Chapter 30 Very Serious Look #2
Her shoes are pale gold, I think, with a thin strap down the top of her foot. I can’t wait to undo them later, then press a kiss to her ankle. My gaze roams up her legs, taking in strong calves peeking out, then the dress.
I’m not even sure what’s happening with it, but it’s got floral embroidery and tiny see-through sleeves, and it falls beautifully on her body.
She juts out a hip and says, “What do you think? Can I be your lucky color?”
Goosebumps erupt across my skin. Goosebumps. When was the last time I felt goosebumps?
Did I ever feel this way with Brittany?
But she’s the last person I ever want to think of, so I dropkick thoughts of her to the curb as I take in Skylar, with glossy lips, long eyelashes, and auburn hair falling in soft waves, styled like she’s stepped out of The Great Gatsby.
I can’t even stand how beautiful she is. “You are definitely my lucky color.”
She plucks at the fabric. “Can you believe I found this at Champagne Taste?”
I have no idea what that is, but I’m guessing it’s a thrift shop. So I just say, “Yes, I can. Because you find everything.”
Including…me.
Before I say that, I thrust out the box, blinking and still trying to take in this vision in front of me.
She flicks it open and gasps. “Ford,” she says softly, reverently.
She told me she was wearing a vintage dress, so I went to a jewelry shop and asked for a matching necklace. A vintage choker with a blue topaz pendant.
“It’s beautiful,” she says, then lifts her hair, her bright, big eyes full of vulnerability as she says, “Put it on me.”
My fingers are normally steady. They’re supposed to be. But I slip undoing it.
My mouth is dry, and my voice is hoarse as I say, “Turn around.”
She complies, hair piled into her hands, her summertime scent drifting under my nose and intoxicating me. I loop the necklace around her neck, willing my heart to settle, and I manage to clasp it without making a fool of myself.
But I can only be so strong. I lean in, press a decadent kiss to the back of her neck, and say, “You’re incredible.”
It’s easier than saying I’m falling for you.
Maybe soon, I’ll have the guts to say that. For now, I take her hand, and we go.
When we arrive at the nearby hotel, we walk through the sleek lobby, with a modern waterfall structure set against a black stone wall. Mirrored panels reflect opulent chandeliers above. I’m holding Skylar’s hand the whole time, running my thumb between her fingers, unable to stop touching her.
This is a fake date. For my mother. To ward off hungry matchmakers—from the Cordelia Harringtons, Kahlia Mayamis, and Sunil Bakshis who were exhausting Mom with date offers.
But fending off romantic setups feels like a distant reason for this date, one born of another era. As I walk toward the ballroom with Skylar, nothing about us feels fake. There’s no ruse. There’s no facade. There’s only this…new reality.
“Thanks for coming to this. Mom appreciates it,” I say. But that’s not the reason I’m saying it.
Skylar must know it, too, because she says, “I like her, but I don’t think that’s why you want me here.”
Ah, fuck. She can see right through me. Her honesty excites me. And steadies me. It does something warm to my heart. “You are right,” I say. “And I know they’re your favorite words.”
“They are,” she says with a happy shrug.
I give her a quick kiss, then walk in, buoyed by the same kind of can’t-lose attitude I carry with me every damn time I hit the ice for a game.
As servers weave through a glittery crowd, offering trays of caprese-stuffed mushrooms and cranberry baked brie bites along with flutes of champagne, I nudge Skylar. “I know you like champagne,” I whisper.
“I know you like champagne,” she counters.
“On you,” I say, stopping to grab two flutes and thank a server.
In the middle of the ballroom, with a string quartet in the corner playing pop tunes, I hold up my flute in a toast.
“To…” I stop before I say fake dates. Because fuck it. Just fuck it. “To real dates.”
A smile ignites on her beautiful face. “Real dates, Ford Devon? You sure about that?” she asks with a sassy challenge.
“Positive,” I say, then I kiss off her lip gloss. When I let go, I tip back the flute and drink some, like the very satisfied man I am. Champagne has never tasted better.
She does the same, then adds, “Good. Me too.”
That’s it. That’s all. And maybe it’s just that easy—moving on from the past, and the hurts, and the things you’re afraid of.
Sometimes you just…let them go, one fall evening when your next-door neighbor wears your lucky color.
But as much as I want to spend the night in this bubble with her, I know we’re here to put on a show—a show that hardly feels like one anymore.
Still, I scan the crowd for my mother. I spot her easily in the middle of the room, holding court with some donors, and we make our way to her.
She’s elegant and in charge, but thoughtful too, clearly listening as others chat. When I reach her, she gives me a mama bear hug, then says, “This is my son and his new girlfriend, who I might even like better than I do him.”
I roll my eyes at the mom dig, then introduce my girlfriend to all the people who allegedly wanted to set me up.
I’m not sure if Skylar is my girlfriend. But I am sure this isn’t fake for either one of us anymore.
We stay and make small talk, and as some of the donors chat with Skylar and ask questions about her business—which, of course, dovetails perfectly with my mom’s charity to bring recycling initiatives everywhere—she’s asked for her info for possible work.
Skylar might gain referrals. That’s an outcome I didn’t see coming, but it’s one I love.
As Skylar chats with Kahlia about the work she does, my mother tugs me aside, whispering, “You should marry her.”
I nearly spit out my champagne. “Mom.”
“What? She’s so much better for you than your ex. I knew it from the start. A mother just knows these things,” she says, then sails off to mingle with another donor.
Right as Skylar returns to me.
We’ve done our job for the night, but the night is young—and it’s time to simply enjoy the gala.
We walk away from the crowds, heading for the bar, when I see a mirage. That can’t be. Why is she here? Like a ghost I didn’t summon, my ex-wife strides over in a jet-black dress that brushes the floor, earrings glittering, head tilted with a very curious look on her face.
She locks eyes on me. Then on Skylar.
I grip Skylar’s hand tighter, one thought taking up all the space in my brain—she’s not going to ruin our night.