Chapter 21 Stormy
Stormy
Ford holds the guitar out to me, a flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes. My fingers twitch, eager, but just as I reach, he pulls it back, just out of grasp. A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. His gaze sharpens, assessing.
“Ever played?” His eyebrow arches, as if already predicting my answer.
I shake my head, but flash what I think is a convincing grin “I haven’t, but surely it can’t be that hard, right?”
His laugh comes easily, warm and full-bodied. It settles between us, loosening something in the air, and I find myself smiling without thinking.
“Show me what you’ve got then, Sunshine,” he challenges, extending the guitar towards me again.
There’s that name again—Sunshine. And why do I suddenly like hearing it? The other times he said it, I’d hated it. But now … something feels different. More like a term of endearment than a nickname.
My cheeks heat as I take it, the wood cool and smooth under my fingers. But the moment I try to strum, the sound is all wrong, discordant, awkward. Ford sucks in a sharp breath, lips pressing together, and his shoulders shake slightly as he holds back laughter.
“Maybe it’s out of tune?” I joke, my voice a little too hopeful.
That’s all it takes. His laughter bursts free, rich, and unapologetic. It wraps around me, warm and addictive, and I laugh too.
It’s strange—nice even, to see this side of him.
The softness, the laughter. It’s a far cry from the brooding silence he wore like armour when we first met.
I wonder why he keeps it tucked away like a secret.
Sure, Missy said he’s been through it, and I get that …
but still. Moments like this, like yesterday, make me wonder how much more there is to him than just the rough edges.
“It’s not out of tune,” he says, still grinning. “Here, let me show you.”
He takes the guitar effortlessly, fingers moving with a quiet confidence, plucking out a melody. The notes roll out like water, settling into the space between us. His expression shifts, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes as the last note fades into silence.
“Okay,” I admit, exhaling in defeat. “Maybe not out of tune then.”
Ford huffs a soft laugh, and I reach forward, fingers brushing the strings with a featherlight touch, coaxing a soft whisper of notes. His eyes track the motion, then lift to meet mine.
“Can you teach me something?”
For a moment, he hesitates, the question hanging between us like a delicate thread. He shifts his weight and his throat bobs as he debates, then finally relents.
“Okay ...” he says, voice low, uncertain. He hands the guitar back, nodding toward the crate beside me. “Sit here.”
I ease onto it, pulling my phone from my back pocket and setting it beside us. Ford sets himself up behind me, close enough that I can feel the heat of him against my back. His fingers, rough, strong, capable, slide over mine, guiding and positioning them on the strings with quiet precision.
His masculine scent floats between us, and it fills my lungs as I inhale.
“I’m going to teach you something simple: part of a song called Smoke on the Water” he says, voice a little lower, closer.
“The Deep Purple one?” I ask.
“That’s the one,” he tells me, nodding his head. “It’s easy. Even a kid could play it.”
I turn my face towards him, tilting my chin, brows raised. “Are you calling me a child?”
His lips pull into a smirk, his eyes settling on mine for just a second longer than necessary. Instead of answering, he leans forward, showing me the chords, his touch firm but careful guiding my hand up and down the neck of the guitar, showing me where to add pressure with my fingers.
His presence presses against my senses, and the moment is warm and pleasant.
After he’s shown me a few times, he circles around, standing in front of me.
“Now play it without my help.”
I try, stumbling through the melody, fingers stiff, movements unsure. He watches me closely.
Then, slowly, he crouches, hands reaching to adjust mine again.
I glance at his face. His usual gruffness is softer now, his edges smooth, and his expression tender. Something I wouldn’t have noticed if we weren’t this close.
Ford lifts his eyes, and his brows furrow slightly.
“What is it?” I ask, uncertainty creeping in.
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, his hand lifts slowly. The rough pad of his thumb brushes along my cheekbone, featherlight, drawing warmth in its wake with a slow drag of heat.
“There’s flour on your face,” he murmurs, voice quieter now. His hand remains, his fingers resting against the skin on the back of my neck, his touch unexpectedly gentle.
A quiet laugh slips past my lips before I even realise, because I remember. The first time we met, I had pointed out the flour smudged across his face. It’s a thread that ties now to then.
His thumb drags away reluctantly, and our faces are suddenly too close, breaths shallow.
My stomach flutters as his eyes flick downward, to my lips, tension swirling between us. The heat of his eyes on my mouth is like static, all charged anticipation, and I tug at my bottom lip with my teeth before I even think.
A small, low sound slips from the back of his throat.
The rest of the world softens and blurs. All I can hear is the rush in my ears, the echo of my pulse … and the cool touch of the guitar still in my hands.
I shouldn’t want this, I know I shouldn’t.
But my eyes drop to his mouth anyway; soft and parted. The moment stretches, uncertain but electric. The smallest shift and we’d dissolve the space between us. Our lips would collide.
Then, my phone buzzes.
The sharp vibration cuts through everything. The surface ripples, then breaks, and I gasp like I’ve just come up for air.
Ford’s gaze snaps to the screen, the soft glow casting shadows across his face. And suddenly, everything shifts. The warmth evaporates. His features lock down, hardening into something unreadable.
I glance at my phone, a text from Sam.
Sam: Stormy, I love you ...
Anxiety clenches my stomach, tight and sudden. My fingers spasm with uncertainty before I grab the phone and delete the message. It feels like the air’s been yanked from my lungs. Just seeing his name, another message, sets my nerves alight.
Ford doesn’t move at first. He just stares at the space where my phone had been. His brow furrowing, jaw ticking like he’s trying to make sense of something that doesn’t quite add up. Then he pushes to his feet, abrupt, his movements clipped.
He clears his throat.
“I’d better get on with work.”
The air cools with the loss of him, and a new kind of tension seems to arise.
Ford digs through his pockets, searching for something.
When he seemingly doesn’t find it, his attention diverts to a faint noise from the truck.
He moves towards it, opening the passenger door, spotting his phone where it must have slipped out.
He picks it up and his expression shifts, worry flashing across his face before he mutters, “I’ve gotta go. ”
No explanation. No hesitation.
Just a hurried retreat.
I sit there, still gripping the guitar, overwhelmed and blinking at the space he left behind.
What just happened?
He’d looked at me like he was going to kiss me, like he wanted to kiss me.
And I’d wanted it too. God, I’d wanted it.
That thought alone stuns me almost as much as the emotional whiplash that followed.
Was it the text? Was it me? I don’t know what I’m supposed to make of it.
One minute I’m underwater with him, wrapped in heat and breathless quiet, the next, I’m left holding the guitar like an idiot while he disappears into the dust.
I don’t understand.
Not him. Not me. Not any of it.
Although … perhaps it’s safer this way.
I’m not ready, and I don’t know if I ever will be. Getting involved with someone was never part of the plan. I’ve worked so hard to stand on my own two feet, to rebuild without slipping back into old patterns or letting anyone else define me.
I’ve fought too hard to untangle myself from past toxicity.
And yet … part of me feels hollow. Like I missed something I didn’t even know I was reaching for until it slipped away.
But this, whatever this is, I probably shouldn’t let it happen again.
Even if part of me wanted to.
Even if part of me still does.
Because I’ve come too far to unravel now.