Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 102411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
The moment he’s done, I hustle to the kitchen, grab the goodies and my dog, and head to the front door.
Checking my reflection, I confirm I look presentable. Stylish jeans, cute sandals, and—I hate to admit this—a yellow top.
It’s pale yellow though. The only acceptable shade.
“Wish me luck,” I say to my reflection. Then I do the neighborly thing.
Well, if you’re the type of neighbor who royally screwed up and now wants to win a contract.
After I leash up Simon, I head next door, swallow down the last remnants of nerves, and take a deep, fortifying breath as I knock.
After a few seconds, I hear barking. Not aggressive—more inquisitive.
Soon, I catch a glimpse of Ford striding through the home, and—my breath hitches.
He’s wearing basketball shorts and a gray T-shirt. The compression shorts are gone. And I’d really better not think about the fact that he was whisking them off moments ago.
Tilting his head, he shoots me a what the hell are you doing here look through the window next to the door but still tugs it open.
Simon barks once—enthusiastically. But when I tell him to sit, he plunks his butt down like a good boy.
“Good morning,” I begin smoothly as Ford’s dog checks us out from a dog bed several feet away. “Simon just wanted to bring Zamboni some dog treats made from kale.”
I hand him a small brown paper bag full of homemade dog biscuits.
Ford arches a brow. “My dog doesn’t like kale. Unless it’s in a smoothie.”
Damn. But no worries—I can pivot. “I did wonder if the dog and I had some things in common…” I say lightly. “But guess what? Here’s the rest of the bunch for your smoothie.”
I hand him the fresh bunch I picked up last night.
Ford takes it. “Thanks.”
Oh. Is that a hint of a smile?
It disappears in a second only to reappear when his gaze shifts to my dog. Ford reads the T-shirt I made for Simon, then arches a brow before looking back at me. “Not The Goodest Boy (But I’m Trying)?” he asks.
“He’s a work in progress,” I say.
And here goes the pièce de résistance.
“I’m off to my favorite consignment store in Noe Valley,” I say, playing it casual. “They just got a classic Eames chair in. I’d love to reserve it for your mom’s home office.”
His jaw falls open. “Wait. You—seriously?”
“Yes. Do you think she’ll want it?” I ask, knowing full well it’s the dream chair for mid-century aficionados.
“Yes,” he says, still looking like I’ve just knocked him over. “Absolutely.”
I smirk. “Does that mean I got the job?”
He pauses, recovers his composure, and then shoots me that cocky smile again. The one that shows off his dimple.
“I was coming over to tell you as much,” he admits with a no-big-deal shrug.
I blink, shocked and thrilled. “You were?”
He scratches his jaw casually. “I decided yesterday to hire you.”
Wait. Hold on. I park a hand on my hip. “Did you just want to make me sweat?”
His smile turns victorious as he waggles the green leaves in his hand. “Or maybe I wanted the kale. I need to make a smoothie after all. I’ll be in touch with details.”
Bending down, he strokes Simon’s head, and my little dude eats up the affection, even as Ford says, “Let’s keep you out of air jail.”
Then he heads back inside and shuts the door.
6
THE GOOD STUFF
FORD
The penguin’s almost there. One more corner in this maze, and I’ll get him to the end. But the maze fucks with me, shifting ninety degrees on the screen.
Ha. I won’t go down that easily.
I readjust to the new spatial orientation, maneuver the penguin through the last turn, and send him safely out.
I punch the air.
“Dude, how fast were you today?” Wesley Bryant, one of our star wingers, asks from across the locker room as he tugs on his shoulder pads.
“Thirty-two seconds,” I say proudly as I stretch in front of my stall and toss my phone into the cubby.
Our goalie, Max Lambert, wiggles his fingers from his stall. “Gimme. I can beat you.”
I scoff. “You wish.”
He taps his temple. “I’ve been training my brain for a long time.”
From the other side of me, Tyler Falcon snorts. “Might want to see if you can get a refund next time,” says the defenseman, who became a fast friend after joining the team a couple years ago.
Max strides over, half-dressed in his chest protector and shorts. “I will kill it in this penguin game,” he declares. “I do eye exercises all the time.”
“Yeah? Then use your eyes to look it up on your phone. It’s called—hold on,” I say, waiting as he doubles back and grabs his phone, presumably opening a search bar or app store. As he looks back at me, I finish, “The Penguin Maze That Ford Devon Owns Your Ass In.”