Page 59 of Bossy Mountain Daddies
I smile, imagining a younger Ford, perhaps less gray in his hair but with the same gorgeous eyes, observing the world from a quiet corner. "What did you read there?"
"Mostly poetry. Italian when I could manage it." He chuckles. "The locals were kind enough not to laugh too much when I’d attempt to use my bad Italian."
The dough has come together now, and Ford shows me how to knead it properly, pushing with the heel of my hand. It's therapeutic, this rhythmic motion, and I feel the tension from yesterday's discovery about Daniel's post beginning to fade.
"I stayed in this tiny pensione run by an elderly couple," I tell him. "The woman, Sophia, would leave fresh pastries outside my door every morning."
"Let me guess—sfogliatelle?" Ford asks.
I nod, surprised. "How did you know?"
"Just a hunch. It's what the woman who ran my pensione made too. Maybe it's a Florence thing." He wraps the dough in plastic and sets it aside. "It needs to rest now."
While the pasta dough rests, Ford shows me how to make a simple tomato sauce with fresh ingredients. The kitchen fills with the scent of garlic and basil as we work side by side, our conversation flowing easily from Italy to books to music.
I tell him about getting lost in the narrow streets of Florence and ending up at a tiny restaurant where no one spoke English. He shares a story about accidentally ordering tripe when he meant to order a bowl of soup.
By the time we roll out the pasta dough and cut it into perfect fettuccine strips, I'm laughing more than I have in weeks. The anxiety that's been my constant companion since Daniel's betrayal—compounded by his vindictive post—has receded to a distant hum.
We eat at a table overlooking his back yard, the pasta perfectly al dente, the sauce rich and vibrant. Ford tells me more about his decision to leave his corporate life, filling in details he'd only hinted at before. The pressure, the emptiness, the moment he realized he had everything he thought he wanted and none of what he truly needed.
"It was during a board meeting," he says, refilling our wine glasses. "I was presenting quarterly projections, and I suddenlydecided none of it mattered. They were numbers on a page that meant nothing. I resigned the next day."
"That took courage," I say.
His eyes meet mine across the table. "Not as much as you might think. The hardest choices are the ones where both paths have real value. Leaving that life was easy once I realized it had none."
After dinner, we move to his couch, wine glasses in hand. The fireplace casts a warm glow across the room. Outside, night has fallen, turning the windows into mirrors that reflect our images back at us.
"Thank you for inviting me over," I say, setting my glass down. “I really needed this.”
Ford studies me, his gaze thoughtful. "Something you want to talk about?”
I hesitate, then tell him about Daniel's social media post, the humiliation, my fears about what might happen if he discovers I'm seeing all three of them.
Ford listens without interrupting, his face growing serious. When I finish, he takes my hand, and presses his lips to my palm.
"He's trying to control things," Ford says softly. "People like Daniel can't stand when others escape their orbit. They need to rewrite the story to make themselves the hero."
"It still hurts," I admit.
"Of course it does." He moves closer, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "But his story isn't yours. You're writing your own story now."
“True. I just wish all this didn’t hurt so much.”
“Your shoulders are all up around your ears. Are you up for a little backrub?”
“What girl would say no to that?” I ask.
I turn around on the couch, presenting my back to Ford. His hands settle on my shoulders, and I nearly gasp at how good it feels when his thumbs press into the tight muscles at the base of my neck.
"You're carrying a lot of tension here," he murmurs, his fingers finding a particularly painful knot behind my right shoulder blade.
"Mmm," is all I can manage as his strong hands work their magic. He applies just the right amount of pressure—firm enough to release the tension but not so hard it hurts. His fingers knead methodically across my shoulders, up my neck, and back down again, finding every single point of tension.
I let my head drop forward as he works, my eyes fluttering closed. "Where did you learn to do this?" I ask, my voice coming out embarrassingly breathy.
"I dated a massage therapist for a while," he says, his thumbs pressing in small circles along my spine. "She taught me a few things."
