Chapter 19 Kiss Engineer
KISS ENGINEER
FORD
This fake date makes perfect sense. I’m already taking Skylar to the opening of the board game store. The gala next month is simply an extension of our plus-one-ing.
But I’m aware that my mother is a bulldozer.
Sure, Skylar has handled her with nothing but the aplombiest aplomb.
Still, I need to make sure Skylar’s okay with this new twist. It’s one thing for her to agree to a fake date with Mom managing my life over arugula salad.
It’s another for Skylar to honestly want to go.
Trouble is, after I pay the bill and we walk out of the café, Mom—surprise, surprise—commandeers the convo.
With a furrow in her brow, she sets a hand on my arm, looking up at me under the awning of an illustration of the owner’s tan Chihuahua she named the café after.
“How long do you think it’ll take to catch an Uber and get to the airport at this time of day? ”
Right. She has a return flight at five. It’s two-thirty now.
And I wouldn’t be a good son if I just let her catch an Uber.
“I can take you,” I tell her, “but I also have to drop Skylar off because she has an appointment.” I do traffic math, but I’m not sure my chauffeur services will work for both women.
The time it takes to dart over to Hayes Valley to drop off Skylar, then get Mom to the airport, will mean cutting it close for Mom’s flight.
I grit my teeth, annoyed that I have to choose between being a good son and a good neighbor.
Skylar steps in and says, “I’ll just catch a bus back to my place. It’s not a problem.”
My mother lifts a hand, her diamond ring glinting in the autumn sun as she waves us off.
“Don’t let me get in the way. You two need to figure out how this whole dating thing is going to work,” she says, like she’s been plotting this for a long time.
And honestly, she probably has. She brandishes her phone like it’s a prize.
“I’m a pro with Uber after this morning. ”
“Mom, I’m driving you,” I cut in. It’s about the principle now.
She rappels into my life like a CIA agent, then exits at her whim.
I’m driving her because, one, I need to wrest control from her, and two, well, she’s my mom, and as much of a bull in a china shop as she is, I love her.
But I also don’t want to leave Skylar in the lurch.
I raise a wait-a-minute finger and step away from them to open my Uber app and order a Green ride for Skylar. When I’m done, I say, “There’ll be an Uber for you in a few minutes.”
Skylar’s smile is warm and genuine. “Thank you. That means a lot to me.”
Mom fights off a cat-like grin.
A few minutes later, a car in the same model as mine pulls up, and Skylar arches a brow at the electric vehicle. “Nice choice,” she says.
I give her a nod, one that says, I get it. I feel the same.
She slides into the plush back seat and waves as the driver pulls out of the lot. I watch her until the red car slips onto the road and out of sight.
I turn back to Mom. “Ready for the airport?”
She’s staring at me, arms crossed, lips twitching like she just swept the high-roller table in Monte Carlo.
“What?” I ask.
“Fake date,” she says with an arch of her brow. “Hardly.”
She’s seen right through me, but I push back. I have to. “It is a fake date. You literally just set it up. I’m doing it for you,” I insist. But am I too insistent?
She squeezes my arm, nodding in solidarity. “Keep telling yourself that, darling.”
The woman knows me too well. “Mom, did you want a ride?”
“I did offer to take an Uber,” she points out.
“And if I’d let you take one, I never would’ve heard the end of it.”
“Ford, you should’ve driven Skylar. I can tell you want to spend time with her.”
I let out a long, frustrated sigh. “Mom. Car. Now.”
With a too-pleased grin, she slides into the passenger side. Once I’m behind the wheel, she says, “She’s nice.”
Something she never said about Brittany. Something I’m grateful to hear, even though there’s nowhere to go with it. There’s no room in my life or my hardened heart for romance, even with someone…nice.
“She likes you too,” I say as I pull out of the lot and head along the main drag toward the highway.
“Well, she has very good taste,” my mom says, then smiles my way, giving me a knowing look before saying, with genuine affection, “I mean it.”
She’s not only saying Skylar has good taste in liking her. But I can’t touch the other meaning—that Skylar might be into me.
Focus. Just focus.
I grip the wheel tighter and put all my concentration onto the road. But out of the corner of my eye, I see Mom peering sharply at my to-go cup. She picks it up and inspects it as I drive. “This is…interesting.”
I say nothing. Just clench my jaw. The cup could open up a can of worms.
She clucks her tongue, grabs her reading glasses from her purse, and taps something into her phone. Probably looking up the dog on the cup. Probably learning Simon Side-Eye’s “mom,” the woman benefiting from his potential OnlyPaws page, is indeed Skylar. I brace myself for an inquisition.
