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)
“I’m even more impressed now that the car is cleaned with a broom,” she says.
I fight off a laugh. “So it’s the broom for you? Not the fairy?”
“Oh, the fairy’s cool too,” she says, then lifts a hand toward the gleaming dashboard, like she’s about to stroke it, but she jerks her hand back a second before she touches it. “Wait. Am I allowed to touch it?”
“Why would you not be allowed to touch it?”
“Because it’s so neat, so Swedish, so…excellent,” she says, then takes a drink of her smoothie, making another one of those sensual purrs. I keep my focus firmly on the road. Not on her lips. Not on that sound. Looking at her mouth right now would be a serious hazard.
She cranes her neck around to the back seat, then returns to the front. “Yep. Just like I imagined.”
“You imagined my car?” I ask. This woman keeps me on my conversational toes, that’s for sure.
“Definitely. I had a feeling it would be like this,” she says as I slow at a light. “Are you a neat freak, Ford Devon?”
I bristle. “Just neat. Nothing freakish about it whatsoever.”
She nods. “Hey, neat freak is a compliment too.”
I scoff. “How do you figure? It’s got freak in it.”
“Maybe I like neat freaks,” she says, smirking, “who drive Swedish cars.” With an impish shrug, she takes another sip of her drink, her lips curved around the metal straw.
My jaw tightens, and I grab the mug from the console, then knock back some kale smoothie like it’s the source of my superpower. Well, I hope it is, but as I set it back down in the holder on the console, I nearly do a double take. Wait—is that her dog giving me the side-eye on the mug?
Quickly, returning my eyes to the road, I blurt out, “Is your dog on the mug?”
“Yeah,” she says, with a delighted kind of grin. “It says I Swear I’m Not Judging You.” Then she lowers her voice. “But he’s totally judging you. I mean, his Internet name is Simon Side-Eye.”
I tap the gas pedal. “Your dog has an Internet name?”
“And his own line of merch. He even works with an eco-friendly company that fulfills his merch orders. He’s quite the business dog.”
And she is quite the surprise. As we wind past Twin Peaks, I don’t mind that my very neat car is now filled with her…wild spark.
9
AN EVERYTHING GUY
SKYLAR
I probably shouldn’t have given him such a hard time in the car. It’s just…nearly impossible not to.
Besides, sometimes it seems like he likes it. Like he sort of enjoys being called out. Maybe I’m reading too much into the back and forth, the way he serves volleys right back to me, then waits like a badminton player on the other side of the net.
Best for me to focus on being the badass babe I am.
Ford swings open the door for me at Twice Loved—because, of course, he’s the kind of guy who holds open doors—and I slide into pro mode as we enter one of my favorite places.
“Bastian—he’s the manager—has the Eames chair set aside for us,” I say. “And he also emailed me pictures of a few other pieces he thought might fit the style of the home. I can show you those first, or we can just wander. It’s up to you. Are you the type of person who likes to discover things as you go, or would you rather I guide you through?”
Ford mulls over the question, his expression serious, then says, “You mean, am I the kind of guy who sets out for a day in Tuscany to see what he stumbles across, or do I hire a tour guide?”
Hello, man with excellent taste. “Take me to Tuscany, please. I’d like a date with all the pasta in Italy.”
That dimple of his shows up again. Everything seems to be a game with Ford—a subtle, flirting game. Or maybe I’m reading too much into it. I tilt my head, considering him. He’s dressed impeccably again today, even in his casual attire—crisp jeans, a smart polo that shows off those biceps I want to bite, a pair of aviator shades hung on the neckline. His jaw is lined with light brown stubble—but it’s neat. Purposeful stubble, like he keeps it trim. His hair’s got a mind of its own, all floppy and wild, brown with some golden streaks. Besides the locks, everything about Ford screams list guy. He likes order, a plan, a strategy. But I also have a feeling he’s got a well of patience a city-block wide and a control streak a mile deep, so I finish sizing him up and declare: “You’re an everything guy.”
The dimple deepens, fully owning his face. “Yes. I am.”
I sweep an arm out to indicate the depths of the shop. “This place has several rooms, so we can wander and check out all sorts of things, but I’ll make sure we see the items Bastian’s earmarked.”