Chapter 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.”
Ford steps deeper into the main room—a maze of living room furniture, all well cared for, most pieces barely nicked and ready for a second life.
“Let’s start with a couch,” I say. “It’s the centerpiece of the home.”
“Not a kitchen table?”
“Don’t get me wrong—I love a good kitchen table, and we are definitely going to find a fantastic one for Mama Devon. And your dad of course too. But I think a couch is kind of like the soul of a home.”
“Maybe,” he says, seeming a little reluctant.
As we pass an emerald-green sofa that looks too stiff—definitely not right for him—I arch a brow. “You don’t use couches?”
An image of his home springs fully formed in my mind, even though I’ve never seen the inside. But I bet it’s mostly chrome and nickel, angles and lines, clean surfaces, deliberately bare. With some…plants though. Yeah, he’s a plant guy. I just know it.
Before he can answer, I say, “Are you a total minimalist? Do you basically have a yoga mat and a couple of pillows in your living room and that’s that?”
I swallow the last word, like I can swallow the entire line of questioning. Need to be more careful. How would I know he does yoga if I wasn’t checking him out, catio style?
He shoots me a skeptical glance. “No, I do yoga on the back porch.”
The way he says it—so serious, like it’s a given—makes me roll my lips together to stop myself from blurting I know, I know.
And even though I swore I wouldn’t look at him anymore, I peered out the catio window this morning and happened to spot him on his porch in those distracting yellow compression shorts again.
But in my defense, I thought I heard the squawking of a great blue heron in my yard, and I’ve been dying to see one of those beauties up close.
Turns out, the squawking was just a sound effect on the comedy podcast I was listening to.
But you don’t want to take a chance when it comes to a great blue heron sighting.
“So, you do have a couch?” I ask.
He shrugs. “I don’t use it a lot.”
The picture of Ford sharpens a little more. “You probably don’t like to relax.”
His shoulders shift, stiffening a bit, but his blue eyes are sharp, trained on me. “You think I’m a neat freak who can’t relax, don’t you?”
I really need to be more professional. I cannot keep goading him, no matter how fun it is. “There’s nothing wrong with being busy,” I say carefully. “Not everyone’s into downtime, and that’s okay.”
“I like downtime,” he says, then flashes the barest of grins. “In Italy.”
I laugh. “Well played.”
His blue eyes sparkle, then he’s serious again as he says, “But this is for Mom and Dad. Mom’s a couch person. She likes to relax at the end of the workday. And she deserves to.”
It’s said with such affection and pride that my heart swells, along with my curiosity. “So you’re helping your parents set it up before they move in? They’re in Seattle, right?” I ask as I usher him past a few more baroque style sofas that are all wrong for his mid-century mom.
“As much as I can,” he says, adding matter-of-factly, “I bought it for them.”
I grab the arm of a gray sectional, stopping in my tracks. “You bought them the house?” I repeat. That’s big. Really big. I had no idea he’d bought it. I’d thought he was simply…overseeing the redo.
A smile shifts his lips. “I did. As a retirement gift. It’s all theirs.”
The breath escapes my lungs. That’s so generous. “Ford. That’s incredible,” I say, my voice breaking a bit.
“I always wanted to. I’m glad I could,” he says, full of a lovely earnestness that warms my heart.
“Always? Like it was a childhood dream?”
The dimple flashes, almost boyish this time.
“Actually, yes. We had a small home growing up. My mom works in non-profits, but she actually works for them—she’s not just one of those rich ladies who goes to galas.
Not that there’s anything wrong with that—we love rich ladies who go to galas and donate.
But she works in donor services,” he says, then lifts a finger, his eyes twinkling.
“You’d like her organization. They bring recycling and composting initiatives to communities all over the country, including here in San Francisco. ”
My heart pitter patters. “Love it.”
“She travels a lot and organizes fundraisers, though she’s working on her last one.
And my dad ran a hardware store. We didn’t have a ton of money or extra space growing up, and one day when I was maybe nine or ten, I had to sleep on the couch for a week when my mom’s sister came to visit.
I told them that someday they wouldn’t have to worry about space.
That someday I’d buy them a bigger home, one where they didn’t have to worry about the mortgage either. ”
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. ”
“I’m looking forward to it,” I say, meaning it completely. But that also means we’d better keep moving.
Like explorers who leave no stone unturned, we cover the rest of the shop, checking out armchairs and kitchen chairs. Ford finds a few he likes, and I show him the ones I’ve picked out too.
We visit the kitchen area, rapping our knuckles on bistro tables and breakfast tables, until his attention snags on…a lamp with a base that looks like a sloth foot.
He beelines for it, like it’s the treasure he’s been seeking. Or an oddity.
“What in the ever-loving hell?” Ford says, running his hand along the metal carved to look like the animal’s toes.
“I almost want to get this as a gag gift for one of my teammates.” He looks at the ceiling, seeming deep in thought.
His phone buzzes in his hand, but he hits ignore before checking it.
I can appreciate a man who lives in the moment.
“Bryant. This would be great for Wesley Bryant. He loved being pranked when he joined the team.”
I laugh. “Probably made him feel welcome.”
Ford blows out a breath. “It did…but would he really use it?” He sighs, then shakes his head, resigning himself. “I’ll have to think of other pranks.”
I pat his arm absently. “I’m proud of you for resisting getting something you don’t actually need,” I say, then glance down at my hand. Curled around his strong arm.
Holy shit. I just touched him.
And…he’s looking at me as if he likes the contact too.
The casualness of the touch goes up in flames. Poof. Vanishes. I’m standing here in the store, touching him, and I shouldn’t be. Really, I shouldn’t.
Touching him was a mistake. Not a big one. Just…the kind that lingers in the air a little too long.
I pull my hand away like I’ve been burned, swinging my gaze around, hunting for a distraction—then spotting one in the next room. “But maybe you want the billiard tables. For your parents’ house,” I say, pointing ahead.
“Oh sure. Maybe,” he says. “I do like pool.”
He turns into the next room, and I take a beat to just…breathe.
Don’t touch him again, even playfully.
I step toward the room when a voice crackles over the loudspeaker, like in a grocery store: “Paging Ford Devon, your mom is on the phone.”