Chapter 30 Ford
Ford
Breakfast around the campfire is as awkward as you’d expect, as I attempt to avoid eye contact with Stormy.
Not that it helps. She's everywhere in my head. The feel of her skin against mine, the sweet scent of her hair, how she gasped and whimpered, so fucking responsive to every touch.
It’s like an intoxicating kind of torment. The memory curls around me like smoke escaping fire, impossible to ignore. My cock twitches, reacting with a mind of its own, and I grit my teeth, forcing myself not to look at her.
I need space. Air. The smoke’s suffocating, clawing at my lungs.
So, I slip away into the trees before we begin the journey back down the mountain, letting the firs swallow me as I step off the trail, boots crunching soft earth and fallen pine.
The air is cooler here, and dappled light shifts between leaves.
The scent of wet moss and wood-smoke wraps around me.
Birdsong echoes from the branches above, and for a moment, just a moment, the chaos quiets.
But it doesn’t stay quiet for long.
Thoughts of Stormy interrupt the silence like the whisper of the wind through the trees, not entirely noticeable, but there. I can still feel the way her hand slid up my thigh, the gentle pressure, the way I was desperate for her to touch me.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I mutter under my breath, dragging a hand over my face as if I could scrub the guilt out.
What the hell was I thinking? How did I think we could just casually do this? Like getting physical with someone so painfully sweet, so goddamn beautiful, wouldn’t come with consequences? Like her demons wouldn’t clash against mine and bleed us both dry?
I like Stormy. More than I should. And after this morning … God, it scares the hell out of me. Not because of what we did, but because of what it could mean. What she might think it means.
I don’t want to hurt her, and I don’t want to give her hope for something I’m not sure I can give.
It’s not about her. It’s me, I know, it sounds so cliché.
But it’s true. I’ve built walls so high, I barely know what’s on the other side anymore.
And with her, the walls are starting to crack a little, to crumble.
Letting someone close—actually close? That’s not something I do.
Not because I don’t want to. But because I’m terrified of what happens when they finally see it all …
how much I’ve been struggling since Dad passed, how the pressure of the ranch is grinding me down, how if I couldn’t even keep my girlfriend and make her happy, then how can I be like Dad and keep this family going?
What if she sees all of it and walks away?
Just like Clara did.
It’s been so long since I let myself feel this kind of pull.
And now that I do, it’s like I don’t know how to hold it without breaking.
I want to be the kind of man who says, “Let’s see where this goes.
” But I don’t know how to make that promise.
Not when all I’ve known is how to keep my distance—how to bolt before someone gets too close.
“Fuck.” I kick a fallen branch. The crack echoes sharply against a nearby trunk, punctuating my frustration.
Where do we go from here?
Another crack rings out behind me, cutting through the forest hush, and I spin, only to find Missy leaning lazily against a tree, arms crossed and a smirk curving her lips.
“What’s up, brother?” Her voice is honeyed mischief. “I’ve got something juicy… and I think you know exactly what.”
I keep my posture loose, feigning nonchalance as I turn back toward the trail. “Nothing’s up, Missy. Wanted a change of scenery. Didn’t realise I needed permission.”
She pushes off the tree with deliberate ease, stalking behind me in slow, circling steps.
“I saw you,” she purrs, rounding me like a hawk. “Sneaking out of Stormy’s tent. Thought you were being really subtle, didn’t you?”
I lift a brow, keeping my voice even.
“She had a bad dream. I sat with her for a bit.” I shrug. “Nothing juicy about that.”
Missy’s grin sharpens.
“Is that why I heard all that heavy breathing?”
I freeze, just for a breath.
“Before you say anything, it’s nothing, okay?” My tone edges towards warning. “Seriously.” I round on her, finger pointed close to her face. “Do not say a word about this to Mom. Or Harper. Or Jensen. I mean it, Missy.”
