Chapter 27
NEIGHBORLY ACCESS
SKYLAR
Is this what it’s like to be lucky?
To strut through life, to point perfectly painted nails at anything you want, and say, I’ll take that.
Then to have it?
If so, sign me up. Because that’s how the last several days have gone.
My podcast numbers are climbing higher and higher—we passed seven thousand subscribers yesterday. Who knew a fake romance would align so perfectly with podcasting? The show’s basically dating and design now. And that’s fitting, since my dating is by design.
Other good things include the hot sex I had last night when Ford came home from his road trip.
I may have just happened to be out in the backyard, letting Simon out shortly after he returned.
Deliberate, of course. But what’s the point of having a fake fling with a neighbor if you don’t let yourself enjoy neighborly access?
It didn’t take any convincing—or engineering—for him to come over.
The second he spotted me, he walked right up to the fence, rested his strong arms on it, and roamed his eyes up and down me, undressing me immediately. “What are you doing right now?” he asked.
I glanced at my dog, then jutted out a hip, asking, “What does it look like I’m doing?”
“Getting ready to head inside so I can fuck you up against the kitchen table.”
I ran through the door so fast.
But Ford didn’t only bang me against the kitchen table—he bent me over the bed too.
After, he curled up with me and confessed he’d listened to every episode of my show since I’d met him.
I told him I’d watched all his games in the last few weeks.
Then, he asked me more about the show, and how I started it, and I asked him about the stretches he does.
I hardly wanted to go to sleep. This morning, he whipped up a pineapple smoothie at his place and brought it back over to me, chiding me for not having a doormat.
That was so him—both the smoothie and the chide.
Honestly, it’s really good to be me right now.
Especially on the work front. My carpenter friend Priya managed to get the kitchen cabinets removed from the Sausalito home and moved them down to the garage.
Everything is coming up roses. Or autumn leaves, really.
Golden and ruby ones crunch under my feet as I play Wordle with my brother—he solves it in fewer tries, the smarty pants, then he texts me to make up the guest room since he’ll be coming home for a few days later in the month for a symposium on carbon emissions.
I’ll give you the big dog bed and some kibble, I tell him.
We rib each other for a few more texts. When I turn the corner onto Fillmore Street, heading to meet my friends for coffee, my phone rings.
Mama Devon.
My spine goes ramrod straight. I still want to impress her. Even though we’ve been getting along just fine, she’s still—for all intents and purposes—the client. And if she refers me to her friends? It’ll be huge.
I answer right away as I pass An Open Book, the holiday display in the window catching my eye.
I should probably grab a Christmas romance later today.
I eat them up and then watch them on Webflix too.
Does Ford watch Christmas movies? Has he seen my favorite one—Merry Little Kissmas? Would he want to?
I shake off those thoughts with a cheery, “Hi, Maggie.”
“Hello, Skylar. I just wanted to tell you that those photos of the reclaimed wood cabinets are very nearly perfect.”
The operative words being very nearly. We talk through the tweaks she wants—just a few changes here and there, maybe a different door handle style. I duck under the awning of a perfume shop and take notes on my tablet.
“That’s not too much, is it? Just a few little changes?” she asks, her tone making it clear it’s not a question.
“That won’t be a problem.”
“Lovely. So many other designers said my vision was a problem. But it’s so much easier with you.”
“That’s the goal—to make things easier for you,” I say with a smile. It’s a genuine one. Sure, Maggie is an opinionated client. Sure, she likes to make changes too. But it’s her house. It should feel like a little slice of heaven to her. My job is to make her dreams come true.
“Speaking of easy things…do you know what you’re going to wear to the gala?”
That’s a good point. It’s coming up soon. “I guess I need to figure that out in the next week.”
She launches into suggestions, then adds, “Will you mention it on your podcast too? The gala?”
I blink. “You’re…listening to the show?”
She chuckles. “Of course I am. I’ve been listening and watching from the beginning. How do you think I knew that you and my son would be perfect for fake dating? It was clear you had a crush on him.”
Oh. That makes shockingly perfect sense. She would do that—she’s nothing if not the ultimate mastermind. There’s something deliciously ironic about the fact that we’re not entirely faking it for her.
Except, of course…we are. She doesn’t know about the things that happen between us—late nights, pillow talk, endless texts, and all those tasty smoothies.
But those late nights and early mornings aren’t turning into anything permanent. They simply can’t.
“Well, that was brilliant of you,” I say, forcing myself to focus on the fakeness, not the feelings.
“Thank you. I thought it was too. And send me some pictures of the cabinets when they go in,” she says.
“I will,” I say, wrapping up our conversation right before I reach High Kick Coffee. Stopping outside a cute tchotchke shop, I pause before I go into the café. Something about that interaction has thrown me off a little, like I’ve had too much caffeine and it’s making me jittery.
Am I afraid of disappointing her? That can’t be it. This thing with Ford is like reverse fake dating. We’re not faking it for his family—his family knows we’re faking it.
I’m not sure why my stomach feels a little twisty. Maybe because she said she knew I had a crush? Does that mean she thinks this will turn into something more? That she…wants it to?
My heart sits up, dares to hope. My mind races ahead to…days and nights spilling into weeks and months.
But that’s foolish. All the roadblocks to our romance still exist. Even if we weren’t neighbors, even when we stop working together, we’ll still be a man and a woman who have dreams other than love.
I push open the door of the coffee shop and leave thoughts of fake and real dating behind when I head inside.
