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 cover my heart with my palm. I’m beyond touched. “That’s so sweet.” I pause, then give him a little sass as I say, “I guess you’re the sweet one.”
He waves a hand dismissing it. “It was just…”
But he doesn’t finish, maybe because he knows it’s sweet and he can’t deny it.
He clears his throat. “They sacrificed a lot—time, money, and so on to make sure I could play hockey. To make sure I could go to college, too, and play there. And I didn’t even make it into the NHL until I was twenty-four.” He stops in front of the love seats. “This was something I always wanted to do. Something special. Something meaningful. To make their lives easier. To make their dreams possible. They’re pretty cool people.”
“I love that you feel that way. I’m close with my parents too,” I say. “I have lunch with my mom every week—she lives just outside the city. It’s nice, isn’t it? To get along with them,” I ask, and he nods softly. “I have lots of friends who have strained relationships with their parents. I know I’m lucky. I try not to take it for granted.”
“Same here,” he says, patting the arm of the love seat. “So let’s find them a good couch.”
I step to it. “Of course we will,” I say, glancing around at a few more pieces, then scanning a little deeper in the room for something in particular. But I want the discovery to feel organic. “My question for you is do we want to stick with the muted shades theme we have with the paint? Because I have a couple of ideas.”
Ford doesn’t answer right away. His gaze has shifted elsewhere. When I follow it, he’s studying a deep purple couch a few feet away, stepping toward it, running his hand along the arm.
“Velvet?” His voice holds a note of disbelief. “Is this really velvet? Who makes a velvet couch?”
I join him, running my fingers across the fabric too. “It’s pretty soft,” I admit.
For a brief moment, we’re both touching the couch, fingertips grazing the plush material, our eyes locking with each other’s. The air goes still for a long beat—a beat that doesn’t feel professional at all. That feels…almost heady.
I don’t quite want it to end, even though this moment feels like it’s tipping into something risky. I’m supposed to be working, not imagining what it’d be like to curl up on a couch with him.
“Yeah,” he says, voice lower. “It really is.”
He clears his throat like he’s clearing away the rasp in it. “But maybe too soft. Besides, I don’t think my mom is a velvet person.”
I blink off the shimmery feeling. “Not everyone is,” I agree, focusing on the job. “Velvet’s an acquired taste.”
He glances at me as we pass another row of couches in warm earth tones. “I bet you’re a velvet person.”
I shoot him a daring smile—but a fun one, not a flirty one. “So you think I’m all about pineapple and velvet? What does that say about me?”
He smirks right back. “I guess the same thing being a neat freak who doesn’t use a couch says about me.”
I’m about to tease him again when he leans in slightly, his shoulder nearly bumping mine even as he looks my way. “I’m right, aren’t I?”
My breath catches. He holds my gaze, and my skin feels warmer than it should when I’m with a client. “I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t like velvet,” I say.
“Good. Don’t be a liar, Skylar.” His voice is lower, smokier than usual.
I can barely move for several seconds. Then he looks away, like he has to, as if looking any longer would be too dangerous. I force myself to refocus on the mission, ushering him along. We check out a few more couches, but Ford is noncommittal on most of them. He might be a man who likes control, but he also seems a little lost amidst too many choices.
Time for me to bring it home.
As if we just so happen to stumble upon it, I turn down another row, eyeing a rich brown couch several feet away—chocolate-colored, with clean, simple lines. One that complements the painted walls in the home. “How about this one?”
Ford sinks down onto it, pats the cushion, leans back, crosses then uncrosses his legs, and pronounces, “I like it.”
“Good,” I say, pleased but not surprised. I had a feeling, so I told Bastian to put a hold on it. “Do you think your mom will?”
Ford seems to give that some thought. “I think she will. It’s a good one.” But he winces apologetically while dragging a hand through his messy hair. “She did ask me to conference her in today and show her some things, but I figured we could do that after we pick out a handful of items. It’ll be easier that way.” Then, almost sheepishly, he adds, “I hope you don’t mind.”