I click open my portfolio, and as he takes me from room to room, I pull up a range of design ideas that could work—reclaimed wood, bamboo furniture, secondhand furniture that’s as good as new, and a house filled with just the right amount of greenery.
“My mom does love plants,” he says, almost begrudgingly.
Bingo.
“And I know all the best places to shop,” I add, my confidence surging. “From San Francisco to Cozy Valley and down to Palo Alto—there are so many great options for sustainable materials and decor.” I scan the walls in the living room. They’re sage green, easy on the eyes. Most of the others are a soft shade of eggshell, a relaxing, warm hue. “I see you’ve already painted. That’s great.”
Ford lets out a low huff of amusement. “My mom hated the painter. Loved the colors though.”
Hmm. She sounds hard to please, but I love a challenge. “What did she dislike about the painter?”
“The timing. She wants everything done yesterday.”
Ah, that’s easy. I don’t like to fuck around either. “I like her already.”
He shoots me a skeptical but curious look. “Next, you’ll tell me you can find a mid-century chair for her home office. She’s been looking for one for a while.”
Please. “Of course I can.”
His gaze sharpens. “That so?”
“Absolutely.”
He seems to mull that over, then says, “Listen, Skylar…”
I hearit. The tone.
The one that says he’s about to let me down.
My heart sinks.
I wanted this job. I truly did. A coveted chance as a solo designer to tackle the whole house, not just a single room. And a house like this, with that stunning view of the water? It’s a huge opportunity. I can’t believe I’m about to lose it because my dog humped his dog.
Or, really, because I laughed at the scene.
Fine, I laughed uncontrollably.
God, Iamuncouth.
Trevyn’s voice rings in my head:“Look, if someone’s Yorkie tried to get it on with Barbara-dor, I would cut them with my sharp wit.”
I lift a hand before Ford can continue. I need to apologize like I mean it. Not like I’m trying to win a deal. “I’m sorry about Simon.”
He blinks. Clearly, he wasn’t expecting that.
“He’s…very excitable,” I add, with a self-deprecating smile. “But I completely understand that your little cutie girl wasn’t into it. You had every right to be annoyed with Simon and with me. And I definitely shouldn’t have laughed.”
Ford tilts his head, saying nothing at first. Then, finally, he asks, “Cutie girl?”
I nod. “She’s adorable. She’s part Corgi, part German Shepherd, right?”
“She is,” he says, and suddenly, his entire demeanor warms.
“What’s her name?” I ask.
“Zamboni,” he says, unsuccessfully fighting off a smile and the dimple that comes with it.
That’s too stinking cute. Both the name and the dimple. But damn, the dimple is hot too.
