Chapter 21 Semantically and Otherwise
SEMANTICALLY AND OTHERWISE
SKYLAR
Like I’m riding off into the sunset, I slide into Ford’s car, sling the buckle across my chest, and slam the door. “Giddy up,” I say.
Before I can count to three, Ford hops into the front seat and hits the gas. “Yes, ma’am,” he says in a howdy-partner voice, and I’m a little buzzed that this stern man occasionally lets a playful side show through.
I tap the address into the screen, and we’re off as the car cruises silently, making my green heart pitter-patter.
I feel relieved. Not simply because of the orgasm—though that helps, undoubtedly.
I mean, it’s been a while. But mostly because there’s a weird sort of relief in my honesty.
Something raw and oddly intimate about those confessions.
I’ve come close to getting it off my chest, but now it’s out there officially, and he doesn’t seem to mind.
But as he expertly darts through traffic, I wonder…
what happens next? Were those fifteen minutes about convenience, lust, or something neither of us is ready to name?
Namely, this crackling, sparking connection between us that I didn’t see coming the day we met.
The more time I spend with Ford, the more we, well, crackle.
And combust.
Was that combustion a one-time thing?
Well, of course it was. We’re barely even fake dating. It’s like fake dating lite. Fake dating with fewer calories.
“That was…” I say, pointing back at my house.
“An orgasm, Skylar. An earth-shattering orgasm that rocked your world.”
I roll my eyes as I crack up. “Cocky much?”
“Am I wrong?”
“Nope.” Then I glance at my nails, weighing whether I want to continue my confessions. But why not? After the truths I served up, I can handle this one. “It’s been a while for me.”
“That so?”
“Well, not solo,” I explain. “I’m a big fan of those.”
He growls, a low, hungry sound that makes me feel in control again, and I love it. “Hot,” he says. “Just hot.”
“Thank you for your appreciation of my solo flights.” I pause. “But with someone else? It’s been…quite a while.”
At the light, he slows, then tosses me a dark look, his lips a straight line, his eyes glimmering. “Good.”
As he turns onto the next street, he adds, “Same for me. I haven’t been with anyone…in a long time. Since…my ex.”
It’s one of the few times he’s mentioned her. Every time he does, I realize we have more in common than I’d first thought—back when I assumed we had nothing.
Maybe that’s why the honesty bug takes over my vocal cords again. “Good. I’m glad too,” I say.
He just smiles.
“And I didn’t get to return the favor,” I add—and then, bam. It’s like my mouth handled the setup for the awkward question: Will this happen again? I draw in a fortifying breath. “That was…a one-time thing, right?”
He’s quiet for a block, his fingers curled tight around the wheel. The silence is thick and heavy with the weight of…decisions. Of consequences.
I want a good referral from his mother.
I want to honor my brother’s wishes.
And Ford wants to focus on his career. Understandably. He said as much when he ate mac and cheese on his front porch.
Sex is distracting. It fries brain cells.
“It probably should be, don’t you think?” he asks evenly, in a measured voice.
I blow out a breath. “Of course. Sex makes you stupid,” I say.
He laughs again. “Yes, I suppose it does. Fake dating is one thing. Sex is another.” He sighs, then furrows his brow. “But then again, is it sex when I fuck you with my fingers?”
A flush races up my chest to my neck—hell, to my ears. “That feels very semantic, Ford.”
“Did it feel semantic when you came all over my fingers?”
“You know, maybe it did.”
“We should try again,” he says, deadpan.
And while I love that he wants to, I also know it’s for the best that we don’t. “But we shouldn’t, right? Even though I didn’t return the favor.”
He cruises into the Presidio. “Sex isn’t about favors. Or scorecards.”
“What’s it about?”
“How good I can make you feel,” he says.
All the breath escapes my lungs. “You succeeded.”
“Semantically?”
“And otherwise,” I say as we reach the office building. He pulls up in front of the four-story brick building with two minutes to spare. “Thanks for the ride. I guess it’ll be more believable now that we’ve kissed.”
“And now that you’ve fucked my fingers.” There he goes, stoking the fire.
“You really like saying that.”
“Seems I do,” he says, sounding wistful. He leans across the car, slides a thumb along my chin, and says, “You’re fucking perfect.”
The same thing he said earlier. It makes me feel…floaty in a whole new way.
I get out and go, still glowing from the unexpected afternoon orgasm, but also a little melancholic from the realization it can’t happen again.
Even though that’s for the best.
It really is.
“It’s almost perfect,” I declare, adjusting the vintage banker light in Sofia’s new office. “Let me just move it a smidge over here.”
The polished lawyer watches me with intense scrutiny, like everything is fascinating to her, including the way I position her new—well, old and now new again—lamps that were delivered today. I set them down next to a paperback with a title in Spanish—looks like a romance novel.
“That is better, Skylar,” she says.
I smile. “Glad you agree.” Then I position some plants on her side table and add a pillow to the chair across from her. “I know a pillow doesn’t scream attorney, but you want your clients to be comfortable.”
“Of course I do,” she says crisply. “And a pillow does the trick.”
“I love pillows so much,” I say, since, of course, I love pillows.
“What’s not to love?” she replies, then gives me a look that says she’s poised to say something. “Will you feature this before-and-after on your podcast?”
I freeze for a few seconds, then furrow my brow. “You follow my podcast?”
“Of course I do. I was hoping Ximena, Kuo, and Richardson would be featured.”
Hell yes.
“Absolutely,” I say, pulling out my phone to shoot some after videos. At least I can bring attention to my podcast by working with a client. That’s something real.
Unlike the fake thing currently occupying my brain—fake dating the guy next door.
When I’m done, Sofia tells me she’s meeting with a client from a labor union, and my mind spins with exciting stories of who she might be standing up for. Heck, I bet she’d defend the planet if Earth asked her to.
“Lucky client,” I say.
“I’m pretty lucky to do what I love,” she says. “You’re the same.”
And really, I am. I love my job, which is why I keep my focus on Haven Designs.
Not horny Haven.
Which means I probably shouldn’t mention Sexy Reno Guy again on air.
Shame. Seems I’ve grown quite fond of the man I once hated.