Chapter 5 I’ll Raise You a Chair
I’LL RAISE YOU A CHAIR
SKYLAR
Clearly, this is a test. What other explanation could there be for my potential new client being a man who hates me?
The man I supposedly despise too.
I mean, fine. What did he really do other than admonish my dog-rearing skills? But isn’t that enough?
Still, I won’t let on. I’m dressed to impress, and I’m going to move forward and dazzle him with my skills. Would a big design firm freak out? Nope. I won’t either. No way am I going to let another gig slip through my fingers.
I stick out a hand, keeping my brightest business smile in place. “Pleasure to meet you,” I say, ready to put the morning’s incident behind us. “I’m so excited to see the house.”
Maybe he’ll just forget we became mortal enemies this morning.
He looks at my hand with a raised brow. Then, after a beat, he takes it. “Ford Devon,” he says.
Ah. He just used his last name over email. Interesting.
“So it’s not just Devon?” I ask. “Do you prefer Devon?”
“Ford will do,” he says, then blows out a breath. His forehead is all bunched up. This man is so intense. “I…wasn’t expecting you.”
“And I wasn’t expecting you,” I say lightly. “Are you moving out of the house next door to me and into this one?”
He tilts his head, looking thoroughly confused. “What do you mean?”
“Well, we…”
Oh. Shit.
He doesn’t realize I live next door to him. He doesn’t know I spied on him from my brother’s catio this morning and must not have seen where I marched away to this morning. And he definitely didn’t see me this afternoon when I peeked on him from the front door.
Oh, god. Could this get any worse?
I have to tap dance my way through this. I swallow and power through. “I live on Franklin Street in Hayes Valley. My brother mentioned some of his neighbors before I moved in a month and a half ago.”
There. When all else fails, blame thy brother.
My potential client’s handsome face goes entirely blank. Ice blue eyes glazed. Lips parted.
Shock, thy name is Ford Devon. “You’re my neighbor?” he chokes out. “My next-door neighbor.”
Some luck, huh? But I smile. Fake it till you make it. “Yes, I am.”
Too bad I don’t have those shishito peppers right now.
I could use an apology gift. But then again, do I really want to start a business meeting with an apology?
Actually, maybe I should. I was probably too amused by Simon, and then too annoyed by Ford.
I can’t just gloss over the…illicit encounter.
“And I’m sorry again about this morning,” I say, shifting into full-on professional mode. “But I already have some amazing design ideas for your house based on the info you sent over earlier.”
“This house is for my parents, actually.”
“Great, well I think your vision—integrating the natural charm of Sausalito while still keeping a modern, recycled aesthetic—is very doable.” I gesture toward my bag with my tablet in it. “Would you like me to show you what I have in mind?”
He blinks, then collects himself. “Sure.”
You’ve got this, Skylar Haven. You’re a badass babe.
I click open my portfolio, and as he takes me from room to room, I pull up a range of design ideas that could work—reclaimed wood, bamboo furniture, secondhand furniture that’s as good as new, and a house filled with just the right amount of greenery.
“My mom does love plants,” he says, almost begrudgingly.
Bingo.
“And I know all the best places to shop,” I add, my confidence surging.
“From San Francisco to Cozy Valley and down to Palo Alto—there are so many great options for sustainable materials and decor.” I scan the walls in the living room.
They’re sage green, easy on the eyes. Most of the others are a soft shade of eggshell, a relaxing, warm hue.
“I see you’ve already painted. That’s great. ”
Ford lets out a low huff of amusement. “My mom hated the painter. Loved the colors though.”
Hmm. She sounds hard to please, but I love a challenge. “What did she dislike about the painter?”
“The timing. She wants everything done yesterday.”
Ah, that’s easy. I don’t like to fuck around either. “I like her already.”
He shoots me a skeptical but curious look. “Next, you’ll tell me you can find a mid-century chair for her home office. She’s been looking for one for a while.”
Please. “Of course I can.”
His gaze sharpens. “That so?”
“Absolutely.”
He seems to mull that over, then says, “Listen, Skylar…”
I hear it. The tone.
The one that says he’s about to let me down.
My heart sinks.
I wanted this job. I truly did. A coveted chance as a solo designer to tackle the whole house, not just a single room. And a house like this, with that stunning view of the water? It’s a huge opportunity. I can’t believe I’m about to lose it because my dog humped his dog.
Or, really, because I laughed at the scene.
Fine, I laughed uncontrollably.
God, I am uncouth.
Trevyn’s voice rings in my head: “Look, if someone’s Yorkie tried to get it on with Barbara-dor, I would cut them with my sharp wit.”
I lift a hand before Ford can continue. I need to apologize like I mean it. Not like I’m trying to win a deal. “I’m sorry about Simon.”
