When the podcast ends, Trevyn takes off for an afternoon date while Mabel and I head to High Kick Coffee to meet some of our friends for girl time.
The bell chimes as we enter the coffee shop, passing the showgirl mannequin posed at the door in her boa and sequined dress.
I scan the café, spotting our skating instructor friend Sabrina first, her blonde ponytail cinched high on her head. She’s already claimed a table by the window, right under a playful painting of two foxes, signed by local artist Maeve Hartley—another friend of ours. Leighton’s here too. She’s a photographer and an essential part of our extended girl gang.
After grabbing drinks, the five of us settle in at the table, and—just like Mabel did on the podcast—Sabrina dives right into the topic du jour.
“IsSexy Reno Guymaking you rethink your stance on dating?”
“You already listened?” I ask. “Iliterallyjust posted it.”
“I listened too. On the way over,” Leighton chimes in. “And that’s saying something, because I hardly listen toanythingwhen I walk around the city.”
“We’re just that charming,” Mabel says, smirking.
“So, is he?” Sabrina presses, her eyes full of mischief. “Because you’ve been a little reluctant to get involved with anyone.”
“Or a lot,” Leighton corrects, because my friends know the truth.
I took a year off from dating after Landon took off. It was justtoo hardto put myself out there again. I tried online dating a few months ago, but it was a bust. All those questions I like to ask to root out red flags left me with…nothing.
And now I have this nebulous sort of fake date coming up with a new guy.
I blow out a breath, trying to make sense of what Ford is.
Aclient.
Aneighbor.
And yet…he’s also a type ofdate.
“He’s making me think about a lot of things,” I say diplomatically.
Sabrina wiggles her well-groomed brows. “Ihopesome of those thoughts involve getting naked with him. Because it’s been a while for you, Sky.”
“Shut up,” I say, but I’d be lying if I claimed she was wrong.
I’d be lying, too, if I said I was thinking about slap shots and breakaways when I watch his hockey game the next night with Simon snoozing on my lap. How could I? The Sports Network shows the warmups, and I can’t look away as Ford stretches on the ice.
He’s kneeling, hands braced on the surface, shifting his pelvis up and down.
Up and down.
Up and freaking down.
I nudge Simon. “Look,” I whisper. “He’s…” My mouth goes dry. “It’s like he’s humping the ice.”
Simon lifts his snout, side-eyes the TV, then gives a subtle nod—confirming what I’m seeing—before flopping his head back onto my lap.
“He looks like a frog,” I say, then amend that to, “averysexy frog.”
And because that’s a thought Idefinitelyshouldn’t keep to myself, I text Ford as soon as the game ends.
Skylar: Saw the warmups. You give new meaning to the term ‘sexy frog.’
A few minutes later, a reply lands. He must be in the locker room now.
Ford: What did it mean before?
