
"Hi, handsome," she murmurs before buckling herself in.
A sharp pang of jealousy punches through me. Where the hell did that come from? How am I jealous … of a dog?
I’ve been clear with her; Buddy’s seat is Buddy’s seat. But still, I find myself wishing she were sitting next to me instead.
I barely slept last night. My mind was too busy replaying every detail—the way she fit in my grip when I lifted her onto Raven, the feel of her soft curves beneath my hands, the warmth of her body pressed against mine.
The scent of vanilla and coconut lingering in her hair, carried by the wind as we rode through the rain.
It felt intimate. More than it should have.
More than I know I can afford for it to be.
I’ve never let anyone ride with me on Raven before, but when I saw her clutching those books, desperate to keep them dry, I knew I had to help.
I could feel her relaxing against me with every passing moment, like she trusted me and Raven.
That feeling, knowing she trusted us, it settled something deep in my chest. I liked it, being someone that made her feel safe.
Maybe a little too much. I had to shift back in my seat, distance myself, because the press of her against me was stirring up feelings I wasn’t ready for.
Feelings I felt not only in my chest, but also in my erection pressed against her back.
And then, I saw it. The way the rain had turned her dress a little too transparent.
Heat shot through me, pooling low, tightening every muscle in my body.
The image burned itself into my brain, remaining through the night, following me into the morning as I worked on the truck, distracting me more than I’d like to admit.
I start the truck, and it rumbles to life, the familiar hum of the engine filling the space between us. Stormy settles into her seat, resting back, her movements quiet as Buddy shifts beside me, settling back into his.
I love the way she dotes on my dog. Like when she’s out in the garden, letting him nuzzle into her lap like he belongs there. Clara never did that. She barely tolerated Buddy. Said he was messy and needy.
She left when things got hard. When I needed her most and didn’t know how to ask for it. I know I pushed her away with the late nights, the work, not enough time, but still. She walked. And I haven’t let anyone close since.
But the truth is, I haven’t even tried. I’ve kept things surface level. Dismissed the idea before it could take root. Told myself it wasn’t worth the risk. That no one would stick around once things got messy.
So this thing here with Stormy, this thing sat in my chest … I don’t know what to do with it.
She seems different. There’s something in her quiet stubbornness, the way she insists on doing things herself but still has that soft charm about her. The fact that she won’t just give up and leave. She’s staying, she’s trying, she’s fighting.
And sure, I’ve only just met her. But sometimes it doesn’t take long to spot the kind of person who moves differently through the world.
For a second, I wonder if maybe Stormy’s not like Clara. If maybe I’ve been wrong to keep everyone at arm’s length. If maybe liking her wouldn’t be the worst thing.
I grip the wheel, pulling out onto the road. The truck is quiet. And I’m not sure I like it. The silence between us isn’t just silence or awkwardness. It’s … something else.
I exhale, drumming my fingers against the wheel before I find myself speaking.
“You good?”
Stormy’s head lifts, her lips curving into a small smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
She’s lying.
I don’t know her well, hell, I don’t know her at all, but I know enough to recognise that the usual brightness in her voice is missing. That little spark of sunshine she always carries, it’s dimmer today.
I glance at her, narrowing my eyes slightly.
“You sure? Because you don’t seem fine.”
She hesitates, fingers tightening in her lap. I see the war in her eyes, wanting to brush it off, but finally, she sighs.
“It’s just … the building. Trying to find people to help. I’ve called around, but no one wants to take it on. Either they’re too busy, or they hear where it is and suddenly, they’re not interested.” She huffs a quiet laugh, but there’s no humour in it. “I don’t know. Maybe you were right.”
I don’t say anything. I don’t trust myself to.
Because I do feel bad for her, but I don’t know what that means yet.
I’d wanted her gone. She wasn’t supposed to be my problem. But now … now she’s sitting here in my truck, and instead of feeling the usual indifference, I just feel … something else. I want her to fight, to try, hell, I even feel like I might want her to stay.
I grip the wheel a little tighter, the words slow to come. “You’ll figure it out,” I say finally. It's not much, but it’s all I can give right now.
I show Stormy across the gravel towards one of the spare barns, though calling it a barn feels a bit generous. This one’s more of a makeshift garage, where I’ve spent countless hours fixing up tractors and tinkering with the truck she’s about to drive.
“Well,” I say, gesturing to the grey pickup in front of us, “here she is.”
Stormy steps closer, running her fingers lightly along the bodywork.
The truck isn’t much to look at. Scratches, faded paint, and a few dents tell the story of its years, but it works.
That’s all that matters. It’s taken me a while to get the thing up and running, but I’m proud of the work I’ve put into it.
“She’s not much,” I admit, shoving my hands into my pockets, “but she’ll get you where you need to go.”
Stormy lets out a small, relieved laugh.
“Thank you, Ford.”
There’s genuine appreciation in her voice as she circles the vehicle, inspecting it with quiet curiosity. But when she opens the driver's door and peeks inside, her expression shifts.
“Oh. It’s automatic?” She blinks at the gear shift. “I’ve never driven an automatic before.”
I raise a brow.
“You haven’t?”
She shakes her head looking almost sheepish.
I let out a quiet breath, pulling open the passenger door. “It’s pretty simple. Hop in.”
She slides into the driver’s seat, gripping the wheel with tentative uncertainty, while I settle beside her.
“Alright,” I say, tapping the gear shift lightly, “no clutch … just the brake and gas. P for park, D for drive, and if you need to reverse …” I flick the gear into R.
Stormy watches intently, nodding along, but when she puts it into drive and accelerates, the truck jerks forward in a way that has me bracing against the dash.
“Whoa … okay,” I laugh, surprising myself. It’s rare that I make that sound. “Gentle on the gas, alright? You’re driving a truck, not a race car.”
Stormy huffs exasperated, but grins, her cheeks turning pink. I hate how adorable I find it.
Adjusting her grip, she tries again, this time smoother. Slowly, she finds the rhythm, and I can tell she’s beginning to relax.
She drives us out of the barn, around the gravel forecourt a little, and I watch her intently as she does. Taking in her soft facial expressions and smile as she figures it out.
“You’ll get used to it,” I tell her, as she pulls back inside the barn.
I climb out and shut the door behind me.
As she steps out of the truck, her gaze drifts towards the back of the barn, landing on my acoustic guitar leaning against the wall.
“You play?” she asks, tilting her head.
I glance at it, debating for a second before giving a small shrug. “Sometimes.”
Her eyes linger on me, waiting for more. For some reason, I give it to her.
“When things get a little … too much,” I admit, scratching the back of my neck, “it helps to come in here and have a play. Clears my head.”
I don’t know why I just told her that. I don’t talk about this kind of thing. To anyone.
Stormy studies me like a puzzle, then gestures toward the guitar. “Can I have a go?”
I hesitate, just for a breath, before stepping over to pick it up.