My mother gasps. “Who doesn’t love pink?”
“Never trust someone who doesn’t love pink,” Skylarsays, running a hand over the dusty-pink upholstery on the lounge chair, set on an aluminum base, with a high back and a cushion for the head.
“Words to live by,” Mom says, seeming agreeable but then…she eyes it with an arch in her brow. Judgement in her eyes. A ruler-straight mouth. Oh shit. She hates it.
I try to soften the blow. “I guess you’re not proposing to it?”
“No,” Mom says, and my shoulders sag.
Dammit.
But I’m not disappointed for me. I was hoping she’d love this chair Skylar found for her because I wanted Skylar to have that win.
But Skylar doesn’t miss a beat. “I’ll find you another one.”
Mom tuts. “You’ll do nothing of the sort. That chair and I? We’re eloping tonight.”
Skylar grins. “Congratulations.”
I expected Skylar to survive my mother.
I didn’t expect her towin her over.
And as we leave, I sure as hell didn’t expect to be wishing the day wasn’t ending.
On the way home, I glance at the dashboard clock more than I should. My mind races through unexpected ideas likeWant to stop at High Kick Coffee? I hear coffee tastes better drunk rather than worn.OrWant to walk our dogs? You’ll keep yours at least ten feet from mine though, right?
But those all sound suspiciously like dates.
And that’s not what I should be doing with my neighbor,my designer, and a woman who, frankly, I don’t have that much in common with.
At least, I didn’t think I did before today. I’m beginning to question that assumption.A lot. So I fiddle around with the console, asking instead, “Want to listen to some music?”
“Sure,” Skylar says, and I wonder what she listens to. If we even havethatin common. We probably don’t. “But I figured you only listen to news.”
I roll my eyes, then stab the pump-me-up gym playlist Wesley shared with all of us—he’s our resident music savant—to make my point.
But instead of the Bad Bunny tune that played the last time my teammates and I bet who could bench press more, a confident, soprano voice fills the car, saying: “Now, if someone requests a meeting, ask yourself—does it align with your three key priorities?”
Shit. I must have hit my audiobook app instead.
Skylar whips her gaze to me as I slow at a light. “You listen to…business productivity books?”
It’s said with way too much satisfaction.
I hitendso fast. “Just something my sister suggested,” I say, shrugging it off. It feels personal. Too personal. Like I’m letting her see a part of me I’d rather keep to myself.
Or maybe—another voice says—a part you’re afraid to share?
I shared these parts of myself with Brittany.
The goals I had for myself—to excel at hockey—and for us as a couple—to grow closer. Brittany had asked me to hire a private chef to teach us how to cook together, so we could have quality time over homemade meals. She’d framed it as an investment in our relationship, a way to reconnect during the season when I spent so much timeon the road. Instead, she used that time when I was gone to start an affair with the chef.
My jaw clenches at the unwanted memory as I slow at a light. I steal a glance at Skylar, unsure what to say, if anything. But I choose silence—it’s easier than taking a risk. Don’t want to get burned.
But Skylar’s gazing out the window thoughtfully. “That’s cool,” she says, waving a hand at the console. “I could probably benefit from that. That kind of focus, you know?”
And…that wasnotwhat I’d expected her to say. “Yeah?”
