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)
The look on Ford’s face could be entered in a contest to define the word flummoxed, as if he didn’t entirely think this date through. But then he asks, with some concern, “Did I just break a neighbor rule? Or a client-designer relationship rule? No fake dates?”
“No, that’s not a rule. Neither of those are rules,” I say in a rush, because he’d better not take back a date, fake or real. I’d be crossing Adam’s don’t-date-a-neighbor line, but Adam doesn’t have to know about this fake real date. Or this real fake date.
Whatever it is, it’s mine, all mine.
“It’s been a crazy morning. I’ve gone from an invitation to gaze at my name underneath the carpet at the board game store to the suggestion I attend the opening with my neighbor, and his biceps, Dedication and Focus.”
I’ve probably said too much. I’ve definitely said too much.
Ford scrubs a hand across the trim stubble on his jaw, his blue eyes twinkling in…delight. “You named…my biceps?”
“And your abs,” I admit.
“There’s so much to unpack in that statement. But I have to get to practice. And no, I don’t give a fuck who’s there. So…is it a yes? To our revenge fake date?”
I smile, and when he smiles too, it does something entirely new to my heart—it feels light and glowy.
“It’s a yes,” I say.
His dimple shows up again. “Good.” He heads next door, gives me a wave, then—a flex of his right biceps.
“Dedication,” I say.
Another flex, the left this time. “Focus,” I add.
He wiggles his eyebrows as he goes inside with his dog.
I have no idea how my morning went from a pity invite to a revenge fake date, but I’ll take it.
“Bamboo is the new black. Fight me on this.”
It’s my opening salvo in today’s podcast. I’m feeling all sorts of feisty after this morning’s encounter with Ford turned my day around.
Trevyn arches a brow. “Reclaimed is the new black,” he counters.
Mabel smiles, makes a rolling gesture, and says, “I’d better get some popcorn for this.”
“Pay attention,” I tell her. “Because you’ll need to know this for your future bakery.”
“She’s not going to have a bamboo bakery,” Trevyn chides from across the table, full of stern authority.
“Not least because The Bamboo Bakery is a terrible name,” Mabel adds.
“One hundred percent,” I agree.
“But she is going to have chairs made with reclaimed wood for her fabulous place someday, and here’s why…” Trevyn launches us into a fifteen-minute debate about which design hack is better for both pocketbooks and the planet.
I feel energized. And, honestly, a little too excited about next weekend’s…fake date with Ford. My mood must be patently obvious—especially to Mabel, who was on the receiving end of my rant this morning.
“You’re in a much better mood than earlier,” she notes. “The viewers can see that smile, but the listeners can’t. So…what’s it for? You’ve been grinning this whole time, and let’s be real—pretty much the only things that put you in a mood like that are great thrift finds, snarky comments from Simon, and ogling hot guys.”
“Guess which one it is,” I challenge.
Trevyn strokes his goateed chin. “Oh, this is gonna be good.”
“I bet it’s all three,” Mabel declares, flicking a strand of light brown hair off her shoulder like she’s just cracked the case.
My jaw drops, and I can’t say a word as Mabel leans closer to the mic and whispers, “Is it Sexy Reno Guy?”
A tingle shoots down my chest, chased by a secret hope I haven’t felt in a long time. I’m about to answer yes—but then I wonder if that would be saying too much. Is it admitting too much, even if it’s just to our nine hundred thirty-one subscribers? Well, one thousand one hundred fifty now, since we had a bunch of new subs last week. Yay us.
But since I did tell Ford I’d named his muscles, it’s not exactly a secret that I think a client is sexy. At least I haven’t said his name on the show. And if he listened to it, or his mom did, they’d only hear that I think he’s handsome. “Possibly,” I say, twirling a lock of my hair.
“Oh, I do love possibilities,” Trevyn says.
And the thing is—I like possibilities too. I’m eager for the possibilities for the first time in ages. But that eagerness also scares me. Dates lead to romance, which leads to opening up and getting close and realizing you’ve wasted five years of your life on the wrong person.
When the podcast ends, Trevyn takes off for an afternoon date while Mabel and I head to High Kick Coffee to meet some of our friends for girl time.
The bell chimes as we enter the coffee shop, passing the showgirl mannequin posed at the door in her boa and sequined dress.
I scan the café, spotting our skating instructor friend Sabrina first, her blonde ponytail cinched high on her head. She’s already claimed a table by the window, right under a playful painting of two foxes, signed by local artist Maeve Hartley—another friend of ours. Leighton’s here too. She’s a photographer and an essential part of our extended girl gang.