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)
Mom returns her focus to her phone. “I should check out that podcast of hers. I’ve been so busy. Do you listen to it?”
“No,” I say, as I merge onto the bridge. I have to set some limits. I already check out her dog’s social, for fuck’s sake. If I start listening to her design podcast, I might as well hold up a poster that says I’m into you. And since I don’t want to keep discussing the woman I shouldn’t be so into, I nod to San Francisco’s iconic wonder of the modern world. “Did you know the Golden Gate Bridge was originally supposed to be black and gold?”
“Tell me more,” she says, like this is the height of intrigue.
I appreciate her willingness to be distracted by the thought of a bumblebee-like bridge. It’s like she knows I need a break from the romance talk. She knows how hard the divorce was on me, the way it shattered my trust. How I closed off parts of myself and vowed to trust only family, friends, and my dog.
And when my mom slides into a series of did you knows, it’s exactly what I need. Because the more I talk about Skylar, the more likely I am to admit I want to date her.
When I shouldn’t.
Really, I shouldn’t.
Soon enough, I’m jostling through afternoon traffic at departures, trying to wedge closer to the curb of Mom’s airline. I snag a free spot, flip on the hazards, then hop out for a quick goodbye. I give her a hug. “Glad you like everything. Can’t wait for you and Dad to settle in,” I say, meaning it deeply. She drives me batty, but she’s always been there for me, especially when hockey wasn’t. That matters.
“I do,” she says, then breaks the hug, cups my shoulders, and steamrolls on. “You know, it’s always a good idea to make sure everything’s completely believable when you show up with a fake date. Like maybe a fake kiss? Think about it, practice it, and be ready for it. It was good seeing you. I love you, darling. Have a great day. Thank you for everything. The chair is great. The furniture is great. Keep up the good work.”
She departs on a cloud of perfume, not letting me get a word in.
The thought digs in as I navigate traffic on my return to Hayes Valley.
The idea of a fake kiss taps on my brain like a woodpecker. It doesn’t let go. I can’t think of a thing that isn’t connected to fake kissing my next-door neighbor.
Or really, real kissing.
Nope. Not even my audiobook does the trick. Not even the goddamn news. I try toggling over to another audiobook I downloaded—the inside story of how a once-promising tech giant sold its soul to the devil. But even the jaw-dropping, backstabbing tale of corporate greed and political ring-kissing barely registers as I weave through cars and the press of traffic.
All I can think is fake kiss, fake kiss, fake kiss.
When I finally arrive home around four, I march up my steps, yank open the door, and hold out my arms. “Did you miss me, girl? I missed you.”
Zamboni bounds over, bouncing on her back legs, happily whimpering.
“Let’s do it,” I say, then rush through the house to let Zamboni out in the backyard.
As she does her business, I stare across the fence the entire time, shamelessly trying to catch a glimpse of Skylar. But the view from the yard isn’t as good as from the hot tub.
Dammit.
Maybe I’ll need a soak tonight. To enjoy…the stars.
Except…wait.
My pulse launches into the stratosphere. There she is, walking across the kitchen, phone in hand, dictating something into it while buttoning a blouse haphazardly. Pretty sure the sides aren’t even lined up.
She’s always getting things done—even in her reign of chaos. Maybe because of it. Skylar’s a riddle. Wild and chaotic, but also focused and driven. Fiery and sassy, but also kind and thoughtful.
And I can’t stop thinking about her.
She’s got an appointment in fifty minutes.
I should leave her alone. But I’m a jack-in-the-box. I scratch Zamboni behind the ears, then wash my hands and say to my girl with finality, “Sometimes you just have to say fuck it.”
She barks her approval.
I leave, bounding down the steps, circling to my neighbor’s yard, then heading up hers. I do it like I’m chasing the puck, hell-bent on scoring, refusing to let anyone get in the way.
And I knock on her door. Loudly.
20
ONLY ALMOST
SKYLAR
The man at my door doesn’t look like the one who stood across from me in the yard the other night. He doesn’t look like the guy who walked down the steps this morning with that easy swagger either. No, this version of Ford is the man from the day I met him—intense, tightly wound, ready to spring.