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’ve got five more minutes till it’s lights out. Told myself I’d focus—and with a game tomorrow, I need to focus. That means no sleepover tonight. Too bad being without her is making it harder to fall into the land of nod.
Ford: But I’ll sleep better if you show me a picture of what you’ll be wearing to the gala.
Skylar: I would never have pegged you as the kid who peeked at his Christmas gifts before Christmas morning. I’m going to be discussing this with Mama Devon at the gala this weekend.
Ford: I did not peek.
Skylar: I don’t believe you.
Ford: I still don’t see that picture, Skylar.
I sit in bed and wait. And wait. And wait. My chest is tight. My fingers are busy, scrolling articles I’m not really reading on a news site. A few minutes later, a text arrives—with an image. I open it so fast.
It’s not the dress I expected. But it’s her, right now, on the other side of the bridge working late at night. Skylar’s standing triumphantly in front of the new cabinets at my parents’ home, with the words: Just finished!
She’s wearing a black T-shirt, the neckline sloping just right. On the front, there’s a picture of Princess Leia and the words: A Woman’s Place is in the Resistance.
Her next text reads.
Skylar: I’ll wear this.
I don’t tease or goad. I simply speak from the heart.
Ford: You look stunning.
At last, I turn off the light and set down my phone. But I miss her. More than I should. And this is getting to be a problem.
I adjust the lapels of my charcoal suit. Run a hand over the purple tie. Adjust the cuffs and give my girl a kiss on the snout.
“Be good, Zamboni,” I tell her as I settle her into her dog bed with a new stuffy Skylar gave her—an armadillo with a plastic-free squeaker.
Zamboni bites into it. The noise must be satisfying, because she does it again.
“You love that toy, don’t you, girl?”
She answers with another love bite. I ruffle her fur one more time.
After grabbing a gift I picked up for Skylar earlier today, I leave, shutting the door behind me. Outside, I draw a deep, soldiering breath in the crisp autumn evening, then walk down the steps.
It’s surreal strolling across the path to the sidewalk and then doing a one-eighty to head up my neighbor’s steps.
My heart is beating so fast, I feel like a teenager on his way to the prom. My palms are sweating. I tug at the tie. Skylar told me not to wear yellow, so I listened.
Before I knock, though, I briefly consider playing one of my focus games.
Hell, I need it with my skyrocketing pulse. But I’m not about to break out my phone on the porch and start playing a game just so I can handle a damn date to a gala.
I play professional sports at the highest level—I can get my nerves in check.
Briefly, I picture navigating the penguin through the maze. Even though I’m not actually doing it, the muscle memory and the mind memory somehow settle my nerves.
I square my shoulders and knock.
The first time I met Skylar, she was wearing a floral bathrobe, her jammies underneath covered in martini glasses, and gardening boots.
When she opens the door now, she’s dressed to the nines. I grab onto the doorframe—because if I don’t, I’ll fall flat on my ass.
I let out a low whistle of appreciation. “Holy shit.”
I didn’t know what to expect. I don’t really think about dresses. But instantly I know: this is so her.
She’s wearing some kind of 1920s flapper dress in a shade of yellow so soft, so subtle, it’s like the color of a lemon cookie.
And I want to take a bite.
Her shoes are pale gold, I think, with a thin strap down the top of her foot. I can’t wait to undo them later, then press a kiss to her ankle. My gaze roams up her legs, taking in strong calves peeking out, then the dress.
I’m not even sure what’s happening with it, but it’s got floral embroidery and tiny see-through sleeves, and it falls beautifully on her body.
She juts out a hip and says, “What do you think? Can I be your lucky color?”
Goosebumps erupt across my skin. Goosebumps. When was the last time I felt goosebumps?
Did I ever feel this way with Brittany?
But she’s the last person I ever want to think of, so I dropkick thoughts of her to the curb as I take in Skylar, with glossy lips, long eyelashes, and auburn hair falling in soft waves, styled like she’s stepped out of The Great Gatsby.
I can’t even stand how beautiful she is. “You are definitely my lucky color.”
She plucks at the fabric. “Can you believe I found this at Champagne Taste?”
I have no idea what that is, but I’m guessing it’s a thrift shop. So I just say, “Yes, I can. Because you find everything.”