I knew this was coming. I’m glad he’s not mad though. “Champagne first,” I say.
He grabs the champagne from the ice bucket, then, as he holds the bottle above the water, he shoots me a panty-melting look—one that says he knows where my eyes will be.On him.After he removes the foil, he drapes a linen napkin over the neck. Holding the cork and cage, Ford slowly twists the bottle. “Gotta release the pressure gradually,” he says, in a smooth voice that’s making me think about other kinds of pressure.
Naturally.
That’s what he wants me to think about as he unscrews the cage but doesn’t remove it. With the napkin-covered cork and cage in one hand, he slides his other hand around the base, taking his sweet time and reigniting memories of how good he is with those fingers.Beads of condensation line his ropy forearms. Drops of water slide down his chest. I stare at his hands, a little shamelessly.
Oh, who am I kidding? I starea lotshamelessly as he points the bottle toward the yard, and away from us and the dogs, twisting the bottle until the cork falls with a soft pop.
It lands in the napkin.
It’s not theatrical, but it ensures no dog freaks out from the noise. And my heart thumps harder because of that.
I fight off all the smiles as he sets down the napkin and the cork, then pours and offers me a glass. I take it, stealing a glance at Simon as I do. He’s now settled on the wooden deck, resting in the night air. Zamboni’s watching us, but her eyes start to float closed.
I’m wide awake. I feel as bubbly as the hot tub. As full of anticipation as the corked bottle moments ago.
Ford lifts the flute, his brows arching up. “A toast.”
“To living well?”
He smirks. “Yes. And to your podcast.”
And here we go. “To my podcast.”
He clinks his glass to mine, and I feel glowy and warm from both the temperature and his heated gaze. I watch him as he takes a drink. I do the same, then he sets down his glass. Slides closer on the bench, but not close enough.
My skin prickles and I want more. So much more than I should want, but I can’t think aboutshoulds and risksanymore. I left those behind at the board game store when Ford bestowed a fake kiss on me that wasn’t fake at all. When he spun tall tales about us that felt entirely true. When he had a blast rubbing in our happiness.
Most of all, I suppose I left the risks behind when he asked me on yet another date. Another fake one, yes. But a date, nonetheless.
He’s all darkened gaze and raspy voice as he says, “So, I’m Sexy Reno Guy?”
Damn, this man really likes foreplay. I’m all wet and Iamwet. “Well, I named your muscles. Is this really a surprise you have a nickname too?”
A small laugh falls from his lips, then it fades. He’s a man on a mission. “What did you say about me on your podcast, Skylar? Tell the truth.”
It’s hardly a question. It’s more of an invitation to…confess.
My breath comes faster. My chest rises and falls. And I’m heating up so fast from his hungry stare. “That I’d been checking you out,” I admit.
“For how long?”
“A long time,” I say, my insides flipping from his stare.
“When, Skylar?” he presses.
His intensity is such a turn-on. My thighs clench as I part my lips and whisper, “Since the first day.”
His smirk is so pleased. He slides an arm across the back of the hot tub, closer to me. An excited breath coasts past my lips. My arm aches for him to touch me. Just to run a finger down my wet skin. Even though I want so much more than that.
“The day we met?” he asks, his voice low and smoky as he toys with me, like he wants to hear me admit every detail.
“Yes.”
His dimple flashes. The bubbles brush against my thigh as he leans closer to me, dipping his face so I almost,almostthink he’s going to kiss me senseless in the hot tub.
But instead, he reaches for his drink. Takes his time lifting the glass. Swallows some champagne. Leaves me wanting even more. I’m aching everywhere for my next-door neighbor.