“Oh, come on.” Her voice is teasing, but grounded, completely ignoring my irritation. “Why’s it such a bad thing? She’s perfect, Ford.”
I shake my head, jaw tight. “Don’t.”
“But do you like her?”
The question sinks like a stone. I hesitate, because of course I like her.
I like her too damn much. I look away, knowing my silence says more than words can.
But what do I say? I can’t admit it to Missy.
I can’t share this with her. Not when I don’t even know what this is myself. Missy softens, just a touch.
“Hey, I’m not trying to stir shit. I just want you to be happy. That’s all … We all do.”
“I’m not talking about this.”
Missy nods, backing off, but her eyes linger, too knowing for comfort.
“Okay.” She turns, already walking away. “But you should.”
I watch her go; the weight of her words settles in my chest with an ache. And just like that, I’m alone again, with the memory, the ache, and no idea what to do with either.
By the time I get back to camp, the others are packing up in silence.
Missy’s wandered off to load the truck, Harper and Mom wrestle with the tents, and Stormy crouches by the firepit.
She’s tapping ash from a pan, and her hair’s pulled into a messy knot that’s already coming loose. She glances up when she sees me.
Her face is bare and beautiful, with a constellation of freckles that practically beg to be counted.
Morning light spills across her skin, illuminating the curve of her cheek, and my heart stumbles.
She’s starting to tan, just barely. Like the sun’s been creeping in, claiming her inch by inch. Like it knows she belongs here.
“Hey,” she says, soft and sweet.
“Hey,” I answer, my voice tight as I attempt to ignore the knot in my stomach.
The silence presses in, and I feel the events of this morning hanging between us, impossible to ignore.
"Is everything okay?" she asks quietly. But I can hear the question tucked behind it: Are we okay?
I clear my throat and nod "Yeah. Just … needed a walk."
Stormy stands, brushing soot off her knees, nodding in response. Then turns, walking toward the supply box. But when she’s halfway there, she hesitates and spins back to face me, her brow furrowing gently.
“Are you … mad at me?” Her voice lowers. “I didn’t mean to … I mean … if I did something wrong …”
Fuck. That hits harder than it should. I shake my head, the urge to reach out wipe the worry from her face courses through me.
“No. You didn’t. It’s me. I’m just …” I bite off the rest, jaw tight.
I step closer, eyeing the others at the other side of camp.
“I don’t know what I’m doing. This … you…
” I stop again. “You didn’t do anything wrong.
” The urge to touch her intensifies, and I’m relieved when she shifts her weight, looking away.
“Okay,” she says, but it’s tight. Tense. She turns to clean up, but I step forward, almost too quickly.
"I just don’t think it’s a good idea,” I blurt out.
She stops. Looks back.
I shift, rubbing the back of my neck.
“We … probably shouldn't let that happen again.” My voice is low, frayed. “I'm not good for you, Stormy. I'm … grumpy. Pissed off half the time. I don’t say the right things. And I sure as hell don’t do the right things."
Stormy tilts her head, watching me quietly.
“Well. I’m not exactly a prize either.” She lets out a shaky laugh, barely more than a breath, and her eyes search mine. “I wasn’t … I didn’t come here looking for this, you know.” She forces a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. "Actually, I came to get far away from that."
My jaw tightens as I try not to think about her ex.
"I mean it, Stormy. You deserve better than me fumbling through my own mess like an idiot. We … us … it can’t happen again."
She nods again, eyes low, voice smaller.
“Yeah. You’re probably right.”
Her fingers toy with the pan in her hands and my hands tighten into fists at my sides. The space between us feels thick. Charged.
"We can just … be friends?" she says, like a question. Her voice is light, hopeful, almost like she’s afraid of losing something. “… I’d like that”
“Friends,” I echo, though my throat has a hard time saying it. “Yeah.”
The word tastes wrong. All I want is to give us a shot, to see what this could be if I wasn’t dragging my past behind me like a wrecking ball.
If she wasn’t still flinching from hers.
