Chapter 40 Stormy
Stormy
Sitting at my dressing table, I angle the mirror so that the late sunlight kisses it instead of blinding me. The surface is cluttered in that curated chaos that I like to pretend doesn’t matter; foundation bottles and earrings I probably won’t wear, a mug of peppermint tea half-empty and cold.
My one and only tube of lipstick lies uncapped beside it, waiting for me to decide if I feel brave enough to wear it tonight.
Ford said we could skip the date. He said he’d understand if tonight felt too heavy after everything.
But I told him I want to go. If I stay home and curl inward, or if I let Will’s shadow snuff out my light, then he wins.
All the bad men I left behind in London win.
And I’m tired of being the fallout. I want to be the fight.
My fingers tremble slightly as I blend a small amount of foundation onto my face.
There's a kind of power in choosing to dress up anyway, in declaring that I deserve sweetness after the storm.
Missy’s supposed to be on her way. I texted her, said I needed help, but didn’t say what with.
I want her to help me decide: the pink dress with an open back, tight at the bodice and floaty at the hips, or the black one that feels like armour, hugging me like a second skin.
But what I really need to tell her is that something’s happening, and I have no idea how she’ll take it.
She’ll be here soon, and when she walks through that door, I’ll ask her which dress makes me look like I could rewrite my own story.
Just as long as she is happy with her brother being the male protagonist.
The front door flies open downstairs, loud and dramatic like a gunshot cracking across the quiet evening.
“Stormy,” Missy calls, voice breathless.
“I’m up here,” I shout back, steadying my mascara wand as I lean closer to the mirror, trying not to jab myself in the eye from the shock.
“Are you okay? What happened? Did you fall? Did you get a weird rash?”
Missy’s voice rises with every question, and footsteps pound as she runs up the stairs and into my bedroom like she’s sprinting into battle.
I blink at her through the mirror, mascara wand frozen mid-swipe.
“… What?”
“You said you needed help but didn’t say what with, and I panicked,” she says, dropping her bag onto my bed like it personally offended her. “I thought you were in trouble. Like literal blood and tears trouble.”
I turn slowly on my stool, amused.
“I’m fine,” I say with a small laugh. “Just getting ready for a date.”
“Oh my god.” She breathes, then slowly lowers herself to sit on the edge of the bed like her knees just gave out. “Wow. That’s so normal. You really threw my drama sensors for a loop.”
Her eyes flit to the wardrobe, where the two dresses hang side by side. She points dramatically.
“Wait. This is the thing? You needed help picking a dress for a date?”
I nod, sucking in a breath. My heartbeat thuds a little harder.
Missy narrows her eyes, and her lips twitch like she’s holding back a grin. “… with Ford, right?” Her tone is casual, but her gaze is anything but.
“Yeah … that’s the other reason I wanted to see you,” I mumble, worrying my lip. “I was going to tell you. I just didn’t know how you’d feel about it. I hope it’s oka–”
“Stormy!” She cuts me off, beaming. “Of course, it’s okay!”
She leaps up and hugs me around the shoulders from behind, careful not to smudge my makeup, arms squeezing like she’s trying to physically pump reassurance into my chest.
“I knew he had a thing for you,” she says, grinning at our reflection in the mirror. “And then he asked me last night if I could cover the feedings tonight, and I was like …. uhh yeah.”
I laugh, releasing a breath, and I lean back into her touch.
“Y’know I’m already planning the wedding playlist, right?”
I groan through a smile.
“Missy. Don’t get ahead of yourself. It’s just a date.”
“Sure,” she says breezily, already heading toward the dresses with purposeful flair. “And I’m just a casual bystander with no opinions.”
She holds up the black one first.
“Okay … this is spicy. You’ll look like you came here to ruin his life in the best way.”
I try not to spontaneously combust under the blush crawling across my skin.
“But …” She turns to the pink dress and lifts it gently, eyes softening. “This one’s you. It’s romantic and quiet and strong. It doesn’t shout, it feels. And Ford’s gonna melt into a puddle.”
I glance at it, fingers brushing the fabric.
“You really think so?”
“I do.” Then she gasps dramatically. “Also, weird realisation: I’m choosing a dress for someone to potentially seduce my brother. That’s a weird level of emotional involvement and … I think I need a drink immediately.”
I laugh, fully embarrassed, but grateful that she is okay with this.
After she helps me change into the dress, Missy moves to stand behind me at the dressing table and curls soft waves into my hair, humming to herself.
