He shrugs. “I don’t use it a lot.”
The picture of Ford sharpens a little more. “You probably don’t like to relax.”
His shoulders shift, stiffening a bit, but his blue eyes are sharp, trained on me. “You think I’m a neat freak who can’t relax, don’t you?”
I really need to be more professional. Icannotkeep goading him, no matter how fun it is. “There’s nothing wrong with being busy,” I say carefully. “Not everyone’s into downtime, and that’s okay.”
“I like downtime,” he says, then flashes the barest of grins. “In Italy.”
I laugh. “Well played.”
His blue eyes sparkle, then he’s serious again as he says, “But this is for Mom and Dad. Mom’s a couch person. She likes to relax at the end of the workday. And she deserves to.”
It’s said with such affection and pride that my heart swells, along with my curiosity. “So you’re helping your parents set it up before they move in? They’re in Seattle, right?” I ask as I usher him past a few more baroque style sofas that are all wrong for his mid-century mom.
“As much as I can,” he says, adding matter-of-factly, “I bought it for them.”
I grab the arm of a gray sectional, stopping in my tracks. “You bought them the house?” I repeat. That’s big. Really big. I had no ideahe’dbought it. I’d thought he was simply…overseeing the redo.
A smile shifts his lips. “I did. As a retirement gift. It’s all theirs.”
The breath escapes my lungs. That’s so generous. “Ford. That’s incredible,” I say, my voice breaking a bit.
“I always wanted to. I’m glad I could,” he says, full of a lovely earnestness that warms my heart.
“Always? Like it was a childhood dream?”
The dimple flashes, almost boyish this time. “Actually, yes. We had a small home growing up. My mom works in non-profits, but she actually works for them—she’s not just one of those rich ladies who goes to galas. Not that there’s anything wrong with that—we love rich ladies who go to galas and donate. But she works in donor services,” he says, then lifts a finger, his eyes twinkling. “You’d like her organization. They bring recycling and composting initiatives to communities all over the country, including here in San Francisco.”
My heart pitter patters. “Love it.”
“She travels a lot and organizes fundraisers, though she’s working on her last one. And my dad ran a hardware store. We didn’t have a ton of money or extra space growing up, and one day when I was maybe nine or ten, I had to sleep on the couch for a week when my mom’s sister came to visit. I told them that someday they wouldn’t have to worry about space. That someday I’d buy them a bigger home, one where they didn’t have to worry about the mortgage either.”
I cover my heart with my palm. I’m beyond touched. “That’s so sweet.” I pause, then give him a little sass as I say, “I guessyou’rethe sweet one.”
He waves a hand dismissing it. “It was just…”
But he doesn’t finish, maybe because he knows it’s sweet and he can’t deny it.
He clears his throat. “They sacrificed a lot—time, money, and so on to make sure I could play hockey. To make sure I could go to college, too, and play there. And I didn’t even make it into the NHL until I was twenty-four.”He stops in front of the love seats. “This was something I always wanted to do. Something special. Something meaningful. To make their lives easier. To make their dreams possible. They’re pretty cool people.”
“I love that you feel that way. I’m close with my parents too,” I say. “I have lunch with my mom every week—she lives just outside the city. It’s nice, isn’t it? To get along with them,” I ask, and he nods softly. “I have lots of friends who have strained relationships with their parents. I know I’m lucky. I try not to take it for granted.”
“Same here,” he says, patting the arm of the love seat. “So let’s find them a good couch.”
I step to it. “Of course we will,” I say, glancing around at a few more pieces, then scanning a little deeper in the room for something in particular. But I want the discovery to feel organic. “My question for you is do we want to stick with the muted shades theme we have with the paint? Because I have a couple of ideas.”
Ford doesn’t answer right away. His gaze has shifted elsewhere. When I follow it, he’s studying a deep purple couch a few feet away, stepping toward it, running his hand along the arm.
“Velvet?” His voice holds a note of disbelief. “Is thisreallyvelvet? Who makes a velvet couch?”
I join him, running my fingers across the fabric too. “It’s pretty soft,” I admit.
For a brief moment, we’re both touching the couch, fingertips grazing the plush material, our eyes locking with each other’s. The air goes still for a long beat—a beat that doesn’t feel professional at all. That feels…almost heady.
I don’t quite want it to end, even though this moment feels like it’s tipping into something risky. I’m supposed tobe working, not imagining what it’d be like to curl up on a couch with him.
“Yeah,” he says, voice lower. “It really is.”
