And I could kiss him for the save. Just kiss him.
Instead, I focus on his mother. She rattles off details, and in a bolt of brilliance, I know what to do.
“I’ve got an idea,” I say, then usher her down to the garage where I show her a bare wall, perfect for a workbench and cabinets for storage. “We could take those kitchen cabinets and move them down here so we’re not just ripping them out and sending them to the landfill. I know a carpenter, and she’s fantastic. Then we can get some reclaimed wood cabinets for the kitchen.”
For the first time since she arrived, Maggie beams. “Yes. Do that.”
Then she breezes out. But first, she stops in the doorway, looks back at me, and says, “By the way—the chair is fantastic. I needed to see how my ass felt twenty minutes later, and I approve.”
I want to punch the sky. As his mother heads upstairs, I turn to Ford, grinning in relief.
He squeezes my shoulder. Warm. Affectionate. And…lingering. “You’re doing great.”
“Thank you,” I say, relieved. “I appreciate the save.”
“You saved me, too, in your own way.”
Did I, though? Guilt wedges into my heart. “I was kind of sassing you when she arrived,” I admit.
“You were. But it saved me. My mom likes it when you knock me down a peg.”
“You do too,” I say, feeling a little like hummingbirds are flapping their wings in my chest as he strokes my shoulder.
His thumb slides slowly off the fabric of my shirt. Then, as if he’s realized what he’s doing, he pulls away quickly.
I glance at my shoulder. It feels radioactive, in the best of ways.
I want to stay here. Ask him to do it again.
But his mother's unexpected entrance rattled him earlier. The least I can do is handle the rest of her visit with aplomb, like we’re a team.
His blue eyes look darker. Hungrier. My breath catches and the world blurs for a moment.
“I should…” I point upstairs.
“Yes. You should,” he says, clearing his throat.
I tear myself away, my skin hot, my pulse rocketing,and meet his mom in the kitchen, where she gives me a list of things she wants—the must-haves, from doorknobs to drawer pulls.
I can manage this. Isocan.
When her list is finished, Maggie looks at her watch and says, “Well, that’s done. Why don’t we have lunch?”
At Gigi’s Café, Maggie holds court, entertaining us with tales of drinks spilled on dresses at galas, of wrong names blurted out at fundraisers, and of veggie hot dogs that spurted mustard on shirts at picnics.
I laugh as I take the last bite of my arugula, mushroom, and sun-dried tomato salad.
She smiles, sipping her iced tea as a late October breeze drifts through the open windows and seagulls circle nearby.
“But one thing drives me batty,” she says, setting down her glass. Her smile disappears. She huffs out a breath and shakes her head. “It’s so annoying that my son is single again.”
I perk up. I mean, I’ve been paying attention, of course, but now Ireallyperk up.
“What do you mean?” Ford asks warily, arching a brow.
“Well, you’re going to the gala,” she says to him. “It’s my last one, and you’re not playing that weekend. It’ll be here in town at The Resort.” That’s a hotel owned by the city’s well-known billionaire Wilder Blaine, who built an empire with sports teams, hotels, and clean energy. Now his hotels are known for their sustainable efforts—a perfect synergy. “San Francisco has truly embraced ourrecycling initiatives throughout the city in office buildings and public spaces.”
“Right,” he says, crossing his arms.
