“Lucky me—comes with personal delivery,” I say.
Skylar smirks. “How else would it get here?”
“Your dog? Simon sounds like a man of many skills.”
“True, but food delivery isn’t one of them.”
She bends to Zamboni’s level. “Is it one of yours, girl? Can you do that?” She scratches behind Zamboni’s big ears. The dog wags her tail, sniffing in Skylar’s direction. Or maybe sniffing the food. I bet both smell good to her. They sure do to me.
“Missed opportunity,” I say. “Simon could get even more work. Just another member of the gig economy.”
Skylar pretends to consider that. “He’d look awfully cute with a little pack on his back, carrying mac and cheese on one side, a bottle of wine on the other, checking off deliveries on his app.”
“I can see it now. At the very least, I can see him writing a snarky post about it.”
Her eyes flicker with approval. “And thank you for a new idea for his social.”
“You write Simon’s posts? I never would have known,” I say, dry as a desert.
“Don’t tell anyone,” she says in a conspiratorial whisper.
“Your secrets are safe with me.”
She smiles, her eyes sweeping over me, lingering just a beat too long. There’s something appreciative there, and I’m betting she likes the suit. I puff my chest a little in pride, as she says, “I didn’t peg you for a Cabernet.”
Or maybe I’m wrong. My brow furrows. “What do you mean?”
“Your suit. It’s the color of a wine.”
I glance down, running a finger along the lapel. “Huh. Thought this color was… Actually, I don’t know what I thought it was—maroon?”
She shudders. “That isnotmaroon. It’s a fine wine.”
Colors aren’t my strong suit. “Thanks. My sister picked it out. Hannah.”
“Hannah has excellent taste. And I’m guessing she had a Cabernet from the Lucky Falls Winery in mind.”
The wise move would be to say thanks, head inside, and tuck into the fantastic-smelling mac and cheese that’s waiting for me. But that wouldn’t be taking advantage of timing, or fine wine compliments.
“I happen to have a Cabernet. I don’t think it’s from that winery, but would you like to have a glass? Maybe some mac and cheese?” I ask, with some nerves—nerves I didn’t expect—racing in my chest. I do my best to ignore them as I nod toward the wooden bench on my porch.
It feels like a porch kind of night.
“I already ate,” she says, and I try to hide my disappointment as she pauses to pet Zamboni again, who shamelessly accepts the affection. But when Skylar looks up at me with those green eyes, I don’t see the signs of a woman who wants to go home. Her gaze sparkles with…curiosity. Her lips part like she’s forming an addendum to her answer, and I’m hoping she wants to stay.
I shouldn’t want that. Truly, I’m fine with whatever she says next.
But when she says, “The wine definitely works for me though,” I fight off a smile.
Five minutes later, I’m back with two glasses, a freshly opened bottle of wine, some napkins, and a couple of forks just in case. I’ve shed the jacket but not the tie. The cuffs on my crisp white dress shirt are rolled up.
We settle onto the bench, Zamboni flopping at my feet with a contented sigh. A few stars twinkle in the city sky. A car rumbles down the end of the street, then fades away.
Skylar tips her head toward Zamboni. “She camehome with you.” It’s a statement, but I understand the question.
“She stays at a dog hotel when I’m on the road.”
“Stahp! Stahp! That’s too cute. I need to know everything. Does it have heated floors, soft music, a swimming pool, and off-the-floor beds? Do they include bedtime stories, or is that extra? Can you order a biscuit to go under her pillow at turn-down service? Do theyhaveturn-down service?”
