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)
My mother is fist-pumping me on her pop-in visit. Her fly-by pop-in. The world is upside down.
“As I was saying,” she continues, admonishing me, “I called you and left messages. You really should listen to your voicemails.”
“Oh, you should, Ford,” Skylar says soberly.
“No one checks voicemail,” I say, maybe a little louder than necessary and more annoyed than I should let on. “No one should leave voicemails.”
“I thought you might think that too,” Mom says evenly. “That’s why I sent you several texts.”
“Yes, I know. I just noticed them.” I grab my phone and read from it like I’m giving court evidence. “Ford, I’m on the plane. Ford, I got a window seat. Ford, did you know they have to-go boxes on flights? Oops, I’m wrong. The woman next to me simply asked for one. They don’t actually have them. Can you imagine?” I pause and look up. “I can’t, Mom. I can’t imagine.”
“But it could prevent food waste,” Skylar points out.
I cut her a look.
“To-go boxes on planes are an excellent idea,” Mom says.
“No, they’re not. They’re a terrible idea.” I blow out a breath, desperately trying to figure out why this treacherous ball of frustration is still running through me. “Mom,” I try again.
“Hold that thought, darling. I just need to pop into the little girls’ room.”
Skylar brightens, pointing down the hall. “I put toilet paper in there this morning. It was in my bag with the blankets.”
My mom beams. “I knew I liked you. I always carry tissues, because you never know.”
She saunters to the bathroom while I stand there like a bomb’s just gone off in the kitchen.
The most devastating kind of bomb. A mom bomb.
I drag a frustrated hand through my hair. I really need to let go of this annoyance. This is not who I am.
“This is…she just…crash-landed into my day,” I grumble.
This is par for the course with Mom. Yeah, it throws me off, but I’m used to being thrown off. Opponents try to do it on the ice all the time. Defensemen do it every game.
So why does it bother me so much right now?
Skylar sets a hand on my arm, her tone gentle. “I’ve got this,” she says. “It’ll be easier with her here. And we can test all the furniture and know for sure it’ll work for her.”
I stare at her hand on my arm a little too long.
My heart rate settles a little at her touch, but then I look up, meet her green eyes, and it races again.
Thudding loudly.
I have my answer. I’m irrationally annoyed because I’d been looking forward to spending this time alone with the designer.
My mom just cock-blocked me.
18
AN UNBEATABLE PLAN
SKYLAR
I hold my breath as Ford’s mother settles her sixty-three-year-old ass—her words—into the secondhand-but-looks-like-new chair.
She shifts around a little. Pats the arms. Leans her head back against the pillow. Takes an assessing breath.
Meanwhile, I am holding mine, praying Maggie Devon likes the chair. Sure, I’ll roll with it if she doesn’t, but I really want her to like it. If she doesn’t like this chair, I’m not sure her rear, back, elbow, or any other part of her will like the other pieces I’ve sourced.
After a long, silent moment—or fifty million of them, who knows—she pushes up and issues a command: “Show me around. I’ve got a five p.m. flight to catch.”
I blink. Okay, she keeps surprising me. “You’re not staying overnight?”
She chuckles and shakes her head. “I have a gala here in San Francisco to prepare for in a few more weeks.” That must be the one Ford mentioned—the last one she’s throwing before retiring. “And I have a brunch meeting with the board tomorrow morning back in Seattle.”
She doesn’t say chop-chop, but I hear it in her tone. She hasn’t issued a verdict on the chair. But now’s not the time to ask. Now’s the time to show her I read her right last week when I gave her the video tour at Twice Loved.
So, with Ford following quietly along, I usher his mom through the home. I show her the couch, the kitchen table, some nightstands for the bedroom, a fantastic vintage roll-top desk for the study, and a peach-orange sofa for that room too. We get to the chairs for the deck, which are made out of—yep—bamboo.
“Bamboo is the new black,” I say, bright and upbeat. Then a fresh worry hits. What if she listens to my podcast? I did ask to feature her home on it. Worse, what if she knows her son is Sexy Reno Guy? Ugh. I should keep my ogling to myself, even though it’s not the worst thing to say about someone’s adult son.
For now, I keep my chin up and show her what I want to do with the lighting, flicking through the options on my tablet.