Instead, Mom chuckles, then fights off a grin as I near the Golden Gate Bridge once more. She clears her throat and says, “Like I said—hardly a fake date.”
But a fake date is precisely what it has to be. Because if it’s fake, it can’t fall apart. If it’s fake, then there’s no risk. No messy emotions. No future to ruin.
“Mom, do you honestly think I want to get involved again? My life is busy. I’m focused on hockey. I have an opportunity to go out on top. You know how much that means to me,” I say seriously. I need the reminder as much as she does.
She gives me a sympathetic look, letting down her mother-knows-best routine.
“I do, sweetie. I really do. And I want it for you—I want all the best, all the time for you.” She was there through my early career, cheering me on at Minor League games, lifting me out of funks, always believing in me.
Hell, she let me come live at home in the off-season when I was twenty-two, twenty-three.
When friends of mine had pro contracts and I was just… hoping.
Mom returns her focus to her phone. “I should check out that podcast of hers. I’ve been so busy. Do you listen to it?”
“No,” I say, as I merge onto the bridge.
I have to set some limits. I already check out her dog’s social, for fuck’s sake.
If I start listening to her design podcast, I might as well hold up a poster that says I’m into you.
And since I don’t want to keep discussing the woman I shouldn’t be so into, I nod to San Francisco’s iconic wonder of the modern world.
“Did you know the Golden Gate Bridge was originally supposed to be black and gold?”
“Tell me more,” she says, like this is the height of intrigue.
I appreciate her willingness to be distracted by the thought of a bumblebee-like bridge.
It’s like she knows I need a break from the romance talk.
She knows how hard the divorce was on me, the way it shattered my trust. How I closed off parts of myself and vowed to trust only family, friends, and my dog.
And when my mom slides into a series of did you knows, it’s exactly what I need. Because the more I talk about Skylar, the more likely I am to admit I want to date her.
When I shouldn’t.
Really, I shouldn’t.
Soon enough, I’m jostling through afternoon traffic at departures, trying to wedge closer to the curb of Mom’s airline.
I snag a free spot, flip on the hazards, then hop out for a quick goodbye.
I give her a hug. “Glad you like everything. Can’t wait for you and Dad to settle in,” I say, meaning it deeply.
She drives me batty, but she’s always been there for me, especially when hockey wasn’t. That matters.
“I do,” she says, then breaks the hug, cups my shoulders, and steamrolls on.
“You know, it’s always a good idea to make sure everything’s completely believable when you show up with a fake date.
Like maybe a fake kiss? Think about it, practice it, and be ready for it.
It was good seeing you. I love you, darling.
Have a great day. Thank you for everything.
The chair is great. The furniture is great. Keep up the good work.”
She departs on a cloud of perfume, not letting me get a word in.
The thought digs in as I navigate traffic on my return to Hayes Valley.
The idea of a fake kiss taps on my brain like a woodpecker. It doesn’t let go. I can’t think of a thing that isn’t connected to fake kissing my next-door neighbor.
Or really, real kissing.
Nope. Not even my audiobook does the trick.
Not even the goddamn news. I try toggling over to another audiobook I downloaded—the inside story of how a once-promising tech giant sold its soul to the devil.
But even the jaw-dropping, backstabbing tale of corporate greed and political ring-kissing barely registers as I weave through cars and the press of traffic.
All I can think is fake kiss, fake kiss, fake kiss.
When I finally arrive home around four, I march up my steps, yank open the door, and hold out my arms. “Did you miss me, girl? I missed you.”
Zamboni bounds over, bouncing on her back legs, happily whimpering.
“Let’s do it,” I say, then rush through the house to let Zamboni out in the backyard.
As she does her business, I stare across the fence the entire time, shamelessly trying to catch a glimpse of Skylar. But the view from the yard isn’t as good as from the hot tub.
Dammit.
Maybe I’ll need a soak tonight. To enjoy…the stars.
Except…wait.
My pulse launches into the stratosphere. There she is, walking across the kitchen, phone in hand, dictating something into it while buttoning a blouse haphazardly. Pretty sure the sides aren’t even lined up.
She’s always getting things done—even in her reign of chaos. Maybe because of it. Skylar’s a riddle. Wild and chaotic, but also focused and driven. Fiery and sassy, but also kind and thoughtful.
And I can’t stop thinking about her.
She’s got an appointment in fifty minutes.
I should leave her alone. But I’m a jack-in-the-box. I scratch Zamboni behind the ears, then wash my hands and say to my girl with finality, “Sometimes you just have to say fuck it.”
She barks her approval.
I leave, bounding down the steps, circling to my neighbor’s yard, then heading up hers. I do it like I’m chasing the puck, hell-bent on scoring, refusing to let anyone get in the way.
And I knock on her door. Loudly.