He’s a client. A neighbor. Plus, my brother made it crystal clear that it’s best to keep relationshipsneighborly, and besides…Ford’s sort of a stern, gruff hard-ass.
Well, maybe not as much of one as I’d first thought. He might have a softer side underneath his sandpaper exterior.
But he’s not a new romance on the horizon. I shake my head. “Nope.”
As I eat my mushroom burger, I trynotto think too much aboutSexy Reno Guy.
That night, though, I do pick out an outfit to wear when I go shopping with him.
Not for him. Just…I like to look professional for my clients.
8
A LITTLE SPARK
FORD
Sometimes you just have to prove your point. After I grab my to-go cup—with a proper lid on it, right where it belongs of course—I say goodbye to Zamboni and head out, ready to prove a point.
To myself.
That this meeting is business as usual. That I’m simply doing a nice thing for my mom’s designer. That I’m unaffected by my sexy-as-sin neighbor.
Who’s…waiting on the sidewalk already, and it’s not even ten-forty.
How the hell is a hot mess early? Earlier than me? This makes no sense. Skylar’s supposed to be clumsy, kooky, and unable to remember an appointment. To arrive ten minutes late, clutching a huge stack of books, tripping on her feet, and landing kersplat as the books spill onto the sidewalk.
I’d sweep them up and offer a hand while she’d flash a quirky smile and apologize.
But nope.
I didn’t even tell her which vehicle was mine—noneed—but Skylar Haven is already leaning against my car, all casual and easygoing, big red sunglasses on and…an infernal coffee cup in her hand. But I can’t even bother to check out the mug because she’s looking like the cool kid in high school, with black pants that hug her legs just so and a slouchy gray top that reveals a hint of her creamy shoulder.
And…freckles.
Fucking freckles that travel across the exposed skin by her collarbone.
What does she taste like there? Right there?
The thought is entirely too distracting. I fight it off, wrestle it to the ground, and stomp on it. Then I leave it behind me.
Play it cool. Play it like you didn’t watch her in her kitchen less than forty-eight hours ago.
I stride down the steps, across the stone path, and over to her, making a show of checking the time on my phone. “You’re early.”
“Are you going to fire me for that?” It’s asked as a playful challenge.
“Not today, Skylar. Not today.”
She wipes a hand across her brow. “Whew. I was worried.”
I thrust the to-go carafe at her, figuring it doubles as an apology gift, too, for giving her a hard time about her dog last week. This is what a decent dude who didn’t check out his neighbor late at night would do—bring her a drink before a work meeting. Since I’m absolutely, definitely no longer thinking about how she looked in her kitchen the other night wearing those just-the-right-amount-of-short pajamas. Nope. Not at all.
“You were right,” I concede.
“About what?”
“When you said I was watching kale smoothie videos. But only halfway right since I watched a video on how to make a…wait for it…pineapple smoothie. Figured that was more your speed.”