He blinks. Clearly, he wasn’t expecting that.
“He’s…very excitable,” I add, with a self-deprecating smile. “But I completely understand that your little cutie girl wasn’t into it. You had every right to be annoyed with Simon and with me. And I definitely shouldn’t have laughed.”
Ford tilts his head, saying nothing at first. Then, finally, he asks, “Cutie girl?”
I nod. “She’s adorable. She’s part Corgi, part German Shepherd, right?”
“She is,” he says, and suddenly, his entire demeanor warms.
“What’s her name?” I ask.
“Zamboni,” he says, unsuccessfully fighting off a smile and the dimple that comes with it.
That’s too stinking cute. Both the name and the dimple. But damn, the dimple is hot too.
“That is seriously adorable,” I say, grinning. “You play hockey, right? My brother mentioned it.”
It’s the perfect cover, and I have to keep it up. While the apology was necessary, this man will never need to know I checked him out this morning. Especially since I won’t do it again. If he becomes a client that’d be a bad idea.
“Yeah. I do,” he says. Then he hesitates. “I thought maybe—” He waves a hand, dismissing whatever he was about to say.
“That I recognized you?” I guess, but then the moment from this morning flashes before my eyes.
When I looked up, startled to see him, and was about to say you’re the yoga guy, but I cut myself off.
Good thing. Past me was looking out for present me and before he can answer I lean all the way in. “I did. Big hockey fan.”
That’s not entirely true. But I’ve been to a few games since some of my friends are dating hockey players.
“Cool,” he says, then pauses, looking toward the sparkling bay beyond the windows.
He’s quiet for a few seconds, and I get the sense he’s a man who’s okay with silence.
There’s something attractive about that—it says you’re comfortable in your own skin.
When he turns back to me, his jaw is set.
Is his mind set too? “What I was going to say earlier was I’m sorry too. ”
I blink. What? I was the offender. “For…what?”
“I was kind of harsh on the street,” he says.
Oh. That. Well, yeah. He was. But I bite my tongue, since I don’t want to say yeah, you were, dude.
“And I looked up what you were saying about dogs and being excited. And…you were right.”
Holy smokes. You were right are three of the best words in the universe. The only ones better? You got the job.
I rein in my enthusiasm, even though I swear bubbles are flowing in my veins.
Those words have to be coming next. I’m already imagining popping the cork with my friends and toasting to my new gig.
Then, paying the rent. My brother’s house isn’t free after all.
Even a good deal from family costs—gasp—money.
“Well, thank you for saying that. I’m glad we’re all good,” I say, and inside I’m thinking please, please, please give me the gig.
He extends a hand. “Thank you for coming by. I’ll be in touch.”
Oh. Okay. I’ve been dismissed. And in this industry, four out of five ‘I’ll be in touches’ end with no touches at all. Nada. Zip.
The job’s as good as gone. I swallow down the ball of failure rolling through me, say thank you, and leave.
On the bus back to the city, I replay the entire meeting. Hell, I rewind the whole day. But I keep coming back to my portfolio. Ford legitimately seemed impressed by the ideas.
He also indicated over email that he wanted to move quickly.
All I can think is that a simple apology won’t do. I need to prove to the hard-ass why I’m the right person for the job. He’s an athlete, so he’s used to competition. I’ll show him I know how to compete.
Once I’m home, I call Mabel and ask her for a particular recipe.
“You want to make that? It’s so not you.”
“I know, but sometimes you need to get out of your comfort zone.”
“Okay,” she says skeptically, then texts it to me.
I pop out to the store. When I return, I scour the websites of some of my favorite stores and put a hold on a very special item.
Next, I find the plain white dog T-shirt I picked up for Simon at Second Time Around—sometimes he wears dog clothes on his social media feed.
Usually, I just Photoshop writing onto them, but for this, I grab a fabric marker, spread the shirt out on the kitchen table, and start writing.
Simon stares at me from his spot on the floor, head tilted, waiting.
“I know you want your picture taken, but now’s not the time, you camera hog.”
He turns his snout the other way and waddles off.
It’s past eight when I finish. Probably too late to stop by my neighbor’s home.
Guess I’ll have to catch Ford tomorrow after yoga. Such a shame that I’ll have to watch him shirtless after all. But a lady boss has to do what a lady boss has to do.
In the morning, I keep popping onto the back porch, peering carefully around the edge of it.
I can see some of Ford’s deck from here too, though the view’s not as good, nor am I as hidden here as I am in the catio.
From the second Ford appears on the porch in his yellow compression shorts—why on earth does the man like yellow?
—I peek out every few minutes as he moves through his sun salutations.
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.