I’m the first one here, but that’s no surprise to me.
Everyone expects me to be late. People don’t expect a creative type to be on time.
But I didn’t launch my own business—or my dog’s—because I’m a mess.
I launched them in spite of my messiness.
I sail over to the counter and order a vanilla latte.
“You’re going to want a toffee brownie too,” says Birdie, the owner of the shop.
“Twist my arm, why don’t you?” I say.
She winks, a smile coasting across her red-lipsticked mouth. “What’s the story with Sexy Reno Guy?”
My jaw drops. “You listen to—?”
She scoffs. “My grandson told me about it,” she says, and I’m guessing she means Miles, who plays on the Sea Dogs with Ford. He’s also Leighton’s boyfriend. “Couldn’t resist. It’s too cute when you narrate your dates.”
Fake dates, my head autocorrects her. “I’m glad you’re enjoying it,” I say—and maybe I need to check my numbers again.
Is it really seven thousand forty-five?
After she makes the drink, I grab a table to wait for my friends. Mabel’s coming, along with Sabrina and Leighton too. As I take a sip, I toggle over to the podcast dashboard—then nearly spit out my drink.
We’re at eight thousand six hundred forty-four now. “Holy smokes,” I say.
“It’s good, isn’t it?” Leighton asks.
I look up to see my friend with the pretty brunette hair and tattoos of flowers snaking down the fair skin of her arm. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“That’s usually my line,” she says wryly.
“True,” I say with a smile. She wears hearing aids, and I love that she’s able to make light of it while living her best life too.
“What’s so funny?” she asks, meeting my gaze as she settles across from me.
“My podcast. It’s over eight thousand,” I say in a whisper—like if I say it too loud, it’ll break this…luck.
“That’s amazing,” Leighton says brightly.
“I know, but…” I say, but I also feel…like I’m walking a tightrope.
The show is clicking, business is steady, and the Sausalito home is coming together.
But I’m also balancing that all while faking a romance with a client.
A romance the client’s mother engineered.
My head’s spinning as I try to keep track of what’s fake and what’s real.
I scrunch my brow, trying to put words to this antsy feeling.
“But what?” Leighton asks with some concern written in her tone.
I flash back over the last few nights with Ford, my chest warming as I think about the texts we send, the chats we’ve had, the way he invited himself to spend the night after we collapsed onto my bed in a hot, sweaty mess.
He’s such an interesting mix of intense and tender.
He’s strong, almost stoic, but then he has this soft side that he shows me—the Ford who kisses his dog’s snout, who cuddles under the covers, who makes me pineapple smoothies in the morning.
I’m about to tell Leighton the truth—that something’s shifting, tilting—when the bell chimes and in bursts a flurry of noise, fabulous hair, and bright voices.
Mabel and Sabrina whoosh past the sequined mannequin greeter at the door, beelining for us. I kick my wobbly feelings to the corner. Now’s not the time to dissect them anyway since Mabel’s chatting loudly about a douchey broker who said he’d heard about her spotty history.
I stand at attention. “Who is he? Because we ride at dawn.”
“Damn right we do,” Sabrina seconds with a crisp nod.
Mabel smiles softly, but it shifts into a frown. “Love the sentiment. But I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to get a place besides the ghost kitchen, which isn’t really a place, of course,” she says, and now’s not the time to talk about my good fortune.
We chat about her bakery situation while Leighton and Sabrina grab drinks. When everyone returns, I figure we can focus more on Mabel and strategizing some plans to help her.
But as she snags the cup of coffee that Sabrina slides her way, the steam wafting around her face, she shoots me a playful look. “So, tomorrow night you’re going to the hockey game as Ford’s…girlfriend.”
Just like that, I’m the center of attention again. Maybe that’s why I feel like I'm walking a tightrope. Because the spotlight is on me now in a big way.
Well, girl, you said you were dating a local sports star to a reporter.
The remark felt offhand at Landon’s party, but it’s not so offhand now.
But if I let myself believe this romance is real, I’m setting myself up to get hurt all over again.
And after investing five years of my life in one person and then watching that relationship vanish, I don’t want to get hurt again.
Since I don’t even know how Ford feels—surely, he’s not tying himself in knots like I am over these fake-slash-real questions—it’s best if I don’t get caught up in the meta-ness of it all either.
“Mabel, are you keeping track of my romance?” I ask, trying to keep things light.
Sabrina lifts her fingers and sketches air quotes. “Your ‘fake real romance.’”
They’re my friends, so they know the whole reverse fake-dating thing. But with those words, my stomach cartwheels again with nerves. Everything feels topsy-turvy—maybe because things don’t feel entirely light. Or fake.
But a part of me wishes it were—because the more real it gets, the more it might hurt when it ends.
And it will.
Fake romances always do.
Later that day, I walk up the steps to my brother’s home, then stop in my tracks at the door. There’s a new doormat on the porch, and a white piece of stationery beneath it.
The doormat is beige with a black silhouette of a Doxie mix and the words—Knock to See My Wiener.
A laugh bursts from my chest. No, from deep within me. I don’t even have to pick up the card to know who it’s from. But I grab it fast, anyway, unfolding it just as quickly.
It’s Simon’s stationery. He bought my dog’s stationery. My heart climbs into my throat. I feel like I’m going to cry. A good cry, like when I watch a figure-skating competition, or a, well, a Christmas romance. The note reads: I saw this at a garden store and thought of you.
That’s it. That’s all. But it also says so much more.
I clutch it to my chest as I head inside.