“Lucky client,” I say.
“I’m pretty lucky to do what I love,” she says. “You’re the same.”
And really, I am. I love my job, which is why I keep my focus on Haven Designs.
Not horny Haven.
Which means I probably shouldn’t mention Sexy Reno Guy again on air.
Shame. Seems I’ve grown quite fond of the man I once hated.
22
NO SUCH THING AS TOO SHORT
SKYLAR
Mission accomplished.
Mission accomplished so hard that my friends are shocked I didn’t once mention Ford on the show, even when they goaded me.
And they goaded me.
“Who even are you?” Mabel asks as we leave the studio on a Thursday afternoon.
Trevyn seconds that with a: “What she said.”
I spin around on the sidewalk, walking backward, holding my arms out wide. “When you’re good, you’re good.”
“But you’ve never been good at keeping your mouth shut,” Mabel points out.
“Are you sure you’re Skylar? And not her, I dunno, alien replacement?” Trevyn asks.
“I understand it’s hard to accept defeat. But don’t even try to get out of it,” I say, turning around now and walking with them. “You both need to pay up. You said I’d fold.”
Trevyn whistles in appreciation. “We sure did.”
“I was positive you’d cave,” Mabel says with a shrug.
I drape one arm around her, the other around Trevyn. “And I was a badass babe. Time for you two to buy me an outfit for a board game store opening.”
But the thing about thrifting is it’s hit or miss. A few laps through Champagne Taste, we come up empty. With a beleaguered sigh, I pick up a pink tweed blazer with gold buttons and frown. “It’s all Emily Gilmore here today, friends,” I say.
“And old rich white dudes who golf,” Trevyn says, brandishing a pair of green plaid pants and a matching cap.
“Thrifting is shopping roulette. But you can’t win if you don’t play,” I say as I return the jacket to the rack, while Trevyn does the same.
“Another time,” Mabel says on the way out, pushing open the door, the chime of the bell signaling our exit and our failed mission.
“I’ll just have to thrift my own closet,” I say, shielding my eyes from the afternoon sun. “So what exactly does one wear to your ex’s board game store opening?”
Mabel taps her chin, her eyes intense. “Something ridiculously hot.”
“Outrageously sexy,” Trevyn says.
But that doesn’t add up. “For my ex?” I ask, doubtful.
They both laugh, and they both shake their heads. “Oh, sweet summer child,” Trevyn begins. “When a hot-ass man who scores goals for a living insists on taking you on a fake date to show your douche-canoe ex what he missed out on, you’d better look—” He turns to Mabel, like they’ve planned this one-two delivery.
