“Ford, you should’ve driven Skylar. I can tell you want to spend time with her.”
I let out a long, frustrated sigh. “Mom. Car. Now.”
With a too-pleased grin, she slides into the passenger side. Once I’m behind the wheel, she says, “She’s nice.”
Something she never said about Brittany. Something I’m grateful to hear, even though there’s nowhere to go with it. There’s no room in my life or my hardened heart for romance, even with someone…nice.
“She likes you too,” I say as I pull out of the lot and head along the main drag toward the highway.
“Well, she has very good taste,” my mom says, then smiles my way, giving me a knowing look before saying, with genuine affection, “I mean it.”
She’s not only saying Skylar has good taste in likingher. But I can’t touch the other meaning—that Skylar might be into me.
Focus. Just focus.
I grip the wheel tighter and put all my concentration onto the road. But out of the corner of my eye, I see Mom peering sharply at my to-go cup. She picks it up and inspects it as I drive. “This is…interesting.”
I say nothing. Just clench my jaw. The cup could open up a can of worms.
She clucks her tongue, grabs her reading glasses from her purse, and taps something into her phone. Probably looking up the dog on the cup. Probably learning Simon Side-Eye’s “mom,” the woman benefiting from his potential OnlyPaws page, is indeed Skylar. I brace myself for an inquisition.
Instead, Mom chuckles, then fights off a grin as I near the Golden Gate Bridge once more. She clears her throat and says, “Like I said—hardly a fake date.”
But a fake date is precisely what it has to be. Because if it’s fake, it can’t fall apart. If it’s fake, then there’s no risk. No messy emotions. No future to ruin.
“Mom, do you honestly think I want to get involved again? My life is busy. I’m focused on hockey. I have an opportunity to go out on top. You know how much that means to me,” I say seriously. I need the reminder as much as she does.
She gives me a sympathetic look, letting down her mother-knows-best routine. “I do, sweetie. I really do. And I want it for you—I want all the best, all the time for you.” She was there through my early career, cheering me on at Minor League games, lifting me out of funks, always believing in me. Hell, she let me come live at home in the off-season when I was twenty-two, twenty-three. When friends of mine had pro contracts and I was just…hoping.
Mom returns her focus to her phone. “I should check out that podcast of hers. I’ve been so busy. Do you listen to it?”
“No,” I say, as I merge onto the bridge. I have to set some limits. I already check out her dog’s social, for fuck’s sake. If I start listening to her design podcast, I might as well hold up a poster that saysI’m into you.And since I don’t want to keep discussing the woman I shouldn’t be so into, I nod to San Francisco’s iconic wonder of the modern world. “Did you know the Golden Gate Bridge was originally supposed to be black and gold?”
“Tell me more,” she says, like this is the height of intrigue.
I appreciate her willingness to be distracted by the thought of a bumblebee-like bridge. It’s like she knows I need a break from the romance talk. She knows how hard the divorce was on me, the way it shattered my trust. How I closed off parts of myself and vowed to trust only family, friends, and my dog.
And when my mom slides into a series ofdid you knows, it’s exactly what I need. Because the more I talk about Skylar, the more likely I am to admit I want to date her.
When I shouldn’t.
Really, I shouldn’t.
Soon enough, I’m jostling through afternoon traffic at departures, trying to wedge closer to the curb of Mom’s airline. I snag a free spot, flip on the hazards, then hop out for a quick goodbye. I give her a hug. “Glad you like everything. Can’t wait for you and Dad to settle in,” I say, meaning it deeply. She drives me batty, but she’s alwaysbeen there for me, especially when hockey wasn’t. That matters.
“I do,” she says, then breaks the hug, cups my shoulders, and steamrolls on. “You know, it’s always a good idea to make sure everything’s completely believable when you show up with a fake date. Like maybe a fake kiss? Think about it, practice it, and be ready for it. It was good seeing you. I love you, darling. Have a great day. Thank you for everything. The chair is great. The furniture is great. Keep up the good work.”
She departs on a cloud of perfume, not letting me get a word in.
The thought digs in as I navigate traffic on my return to Hayes Valley.
The idea of a fake kiss taps on my brain like a woodpecker. It doesn’t let go. I can’t think of a thing that isn’t connected to fake kissing my next-door neighbor.
Or really, real kissing.
Nope. Not even my audiobook does the trick. Not even the goddamn news. I try toggling over to another audiobook I downloaded—the inside story of how a once-promising tech giant sold its soul to the devil. But even the jaw-dropping, backstabbing tale of corporate greed and political ring-kissing barely registers as I weave through cars and the press of traffic.
All I can think isfake kiss, fake kiss, fake kiss.