I glance at the lipstick.
“Should I wear it?”
She tilts her head, considering.
“Honestly? I think he likes you natural. You’re the breath of fresh air on a dusty day. Lipstick feels like overkill.” She reaches across the table, finds my shimmer balm, and dips her fingertip into it. Then she dabs it gently onto my lips with the same care she’ giving the curls in my hair.
She gently twists another section of my hair around the curling wand with slower, more deliberate movement. The hum she’d been singing fades, replaced by a thoughtful quiet.
“You know,” she says softly, “I’ve always worried about Ford.”
I glance at her in the mirror, curious.
“He’s spent so much of his life looking after everyone else. Fixing things. Carrying weight that wasn’t his. And somewhere along the way, he stopped believing he could have something for himself. Like happiness was something he had to earn, not something he deserved.”
She sets the wand down and runs her fingers through the curls, loosening them with gentle care.
“He built walls, Stormy. Not just to keep people out, but to keep himself from hoping. Especially when it came to love. I used to think he’d never let anyone in.”
Her eyes meet mine in the mirror, and her smile softens.
“But then you came along,” she continues, smiling at me through the mirror. “And it’s like he finally stopped guarding the gate. Like he saw someone who didn’t need fixing, just care. Someone who makes him laugh, who challenges him, who sees him—really sees him.”
My breath catches.
“I want him to be happy,” she says, voice thick with emotion. “He deserves that. And I think you’re the first person who’s ever made him believe he could have it. That he’s allowed to want something for himself.”
Missy leans down, resting her chin lightly on my shoulder. “You’re perfect for each other. Not because you’re flawless, but because you’re brave. You both are. And I think you’re exactly what he’s been waiting for, even if he didn’t know it.”
I reach up and squeeze her hand, heart thudding with something fierce and full.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
She grins.
“Now go knock him dead. But like, emotionally, not literally. I still need him to fix the light in my bedroom.”
I look at myself in the mirror. I’m nervous and excited. But, above all, I’m hopeful.
I’m just pulling on my boots when I hear a slow, deliberate crunch of heavy footsteps approaching up the gravel. My pulse flickers to attention. And then there’s three short knocks.
I glance towards the hallway mirror one last time with my chest tightening. My curls have settled in soft waves over my shoulders, and the pink dress is floating around my thighs like something quietly magical. It makes me feel romantic.
Missy stands beside me grinning like she’s watching a romcom unfold in real time.
I reach for the door and open it slowly.
Ford stands there, looking so good that handsome doesn't even begin to cover it. In fact, he looks godly, as though he’s been carved from shadows and late summer light.
His black button-down shirt clings in all the right places, sleeves rolled just enough to show the tattoos licking up his forearms where his veins are pronounced.
His jeans sit low, and a brown belt anchors the whole look in rugged precision.
His boots are dusted, and his hair is tousled in a way that’s unfair to the laws of attraction.
Soft, touchable, and begging to be tangled in someone’s fingers. My fingers.
And for a second, he just stares.
His eyes travel from my curls to the shimmer on my lips, down to the way the dress skims my waist and settles over my hips. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move.
Then he exhales slowly, and a smile lifts the corner of his mouth. Not his usual smirk. Something softer.
“Holy hell, Stormy …”
He steps forwards, hands finding my waist, and spins me once gently. He’s admiring, like he needs the full view to believe it.
“You look …” His voice is rough now, low. “Beautiful.”
I laugh, dizzy from his reaction, heart skipping wildly.
“Would you two like some privacy?” Missy calls from behind, leaning against the wall with a smug little tilt of her head.
Ford tenses, just barely. His hands slide from my waist, slowly, like he doesn’t want to let go, thumbs grazing my hips. A whisper of contact so gentle it makes my breath catch.
He clears his throat.
“Shouldn’t you be at the stables?”
Missy rolls her eyes.
“Yes, brother, I’m galloping there as we speak! Don’t panic.”
She pushes off the wall and gives us a theatrical wink, and a slow suggestive eyebrow raise.
“Have fun, kids,” she sings. Then, before closing the door softly behind her, she whispers to me, “Told you he’d love it.”
My cheeks turn warm, and I look up at Ford, my smile caught between nerves and a new sense of comfort. For a moment, the world hushes, and it’s just us suspended in this moment of tenderness.
He reaches for my hand with a gentle, reassuring touch.
“You ready?” he asks, voice quiet.
I nod, heart thudding.
His smile is soft, and somehow, it steadies me.