“I should meet with this person,” Mom says, setting the green metal watering can by a garden bed. “It’ll be easier that way.”
It’ll be easier if she’s not involved at all. The more involved she gets, the more opinions she has, the more issues she finds, the more problems she makes. She thinks she’s being helpful, but she’s steamrolling me, and I just want to do something nice for her and Dad.
I briefly remember wanting to do something nice for my ex-wife—and look where that got me. I’d arranged fora private chef when she wanted to learn to cook, only for her to shack up with him instead.
This is not the same, of course. This is for my parents. But I have a plan for this year, and micromanaging a home renovation is not part of it. Giving my parents the home of their dreams is. That’s the point of hiring a designer—not that it’s been easy. The last person I interviewed reeked of weed, and the person before that said her design aesthetic was actually brutalist, not environmentally friendly.
“I’ve got this, Mom,” I say, firm but not pushy. If Mom senses an opening, she’ll take it. And I can’t go through a dozen more designers.
“I really should oversee it,” she adds in the persuasive tone she uses to convince people to donate to the charity she works with. The Seattle-based organization brings recycling and composting initiatives to communities all over the country, including here in San Francisco.
“No, Mom, you should focus on making sure your final charity gala goes off without a hitch. Designers exist to handle the inside. I’ll make sure she does everything to your standards and shows you what she selects,” I say as a flock of seagulls flies by. I breathe in calmly, savoring the view.
“When are you meeting with this person?”
“Today.”
She hums, doubtful. “Well, do you want to conference me in?”
I don’t know how my mother is going to survive retirement. She’s reduced her hours to part-time, but she’s still entirely too busy. “Let me do this for you and Dad. I’ve always wanted to. You know that,” I say. “And don’t worry. The designer will be great.”
And honestly, Skylar Haven better be. I reviewed her design portfolio online, and the style is one hundred percent my mom’s—creative but classy, a little edgy, and very eco-conscious. So it’ll be like a breakaway shot, a nice easy path to the goal.
“Call me the second it’s done, Ford.Since you refuseto video call the whole time,” she says.
I roll my eyes, making sure she sees. “Bye, Mom.”
I love her. Really, I do. But she’s making finishing this house harder than playing an entire hockey season on a torn groin.
Hanging up, I check the time before tucking the phone into my back pocket. The designer should arrive in five minutes, so I head out to the deck overlooking the water. In the short wait, I take my phone out again. One thing has been weighing on me since this morning—the nagging worry that I was too harsh about the Doxie’s shameless display. I ask Google, “Why do neutered dogs hump?” and scan the answer.
Was the hot-mess redhead right? No way. I check another site. Then another. Then one more.
“Huh,” I mutter. Apparently, yes, dogs can get overly excited, and that extra energy turns into—you guessed it—humping.
Maybe I owe her an apology if I ever run into her again while walking the dog.
I check the time as the doorbell rings. Nice. She’s a touch early. I seriously appreciate that.
I stride over to the door, swing it open, and freeze. The hot-mess redhead stands in front of me, looking shockingly professional and cheery. Gone is the just-rolled-out-of-bed couture. In its place? A polished, businesslike blazer and slacks, and hair that’s actually seen a brush.The copper strands fall in soft waves, framing her pretty face and a bright smile.
A smile that vanishes as soon as recognition dawns in her eyes.
“Are you kidding me?” I ask.
She gawks, blinks, and says almost hopefully, “I must have the wrong home.”
This has to be a mistake. She can’t be the designer. “Are you…” I swallow roughly, then manage to get out, “Skylar Haven?”
Her lips curl like she just ate something sour and nods slowly, as if reality is sinking in. “Yes. Skylar Haven with Haven Designs.”
My mind whirls, assimilating the situation. She may be a sexy chaos demon, but her style is Mom’s style, and I need someone to take on this job, yesterday.
But I can’t let on how desperately I need this to work out. The thing I’ve learned playing in the pros? Never let the enemy see a weakness. “I didn’t know you owned anything besides a robe.”
She slides a finger down the lapel of her blazer, furrows her brow, then shrugs. “It works as a robe, too though. See? I’m all about using things in multiple ways.”
Damn. She’s good. I try not to laugh, but it’s hard. I turn away, but I still open the door and let the sexy chaos demon past the threshold, hoping I won’t regret it.
