it’s gorgeous. It looks like the perfect white farmhouse, like something you see in a magazine, or in a movie. But that’s not what has me frozen in my spot.
Ford has a fucking ax in his hand and he’s chopping wood—shirtless.
Fucking shit, the way his muscles flex with each swing of that ax has my thighs trembling, my knees knock together and I’m completely unable to move.
“Shit,” I whisper to myself.
Damion might be right. I might have to ride that cowboy, because I don’t think I’ll be able to think straight until I get this pent-up need out of my body.
Chapter Nine
STEPHANIE
“You standin’ way over there watching me for a reason?” Ford calls out.
My entire body jerks and my feet finally unstick from the dirt before they carry me closer to him. Inhaling a deep breath, I try to calm my racing heart.
Why? Why do I feel like this around him?
I can’t even remember the last time that I was nervous around a man. Yet, here I am, a ball of nerves around a man that I have known longer than any other on this earth.
“Can I help you today?” I ask, my mouth completely dry as he continues to work, the sweat dripping down his chest.
He stands, facing me, his eyes roaming over my body as his lips twitch into a smile. My eyes travel down to his chest, pausing at the thick scar that travels down the center of his chest, stopping before it gets to his belly.
Taking a step forward, I bite the inside of my cheek. “What happened?” I breathe.
He dips his chin, taking another step toward me, dropping the ax to the ground before he closes the distance between us and is only a few inches away from me.
“Ford?” I ask, my eyes unable to leave the thick scar, one that I’ve never seen before.
He doesn’t speak right away. “Don’t, Stevie.”
“Stephanie,” I murmur.
“Huh?”
“I’m not Stevie, not anymore,” I say a bit louder.
He nods, his finger touching the underside of my chin, tipping my head back. Lifting my eyes from his scar, I look up into his gaze. He smirks, his lips tipping up on one side as his gaze searches my own.
“Okay, Stephanie, then. You sure you’re not Sterling?” he asks.
Reaching out, I touch the center of his chest, his scar, but I don’t look down. Keeping my eyes on his, I shake my head slightly. “I know who I’m not and I’m not Sterling either,” I say, trying to sound strong.
“Do you know who you are?”
His question should be simple, but it’s not. It’s probably the most confusing question that he could ever ask me. Pressing my lips together, I shrug a shoulder.
“I don’t,” I admit softly, saying it aloud to him is really hard, but I do.
He nods once, his eyes searching mine, still searching, but never showing me anything. “I had heart surgery about six years ago. Some defect that was never detected. Thought I was having a goddamn heart attack,” he says.
“Ford,” I whisper. “Your parents…”
“Gone by then.”
“Who took care of you?”
I don’t know why I ask him that, I have no right to know. But it should have been me, I should have been the one to hold his hand when his parents passed, when he was in the hospital, every moment for the past seventeen years I should have been by his side. I wasn’t. The guilt that I feel about that slides up my throat, threatening to choke the life from me.
“Not a kid. Wyatt and Beaumont stopped by here and there,” he says with a shrug of his shoulder.
His finger is still beneath my chin, I don’t want him to step away, to move because it feels good having him this close to me. In fact, I’m sorry that I pushed him away yesterday. I want his mouth on mine, I want to trace that scar with my tongue as an apology for not being with him.
“What are you really doing here?” he asks, his voice gruff and demanding.
I don’t take my eyes from his, shifting closer to him, I slide my hand up the center of his chest and wrap my fingers around the side of his neck.
“I told myself it was to help you, to talk about yesterday, about everything.”
“But?”
“I wanted to see you again,” I whisper. “I didn’t like how we left things. I do want to talk to you, explain to you that my leaving had absolutely nothing to do with you. I