“You have Facon?” I ask, even though the evidence is right in front of me as he unpacks a grocery bag onto my counter.
“Of course I do,” he says, all nonchalant as he pulls a tomato from the canvas bag, then some lettuce.
My mouth waters as I stare, slack-jawed, at the magic bag.
“But—” I sputter, unable to put into words how I’m feeling. What I’m thinking. The thought behind the gesture. “You have…”
I just point, flailing, flapping my hand like a fish out of water.
He slides behind me in the kitchen, wraps his arms around my waist, and kisses the back of my neck. “You don’t eat meat, so I picked up a few things I thought you might like.”
Which is thoughtful in and of itself. But it’s alsocalculatinglythoughtful, because he just popped over to hishouse, changed into shorts and a T-shirt, and returned with this bag. Which means…he planned this meal.
“When did you get all this?” I ask.
“Earlier today,” he says, then lets me go and offers a confident smile. “What can I say? I figured we’d both be hungry and would want a late-night snack. So I picked up some things.”
The detail. The thought. The planning.
Does it matter so much that he’s my neighbor? What would happen if I just took a risk…with a client? Maybe. Maybe I can. Because Ford isn’t just some guy. He feels like he could bemy guy.
I rise up on tiptoe and cup his cheeks, sighing affectionately. “A neat freak who drives a Swedish car and plans midnight dates.”
“I know. I’m awesome,” he says, then swats my ass. “Now get out of the way so I can cook for you.”
I set out a cutting board, knife, and pan, then trot over to a stool, park myself on it, and enjoy the front-row seat to a hot hockey player making me a veggie BLT—complete with fake bacon.
As he slices the tomato, I sigh happily. “What’ll you do when you finish playing hockey? Open a late-night grilled cheese and BLT pop-up shop? A girl can dream.”
“Not a bad idea.”
Which brings up a valid question. “Seriously though. What will you do? You’re a planner. You probably have three priorities for retirement.”
He nods. “I do.”
But that’s all he says. Hmm. Is it a secret?
I debate leaving it alone, but I’ve never been good at that. “What are they?”
As he washes the lettuce, he says, “My health—alwaysa top priority. Second would be keeping busy doing something I love. Third would be…” His gaze goes slightly wistful, almost dreamy, as he opens the package of Facon and drops a few slices into the pan. “Third would be spending time with my dog. So to answer your question—for two, I’m debating between going into broadcasting and opening a smoothie shop.”
I sit up straighter. “Really?”
“Really. I think I’d like both. I’ll decide after we win the Cup this year.” He pauses, his gaze contemplative, spatula midair. “That’s the first time I’ve shared that with anyone.”
My heart does a little flippy-flop. I’m all sorts of giddy. “Thanks for telling me.”
“You’re easy to talk to, Skylar,” he says—offhand, but full of meaning.
My chest is warm as I respond in kind with a, “You too.”
After he slices some sourdough bread, he asks, “What about you?”
“I’m not retiring anytime soon, buddy,” I tease.
“Is this your dream? The eco-friendly design?”
“Yes. I’m doing exactly what I want.” I pause, giving my own question some thought. But I already know the answer. “I suppose my dream is to keep doing more jobs like this —the full house, where I have the chance to really make a difference with my brand of design.”