I want to know what it feels like to be good for someone.
To be wanted without the burden of damage.
But I look at her, and I see the cracks she’s still holding together.
I feel the ones in me, too jagged to hide.
And I know—I know—that if I reach for her now, I’ll ruin it before it begins.
So, I say, ‘friends’, and I pretend it’s enough. Even though it’s not. And the moment sits between us, pulsing.
“Ford!” Harper’s voice cuts through the fog, barrelling toward us in a half-jog, her hair a frizzy mess.
“Can you quit slacking off and come help us before Mom collapses under a tent pole?” She gestures toward the mess of canvas and poles behind her.
“She’s over there trying to wrangle canvas like it insulted her, and honestly, it’s kind of entertaining.
I tried to help, but she told me she’s ‘got it’ and wouldn’t let me near it.
So now I need you to help me help her before she loses the battle. ”
The corners of my mouth twitch despite myself, and we all glance towards Mom, who’s currently locked in a battle with a tangle of tent fabric, arms flailing like an octopus with a grudge.
Stormy lets out a soft, startled laugh, a real one this time, and for half a second, it feels easy.
Just people sharing a joke in the middle of the mess.
“Go,” Stormy giggles, her voice steadier now, though something flashes behind her eyes. “Your mum looks like she could use a little help.”
“Nah, I think I’ll just leave her to figure it out,” I say, voice low and mock serious. “She’s strong. She doesn’t need saving.”
“Ford,” Stormy laughs, shoving my shoulder, and for a heartbeat, that touch burns. A spark against my skin. “Go and help her!” Her voice is teasing, and the outrage on her face makes me laugh.
“Of course I’m going to help her. What do you take me for?”
“Well, last I checked, your default setting was Grumpy, so …”
“Yeah. Well. Maybe I’m trying to channel my inner Shadow Daddy,” I deadpan, but the corners of my mouth betray me.
She freezes for a beat, brow furrowed, but her lips twitch as she realises that I was actually listening to her ramble about those books last night. Then her face shifts, humour taking over.
“Shadow Daddy, huh?” she teases. A smirk plays at the corner of her mouth, and her teeth tugs discreetly on her bottom lip. But I catch it. And the gleam in her eyes tells me she likes that answer more than she should.
The way my stomach throbs watching her mouth? That tiny tug? Yeah, I should probably walk away. Before we both end up in another situation that we don’t want to be caught up in. For a second, we just stand there, the air between us charged and humming.
And then I force a breath and step back.
“I should go help.”
“Yeah, you should,” she says, but her voice is softer now.
But when I’m halfway across the clearing, I feel it, that tug. The pull to look back.
So I do.
She’s moved to kneel by the supply box, and the pan clinks softly as she slots it into place.
Her movements are slow, the moment drawing out almost as if she’s caught in the haze of her own thoughts.
She rests back onto her heels, and her hand lifts to tuck a loose strand of hair from her face.
And when she does, her eyes catch on mine.
Sweet, tentative. But threaded with heat.
The kind that sits right on the edge of emotion, so easy to just reach out and grab, tempting and dangerous.
Then a figure steps beside her, pulling her attention away.
Missy.
She stands over her and says something low that makes Stormy glance up, smile, and push herself to her feet.
It’s a hesitant smile, like she’s shielding something behind it.
Missy’s eyes flick to me. Brief but pointed.
And my stomach twists. Because Missy knows what happened this morning.
And she’s never been great at keeping her mouth shut, especially not when she thinks she’s ‘helping.’ If she says anything to the rest of the family, if Mom or Harper pick up on it—or worse, Jensen—when we get back, it’ll spread like wildfire.
My family … Jesus. They’d never let it go.
It’d be all knowing smiles and relentless questions.
They’d act like it’s good. Like it’s real.
I look away fast, shoulders tensing.
Mom better be tangled up in that tent like a damn spider in a web.
I need the distraction.