Genevieve
I'M WAY TOO FUCKING EARLY.
But that's down to my nerves. All day I've been on edge, wondering what Ford could possibly have in store for us after texting me after our call ended when I agreed to meet him at his mansion to arrive for eight. It seems like a late time to me since the sun has already begun to set, shadowing Westville with dusk, though there's a distinct lack of a chill right now.
It's not even quarter to eight and I'm already inputting the security code to the gate. Ford mentioned in his message that they'd changed it again as per their new safety measures, but a miniscule part of me wondered if he'd send the wrong code to be vindictive and get the last laugh with me. It seems like such a preposterous concept now as the gate rolls open, especially in tandem with the emotion that crept so heavily into his words during the phone call.
I cruise up the lengthy driveway, eyes latching onto Ford's Audi without delay. There are also a few other cars nestled close together, including Harris' Mercedes. I squirm in my seat as I slow to a halt. I've seen Harris around college, but he's never given me anything more than a nod of acknowledgment. Not since he visited me in the hospital shortly after I was admitted before Ford regained consciousness.
"What the fuck am I doing?" I mutter to myself, though I still find my curiosity outweighing everything else.
I slip into autopilot as I kill the engine and stride to the front door. With the house being more like a mansion, I don't even bother to knock on the door. Instead, I withdraw my phone from my pocket and pull up my message thread with Ford, composing a message to send quickly, notifying him of my arrival.
"You're early," is the first thing he says to me as the door flies open a few moments later.
But there's nothing but breathy amazement laced in his words as his eyes dip to my body. They pause on my hips in my pleated miniskirt during the descent and then my legs, but the ascent is quicker. In the time it takes him to check out my body so unabashedly, I emulate him. He's donning skinny pale blue jeans and a form-fitting plain white T-shirt that just skims the waistband of his jeans. The sleeves squeeze his bulging biceps and highlight the dark ink that freckle his skin.
The ensemble seems so entirely simple in concept, but it doesn't detract from how agonisingly attractive he looks. It's illegal how good he looks.
But then I notice the dark smudges under his eyes upon closer inspection and the dullness that brims his crystal hues, once brighter in the peak of our relationship when he began emerging from his shell and embracing foreign feelings and sensations. And maybe he hasn't been feeling so great in the wake of everything, which makes him not alone, because frankly, I've been feeling like shit too.
Even though I've endeavoured to convince myself for the past seven fucking weeks that Ford and I are better off apart, I'm starting to realize how full of shit I am. I'm on his doorstep, aren't I? With the sole intention of something reigniting between us. Otherwise, I'd have called him back or messaged him, refusing to be anywhere near him for the sake of our sanities.
But I can't be without him.
If these seven weeks have taught me anything, it's that I want to be with Ford.
We've got other aspects in our advantage now. For instance, Carson's tucked away behind bars. That had been the major infliction for us, because of the games and mind fuckery involved. And Ford perceives—from a heart-wrenching lesson and reinforced by Harris—that Red Alert isn't a strict way of life to adhere to. He knows there can be some sort of leniency that won't disrupt his relationships outside of the legacy.
