“That is seriously adorable,” I say, grinning. “You play hockey, right? My brother mentioned it.”
It’s the perfect cover, and I have to keep it up. While the apology was necessary, this man will never need to know I checked him out this morning. Especially since I won’t do it again. If he becomes a client that’d be a bad idea.
“Yeah. I do,” he says. Then he hesitates. “I thought maybe—” He waves a hand, dismissing whatever he was about to say.
“That I recognized you?” I guess, but then the moment from this morning flashes before my eyes. When I looked up, startled to see him, and was about to sayyou’re the yoga guy, but I cut myself off. Good thing. Past me was looking out for present me and before he can answer I lean all the way in. “I did. Big hockey fan.”
That’s not entirely true. But I’ve been to a few games since some of my friends are dating hockey players.
“Cool,” he says, then pauses, looking toward the sparkling bay beyond the windows. He’s quiet for a few seconds, and I get the sense he’s a man who’s okay with silence. There’s something attractive about that—it saysyou’re comfortable in your own skin. When he turns back to me, his jaw is set. Is his mind set too? “What I was going to say earlier was I’m sorry too.”
I blink. What? I was the offender. “For…what?”
“I was kind of harsh on the street,” he says.
Oh. That. Well, yeah. Hewas. But I bite my tongue, since I don’t want to sayyeah, you were, dude.
“And I looked up what you were saying about dogs and being excited. And…you were right.”
Holy smokes.You were rightare three of the best words in the universe. The only ones better?You got the job.
I rein in my enthusiasm, even though I swear bubbles are flowing in my veins. Those words have to be coming next. I’m already imagining popping the cork with my friends and toasting to my new gig. Then, paying the rent. My brother’s house isn’t free after all. Even a good deal from family costs—gasp—money.
“Well, thank you for saying that. I’m glad we’re all good,” I say, and inside I’m thinkingplease, please, please give me the gig.
He extends a hand. “Thank you for coming by. I’ll be in touch.”
Oh. Okay. I’ve been dismissed. And in this industry, four out of five ‘I’ll be in touches’ end with no touches at all. Nada. Zip.
The job’s as good as gone. I swallow down the ball of failure rolling through me, say thank you, and leave.
On the bus back to the city, I replay the entire meeting. Hell, I rewind the whole day. But I keep coming back tomy portfolio. Ford legitimately seemed impressed by the ideas.
He also indicated over email that he wanted to move quickly.
All I can think is that a simple apology won’t do. I need to prove to the hard-ass why I’m the right person for the job. He’s an athlete, so he’s used to competition. I’ll show him I know how to compete.
Once I’m home, I call Mabel and ask her for a particular recipe.
“You want to makethat? It’s so not you.”
“I know, but sometimes you need to get out of your comfort zone.”
“Okay,” she says skeptically, then texts it to me.
I pop out to the store. When I return, I scour the websites of some of my favorite stores and put a hold on a very special item. Next, I find the plain white dog T-shirt I picked up for Simon at Second Time Around—sometimes he wears dog clothes on his social media feed. Usually, I just Photoshop writing onto them, but for this, I grab a fabric marker, spread the shirt out on the kitchen table, and start writing.
Simon stares at me from his spot on the floor, head tilted, waiting.
“I know you want your picture taken, but now’s not the time, you camera hog.”
He turns his snout the other way and waddles off.
It’s past eight when I finish. Probably too late to stop by my neighbor’s home.
Guess I’ll have to catch Ford tomorrow after yoga. Such a shame that I’ll have to watch him shirtless after all. But a lady boss has to do what a lady boss has to do.
In the morning, I keep popping onto the back porch, peering carefully around the edge of it. I can see some of Ford’s deck from here too, though the view’s not as good, nor am I as hidden here as I am in the catio. From the second Ford appears on the porch in his yellow compression shorts—why on earth does the man like yellow?—I peek out every few minutes as he moves through his sun salutations.
