Chapter 12
STARRY NIGHT SNACK
FORD
In sports, timing is everything. The way you line up a shot, how fast you swing the stick, how long you’re in the penalty box—in my case, hardly ever. I have the team’s lowest PIM (penalty minutes) thanks to discipline.
I’ve played sports long enough to know that timing matters in life too.
Like the day a couple of years ago when I came home early from practice and found my ex’s laptop open, a chat with the private chef still glowing on the screen. That was seriously good timing. Imagine how long the affair might have gone on otherwise.
As I walk across the stone path toward my house, Zamboni trotting faithfully beside me, I think about timing again. Because Skylar on my porch late at night feels like a shot lining up just right.
She could have dropped the mac and cheese off anytime. But she’s here now. And right away, I know—I don’t want her to go home yet.
“Lucky me—comes with personal delivery,” I say.
Skylar smirks. “How else would it get here?”
“Your dog? Simon sounds like a man of many skills.”
“True, but food delivery isn’t one of them.”
She bends to Zamboni’s level. “Is it one of yours, girl? Can you do that?” She scratches behind Zamboni’s big ears. The dog wags her tail, sniffing in Skylar’s direction. Or maybe sniffing the food. I bet both smell good to her. They sure do to me.
“Missed opportunity,” I say. “Simon could get even more work. Just another member of the gig economy.”
Skylar pretends to consider that. “He’d look awfully cute with a little pack on his back, carrying mac and cheese on one side, a bottle of wine on the other, checking off deliveries on his app.”
“I can see it now. At the very least, I can see him writing a snarky post about it.”
Her eyes flicker with approval. “And thank you for a new idea for his social.”
“You write Simon’s posts? I never would have known,” I say, dry as a desert.
“Don’t tell anyone,” she says in a conspiratorial whisper.
“Your secrets are safe with me.”
She smiles, her eyes sweeping over me, lingering just a beat too long. There’s something appreciative there, and I’m betting she likes the suit. I puff my chest a little in pride, as she says, “I didn’t peg you for a Cabernet.”
Or maybe I’m wrong. My brow furrows. “What do you mean?”
“Your suit. It’s the color of a wine.”
I glance down, running a finger along the lapel. “Huh. Thought this color was… Actually, I don’t know what I thought it was—maroon?”
She shudders. “That is not maroon. It’s a fine wine.”
Colors aren’t my strong suit. “Thanks. My sister picked it out. Hannah.”
“Hannah has excellent taste. And I’m guessing she had a Cabernet from the Lucky Falls Winery in mind.”
The wise move would be to say thanks, head inside, and tuck into the fantastic-smelling mac and cheese that’s waiting for me. But that wouldn’t be taking advantage of timing, or fine wine compliments.
“I happen to have a Cabernet. I don’t think it’s from that winery, but would you like to have a glass? Maybe some mac and cheese?” I ask, with some nerves—nerves I didn’t expect—racing in my chest. I do my best to ignore them as I nod toward the wooden bench on my porch.
It feels like a porch kind of night.
“I already ate,” she says, and I try to hide my disappointment as she pauses to pet Zamboni again, who shamelessly accepts the affection.
But when Skylar looks up at me with those green eyes, I don’t see the signs of a woman who wants to go home.
Her gaze sparkles with…curiosity. Her lips part like she’s forming an addendum to her answer, and I’m hoping she wants to stay.
I shouldn’t want that. Truly, I’m fine with whatever she says next.
But when she says, “The wine definitely works for me though,” I fight off a smile.
Five minutes later, I’m back with two glasses, a freshly opened bottle of wine, some napkins, and a couple of forks just in case. I’ve shed the jacket but not the tie. The cuffs on my crisp white dress shirt are rolled up.
We settle onto the bench, Zamboni flopping at my feet with a contented sigh. A few stars twinkle in the city sky. A car rumbles down the end of the street, then fades away.
Skylar tips her head toward Zamboni. “She came home with you.” It’s a statement, but I understand the question.
“She stays at a dog hotel when I’m on the road.”
“Stahp! Stahp! That’s too cute. I need to know everything. Does it have heated floors, soft music, a swimming pool, and off-the-floor beds? Do they include bedtime stories, or is that extra? Can you order a biscuit to go under her pillow at turn-down service? Do they have turn-down service?”
“That’s a barrage of questions.”
She makes a rolling gesture with her hands, telling me to move it along, stat. “Answer them.”
As I pour the wine, I take her questions one by one. “Yes, yes, yes, and yes. Also, yes, they have bedtime stories, but they are extra. Yes, you can order a biscuit, but there’s no turn-down service. Next question.”
