Quickly, returning my eyes to the road, I blurt out, “Is your dog on the mug?”
“Yeah,” she says, with a delighted kind of grin. “It saysI Swear I’m Not Judging You.” Then she lowers her voice. “But he’s totally judging you. I mean, his Internet name is Simon Side-Eye.”
I tap the gas pedal. “Your dog has an Internet name?”
“And his own line of merch. He even works with an eco-friendly company that fulfills his merch orders. He’s quite the business dog.”
And she is quite the surprise. As we wind past Twin Peaks, I don’t mind that my very neat car is now filled with her…wild spark.
9
AN EVERYTHING GUY
SKYLAR
I probably shouldn’t have given him such a hard time in the car. It’s just…nearly impossible not to.
Besides, sometimes it seems like helikesit. Like he sort of enjoys being called out. Maybe I’m reading too much into the back and forth, the way he serves volleys right back to me, then waits like a badminton player on the other side of the net.
Best for me to focus on being the badass babe I am.
Ford swings open the door for me at Twice Loved—because, of course, he’s the kind of guy who holds open doors—and I slide into pro mode as we enter one of my favorite places.
“Bastian—he’s the manager—has the Eames chair set aside for us,” I say. “And he also emailed me pictures of a few other pieces he thought might fit the style of the home. I can show you those first, or we can just wander. It’s up to you. Are you the type of person who likes to discover things as you go, or would you rather I guide you through?”
Ford mulls over the question, his expression serious,then says, “You mean, am I the kind of guy who sets out for a day in Tuscany to see what he stumbles across, or do I hire a tour guide?”
Hello, man with excellent taste. “Take me to Tuscany, please. I’d like a date with all the pasta in Italy.”
That dimple of his shows up again. Everything seems to be a game with Ford—a subtle, flirting game. Or maybe I’m reading too much into it. I tilt my head, considering him. He’s dressed impeccably again today, even in his casual attire—crisp jeans, a smart polo that shows off those biceps I want to bite, a pair of aviator shades hung on the neckline. His jaw is lined with light brown stubble—but it’s neat. Purposeful stubble, like he keeps it trim. His hair’s got a mind of its own, all floppy and wild, brown with some golden streaks. Besides the locks, everything about Ford screamslist guy. He likes order, a plan, a strategy. But I also have a feeling he’s got a well of patience a city-block wide and a control streak a mile deep, so I finish sizing him up and declare: “You’re an everything guy.”
The dimple deepens, fully owning his face. “Yes. I am.”
I sweep an arm out to indicate the depths of the shop. “This place has several rooms, so we can wander and check out all sorts of things, but I’ll make sure we see the items Bastian’s earmarked.”
Ford steps deeper into the main room—a maze of living room furniture, all well cared for, most pieces barely nicked and ready for a second life.
“Let’s start with a couch,” I say. “It’s the centerpiece of the home.”
“Not a kitchen table?”
“Don’t get me wrong—I love a good kitchen table, and wearedefinitely going to find a fantastic one for MamaDevon. And your dad of course too. But I think a couch is kind of like the soul of a home.”
“Maybe,” he says, seeming a little reluctant.
As we pass an emerald-green sofa that looks too stiff—definitely not right for him—I arch a brow. “You don’t use couches?”
An image of his home springs fully formed in my mind, even though I’ve never seen the inside. But I bet it’s mostly chrome and nickel, angles and lines, clean surfaces, deliberately bare. With some…plants though. Yeah, he’s a plant guy. I just know it.
Before he can answer, I say, “Are you a total minimalist? Do you basically have a yoga mat and a couple of pillows in your living room and that’s that?”
I swallow the last word, like I can swallow the entire line of questioning. Need to be more careful. How would I know he does yoga if I wasn’t checking him out, catio style?
He shoots me a skeptical glance. “No, I do yoga on the back porch.”
The way he says it—so serious, like it’s a given—makes me roll my lips together to stop myself from blurtingI know, I know.And even though I swore I wouldn’t look at him anymore, I peered out the catio window this morning and happened to spot him on his porch in those distracting yellow compression shortsagain. But in my defense, I thought I heard the squawking of a great blue heron in my yard, and I’ve been dying to see one of those beauties up close. Turns out, the squawking was just a sound effect on the comedy podcast I was listening to. But you don’t want to take a chance when it comes to a great blue heron sighting.
“So, youdohave a couch?” I ask.
