Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 102411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
“I’m looking forward to it,” I say, meaning it completely. But that also means we’d better keep moving.
Like explorers who leave no stone unturned, we cover the rest of the shop, checking out armchairs and kitchen chairs. Ford finds a few he likes, and I show him the ones I’ve picked out too.
We visit the kitchen area, rapping our knuckles on bistro tables and breakfast tables, until his attention snags on…a lamp with a base that looks like a sloth foot.
He beelines for it, like it’s the treasure he’s been seeking. Or an oddity.
“What in the ever-loving hell?” Ford says, running his hand along the metal carved to look like the animal’s toes. “I almost want to get this as a gag gift for one of my teammates.” He looks at the ceiling, seeming deep in thought. His phone buzzes in his hand, but he hits ignore before checking it. I can appreciate a man who lives in the moment.
“Bryant. This would be great for Wesley Bryant. He loved being pranked when he joined the team.”
I laugh. “Probably made him feel welcome.”
Ford blows out a breath. “It did…but would he really use it?” He sighs, then shakes his head, resigning himself. “I’ll have to think of other pranks.”
I pat his arm absently. “I’m proud of you for resisting getting something you don’t actually need,” I say, then glance down at my hand. Curled around his strong arm.
Holy shit. I just touched him.
And…he’s looking at me as if he likes the contact too.
The casualness of the touch goes up in flames. Poof. Vanishes. I’m standing here in the store, touching him, and I shouldn’t be. Really, I shouldn’t.
Touching him was a mistake. Not a big one. Just…the kind that lingers in the air a little too long.
I pull my hand away like I’ve been burned, swinging my gaze around, hunting for a distraction—then spotting one in the next room. “But maybe you want the billiard tables. For your parents’ house,” I say, pointing ahead.
“Oh sure. Maybe,” he says. “I do like pool.”
He turns into the next room, and I take a beat to just…breathe.
Don’t touch him again, even playfully.
I step toward the room when a voice crackles over the loudspeaker, like in a grocery store: “Paging Ford Devon, your mom is on the phone.”
10
STEAK TO A TIGER
FORD
I wish I could say I was surprised. But this is so unbelievably on brand for her that I simply let out a heavy sigh.
Skylar’s irises flicker with question marks. A worried frown curves those pretty lips.
Right. She has no idea what my mom is like. She might think something bad is happening. “This isn’t the first time she’s done this,” I try to reassure her.
Her shoulders relax. “You’re…not joking?”
Shaking my head, I beckon for her to join me as I stride through the labyrinth of tables, sloth lamps, and an umbrella holder with an elephant-head at the top (who knew?) toward the front of the store.
“When I was eighteen and driving to college, I was pulled over by highway patrol. Wasn’t even speeding. Had no clue what it could be for. A broken taillight? Maybe my tags were out of date? But when I rolled down the window, the officer said, ‘Are you Ford Devon?’ I said yes, of course. He said, ‘Call your mom. She hasn’t heard from you in a couple of hours.’ Then he walked off.”
Skylar’s eyes spark with an amusement that spreads across her whole face. “Noooo.”
“Yessss.”
“That’s…fantastic.”
“That’s annoying,” I correct.
“I meant it’s fantastically diabolical.”
She gets it. “Yes. All because my cell phone battery ran out somewhere in the Rocky Mountains. Mom said she wanted to make sure I was okay.”
Skylar’s green eyes flicker with more amusement than eyes should be allowed to hold. “How many times did she do this when you were a toddler? Were you endlessly paged in grocery stores? Did they know your name at the local super store? Did they call out, ‘Ford in the toy aisle—go find your mom in tampons?’”
She sounds positively delighted. A far cry from my ex, who loathed my mother. I get it. Mom is like cilantro—not to everyone’s liking.
“I wish I could tell you that didn’t happen, but it did,” I say as we weave past a haphazard row of reclaimed wood tables. Pretty sure that cream table is the one we picked for Mom, but right now I’m too irked by her to give it a second thought.
“I probably should actually give her my number at some point,” Skylar offers, “so she doesn’t worry.”
That is entirely too kind. And also dangerous. “Do you want to throw raw steak to a tiger?”
“I hate steak, so that’d be a no. But why?” Skylar’s eating up every detail of Mom like they’re gumdrops on the path to the gingerbread house in the woods.