Her smile spreads across the city block. “Can I stay there?”
I laugh harder. “Sure. I’ll book a shared suite for you and Zamboni next time I travel. Sound good?”
“Simon too?”
Zamboni’s ears prick, right on cue.
“See? She likes that idea,” Skylar says.
I scoff as I hand Skylar a glass. “Pretty sure that look says keep the mad humper away.”
“Excuse me. Simon prefers happy humper. Also, he likes peanut butter biscuits.”
“Good choice.” I lower my voice to a confessional whisper. “Sometimes when I get peanut butter biscuits, I eat them too. Well, I take a bite.”
“Me too!”
“Speaking of, where is the happy humper?” I ask, looking around as if he might be hiding behind a bush.
Skylar lifts a finger. “He is not happily humping, you’ll be relieved to know. He’s sound asleep. Like I said, we went running earlier, and I’m pretty sure he’s still recovering.”
“Understandable,” I say as I pour my glass, then set the bottle on the bench.
She lifts her glass, anticipation in her eyes. “Should we drink to…” She looks around at the small spread next to me.
“Late-night snacks,” I say.
“They’re always a good idea.”
“They are.”
“To late-night snacks…with your next-door neighbor then,” she says, with the slightest bit of resignation over those last words.
Is being neighbors an issue for her? I’ve got enough concerns of my own that it hadn’t crossed my mind.
But now that it has, it’s probably a good idea to avoid entanglements with a neighbor.
If things go south—and experience says they will—you’ll risk seeing that person every time you turn around.
With that thought lingering, we clink glasses.
As she sips, I try not to stare too long at her glossy lips on the glass, at the column of her throat, at the way the porch lights cast a soft, silvery glow across her face.
And at the freckles on her collarbone, exposed tonight in one of those T-shirts with the neckline cut out.
A slouchy shirt that makes me want to dip my face and nibble on her flesh, then soothe the sting with my tongue.
A rumble threatens to work its way up my throat. I knock back some wine to hide the sound, then set the glass on the bench. Reaching for a fork, I dig into the mac and cheese and groan at the first taste.
After I swallow, I use the fork to point at the dish. “This is really good.”
She blows on her fingernails. “I have some skills.”
“Besides handling my overbearing, opinionated, tough-as-nails mom and making killer cauliflower mac and cheese, what else have you got?”
She waggles her mostly full glass. “I can make this glass disappear in about, oh, thirty minutes.”
I laugh again. Come to think of it, I’ve laughed more with Skylar than I have in a long time.
Don’t get used to it. She’s your neighbor and she’s a business associate. This is not the start of something else.
I eat some more and make small talk between bites as she nurses her wine. When I’m done, I say, “Thank you. This was way more fun than making or reheating something.”
“Do they feed you on the plane?”
“Sometimes, but it was a short flight from LA, so nothing tonight.”
“Good game this afternoon,” she says, then sits up straighter, smoothing a hand down her jeans. “I mean, I didn’t watch it. I didn’t realize you were playing. I looked it up once we were talking.”
Even on an inky blue night, I can see the flush crawling up her neck, as if she’s embarrassed to have admitted all that. Or to have admitted something in particular.
“So you looked me up,” I say, unable to resist teasing her.
“I just wanted to see how you did,” she says, trying to make light of it.
“Of course. That’s all.”
“Shut up,” she mutters.
“Admit it. You watched the highlights.” I goad her, nudging her with my shoulder.
And that was a rookie mistake. Even her shoulder bumping mine feels good. I pull away. Don’t want to tempt myself more.
She glances down the street as if the row of townhomes is the height of interest. “Just…I was curious,” she says, then looks straight ahead.
Oh, hell. She’s so damn cute now when she’s…caught in the act of, well, looking me up. And since I looked her up too—well, her dog, but then her—I like that she did the same. But I like it more than I should.
Which means I should call it a night soon. I fold the napkin and set it on the bench with the fork on top of it. “I have to see my personal conditioning coach tomorrow.”
“Cool. I should go.” She moves to stand, but her wineglass isn’t empty.
Without thinking, I set a hand on her thigh. “Stay. Till the picnic is over.”
She swallows and nods in the dark. “Okay. I will.”
With some reluctance, I remove my hand from her thigh, then sip more of the wine. For a beat, there’s just the sound of cars cruising by a few blocks over and laughter carrying from down the street. I imagine the ocean crashing somewhere in the far distance.
“So, you have your own conditioning coach?” she asks.