When I finally arrive home around four, I march up my steps, yank open the door, and hold out my arms. “Did you miss me, girl? I missed you.”
Zamboni bounds over, bouncing on her back legs, happily whimpering.
“Let’s do it,” I say, then rush through the house to let Zamboni out in the backyard.
As she does her business, I stare across the fence the entire time, shamelessly trying to catch a glimpse of Skylar. But the view from the yard isn’t as good as from the hot tub.
Dammit.
Maybe I’ll need a soak tonight. To enjoy…the stars.
Except…wait.
My pulse launches into the stratosphere. There she is, walking across the kitchen, phone in hand, dictating something into it while buttoning a blouse haphazardly. Pretty sure the sides aren’t even lined up.
She’s always getting things done—even in her reign of chaos. Maybe because of it. Skylar’s a riddle. Wild and chaotic, but also focused and driven. Fiery and sassy, but also kind and thoughtful.
And I can’t stop thinking about her.
She’s got an appointment in fifty minutes.
I should leave her alone. But I’m a jack-in-the-box. I scratch Zamboni behind the ears, then wash my hands and say to my girl with finality, “Sometimes you just have to sayfuck it.”
She barks her approval.
I leave, bounding down the steps, circling to my neighbor’s yard, then heading up hers. I do it like I’m chasing the puck, hell-bent on scoring, refusing to let anyone get in the way.
And I knock on her door. Loudly.
20
ONLY ALMOST
SKYLAR
The man at my door doesn’t look like the one who stood across from me in the yard the other night. He doesn’t look like the guy who walked down the steps this morning with that easy swagger either. No, this version of Ford is the man from the day I met him—intense, tightly wound, ready to spring.
I can practically smell the frustration rolling off him like cologne. But it’s a good cologne—virile, powerful, full of the quiet intensity you want on the ice when the game’s down to the final minute.
He lifts a hand and rests it on the doorframe like he’s trying to seem casual, but it doesn’t work. He’s gripping it. Hard.
I part my lips, unsure what to say or why he’s here. I’m not used to someone showing up likethis. In this state of…need. Simon’s not either. Maybe that’s why my dog hasn’t even gotten up from his late-afternoon nap. He’s upstairs in a dog-sized sleigh bed that’s far too comfortable.
Ford’s mere feet away, and he beats me to it, speaking first. “Your shirt’s off.”
I blink. “What?”
He jerks his chin at me, scowling. “The buttons. They’re off. I saw you buttoning it.”
I gaze down at my navy-blue blouse with tiny flowers on it. “It’s not?—”
Oh. It is.
“It’s askew,” he cuts in.
“So you came over here to help me button my shirt?”
“If you want help,” he mutters.
