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)
But that’s okay—nothing will come of this.
No matter how much I hope Ford enjoys the mac and cheese.
I trot up to the porch and set it down on the doormat…which has an illustrated dog and says Wipe Your Paws. There’s just something about a man who loves dogs.
I turn around to head back to my house when I stop in my tracks. “Oh.” My pulse speeds up. My chest…tingles.
Ford heads up the path, wearing a suit, walking his dog…
And looking straight at me, like I’m a good surprise.
12
STARRY NIGHT SNACK
FORD
In sports, timing is everything. The way you line up a shot, how fast you swing the stick, how long you’re in the penalty box—in my case, hardly ever. I have the team’s lowest PIM (penalty minutes) thanks to discipline.
I’ve played sports long enough to know that timing matters in life too.
Like the day a couple of years ago when I came home early from practice and found my ex’s laptop open, a chat with the private chef still glowing on the screen. That was seriously good timing. Imagine how long the affair might have gone on otherwise.
As I walk across the stone path toward my house, Zamboni trotting faithfully beside me, I think about timing again. Because Skylar on my porch late at night feels like a shot lining up just right.
She could have dropped the mac and cheese off anytime. But she’s here now. And right away, I know—I don’t want her to go home yet.
“Lucky me—comes with personal delivery,” I say.
Skylar smirks. “How else would it get here?”
“Your dog? Simon sounds like a man of many skills.”
“True, but food delivery isn’t one of them.”
She bends to Zamboni’s level. “Is it one of yours, girl? Can you do that?” She scratches behind Zamboni’s big ears. The dog wags her tail, sniffing in Skylar’s direction. Or maybe sniffing the food. I bet both smell good to her. They sure do to me.
“Missed opportunity,” I say. “Simon could get even more work. Just another member of the gig economy.”
Skylar pretends to consider that. “He’d look awfully cute with a little pack on his back, carrying mac and cheese on one side, a bottle of wine on the other, checking off deliveries on his app.”
“I can see it now. At the very least, I can see him writing a snarky post about it.”
Her eyes flicker with approval. “And thank you for a new idea for his social.”
“You write Simon’s posts? I never would have known,” I say, dry as a desert.
“Don’t tell anyone,” she says in a conspiratorial whisper.
“Your secrets are safe with me.”
She smiles, her eyes sweeping over me, lingering just a beat too long. There’s something appreciative there, and I’m betting she likes the suit. I puff my chest a little in pride, as she says, “I didn’t peg you for a Cabernet.”
Or maybe I’m wrong. My brow furrows. “What do you mean?”
“Your suit. It’s the color of a wine.”
I glance down, running a finger along the lapel. “Huh. Thought this color was… Actually, I don’t know what I thought it was—maroon?”
She shudders. “That is not maroon. It’s a fine wine.”
Colors aren’t my strong suit. “Thanks. My sister picked it out. Hannah.”
“Hannah has excellent taste. And I’m guessing she had a Cabernet from the Lucky Falls Winery in mind.”
The wise move would be to say thanks, head inside, and tuck into the fantastic-smelling mac and cheese that’s waiting for me. But that wouldn’t be taking advantage of timing, or fine wine compliments.
“I happen to have a Cabernet. I don’t think it’s from that winery, but would you like to have a glass? Maybe some mac and cheese?” I ask, with some nerves—nerves I didn’t expect—racing in my chest. I do my best to ignore them as I nod toward the wooden bench on my porch.
It feels like a porch kind of night.
“I already ate,” she says, and I try to hide my disappointment as she pauses to pet Zamboni again, who shamelessly accepts the affection. But when Skylar looks up at me with those green eyes, I don’t see the signs of a woman who wants to go home. Her gaze sparkles with…curiosity. Her lips part like she’s forming an addendum to her answer, and I’m hoping she wants to stay.
I shouldn’t want that. Truly, I’m fine with whatever she says next.
But when she says, “The wine definitely works for me though,” I fight off a smile.
Five minutes later, I’m back with two glasses, a freshly opened bottle of wine, some napkins, and a couple of forks just in case. I’ve shed the jacket but not the tie. The cuffs on my crisp white dress shirt are rolled up.
We settle onto the bench, Zamboni flopping at my feet with a contented sigh. A few stars twinkle in the city sky. A car rumbles down the end of the street, then fades away.