The moment he’s done, I hustle to the kitchen, grab the goodies and my dog, and head to the front door.
Checking my reflection, I confirm I look presentable. Stylish jeans, cute sandals, and—I hate to admit this—a yellow top.
It’s pale yellow though. The only acceptable shade.
“Wish me luck,” I say to my reflection. Then I do the neighborly thing.
Well, if you’re the type of neighbor who royally screwed up and now wants to win a contract.
After I leash up Simon, I head next door, swallow down the last remnants of nerves, and take a deep, fortifying breath as I knock.
After a few seconds, I hear barking. Not aggressive—more inquisitive.
Soon, I catch a glimpse of Ford striding through the home, and—my breath hitches.
He’s wearing basketball shorts and a gray T-shirt. The compression shorts are gone. And I’d really better not think about the fact that he was whisking them off moments ago.
Tilting his head, he shoots me awhat the hell are youdoing herelook through the window next to the door but still tugs it open.
Simon barks once—enthusiastically. But when I tell him to sit, he plunks his butt down like a good boy.
“Good morning,” I begin smoothly as Ford’s dog checks us out from a dog bed several feet away. “Simon just wanted to bring Zamboni some dog treats made from kale.”
I hand him a small brown paper bag full of homemade dog biscuits.
Ford arches a brow. “My dog doesn’t like kale. Unless it’s in a smoothie.”
Damn. But no worries—I can pivot. “I did wonder if the dog and I had some things in common…” I say lightly. “But guess what? Here’s the rest of the bunch for your smoothie.”
I hand him the fresh bunch I picked up last night.
Ford takes it. “Thanks.”
Oh. Is that a hint of a smile?
It disappears in a second only to reappear when his gaze shifts to my dog. Ford reads the T-shirt I made for Simon, then arches a brow before looking back at me. “Not The Goodest Boy (But I’m Trying)?” he asks.
“He’s a work in progress,” I say.
And here goes the pièce de résistance.
“I’m off to my favorite consignment store in Noe Valley,” I say, playing it casual. “They just got a classic Eames chair in. I’d love to reserve it for your mom’s home office.”
His jaw falls open. “Wait. You—seriously?”
“Yes. Do you think she’ll want it?” I ask, knowing full well it’sthedream chair for mid-century aficionados.
“Yes,” he says, still looking like I’ve just knocked him over. “Absolutely.”
I smirk. “Does that mean I got the job?”
He pauses, recovers his composure, and then shoots me that cocky smile again. The one that shows off his dimple.
“I was coming over to tell you as much,” he admits with a no-big-deal shrug.
I blink, shocked and thrilled. “You were?”
He scratches his jaw casually. “I decided yesterday to hire you.”
