Chapter 8
A LITTLE SPARK
FORD
Sometimes you just have to prove your point. After I grab my to-go cup—with a proper lid on it, right where it belongs of course—I say goodbye to Zamboni and head out, ready to prove a point.
To myself.
That this meeting is business as usual. That I’m simply doing a nice thing for my mom’s designer. That I’m unaffected by my sexy-as-sin neighbor.
Who’s…waiting on the sidewalk already, and it’s not even ten-forty.
How the hell is a hot mess early? Earlier than me? This makes no sense. Skylar’s supposed to be clumsy, kooky, and unable to remember an appointment. To arrive ten minutes late, clutching a huge stack of books, tripping on her feet, and landing kersplat as the books spill onto the sidewalk.
I’d sweep them up and offer a hand while she’d flash a quirky smile and apologize.
But nope.
I didn’t even tell her which vehicle was mine—no need—but Skylar Haven is already leaning against my car, all casual and easygoing, big red sunglasses on and…
an infernal coffee cup in her hand. But I can’t even bother to check out the mug because she’s looking like the cool kid in high school, with black pants that hug her legs just so and a slouchy gray top that reveals a hint of her creamy shoulder.
And…freckles.
Fucking freckles that travel across the exposed skin by her collarbone.
What does she taste like there? Right there?
The thought is entirely too distracting. I fight it off, wrestle it to the ground, and stomp on it. Then I leave it behind me.
Play it cool. Play it like you didn’t watch her in her kitchen less than forty-eight hours ago.
I stride down the steps, across the stone path, and over to her, making a show of checking the time on my phone. “You’re early.”
“Are you going to fire me for that?” It’s asked as a playful challenge.
“Not today, Skylar. Not today.”
She wipes a hand across her brow. “Whew. I was worried.”
I thrust the to-go carafe at her, figuring it doubles as an apology gift, too, for giving her a hard time about her dog last week.
This is what a decent dude who didn’t check out his neighbor late at night would do—bring her a drink before a work meeting.
Since I’m absolutely, definitely no longer thinking about how she looked in her kitchen the other night wearing those just-the-right-amount-of-short pajamas. Nope. Not at all.
“You were right,” I concede.
“About what?”
“When you said I was watching kale smoothie videos. But only halfway right since I watched a video on how to make a…wait for it…pineapple smoothie. Figured that was more your speed.”
The corner of her lips twitch in a grin—one that spreads like wildfire. “Pineapple? And why’s that my speed?”
Because it tastes delicious, like I bet you do.
And what the fuck is up with my runaway thoughts?
I shrug, making the drink seem like no big deal, when really, it’s my thoughts I’m trying to downplay. “I figure anyone who wears a robe to walk her dog likes pineapple.”
Her brow knits. “Huh. Why does that feel like a dig?”
I ignore the comment, nodding to the smoothie so I can stay in control of the convo. “Try it. I guarantee it’s good. It’s got honey and coconut too.”
“Did those seem like my speed too?”
“You know what? They did.”
“Aww, thank you. You must think I’m sweet.”
“Take the smoothie, Skylar,” I say, keeping my tone stern, ignoring the teasing bait, even though she’s damn good at doling it out.
As I hand over the drink, I glance at the mug in her other hand. Holy shit, it has a lid.
“I see you’ve discovered lids for coffee cups.”
Her smirk is downright cat-who-ate-the-canary. “Actually, I learned how to make a kale smoothie for my new client.” I take the mug from her, peel off the top and…she’s not kidding. She really did make me a drink, like she’d hinted she would. And it looks good. Just the right consistency.
“You did,” I say dryly, schooling my expression. I want to grin and say, Great minds, but I don’t want to presume too much common ground when it comes to…motivation.
“Go ahead. Say it,” she urges.
“Say what?”
“Say…I was wrong. Well, say you were wrong.”
“How was I wrong?” I counter.
“The other night when we texted? You didn’t think I was watching videos on how to impress your client with the best kale smoothie. But I was, Ford. Oh, I was. And the proof of the pudding is in the eating. Or the drinking. So bottoms up.”
I part my lips to make a counterpoint—actually, you weren’t watching a how-to video. You were dancing with your dog, your short shorts riding up temptingly, but that would tip my hand. So I shut the fuck up and cautiously try the drink.
But holy shit, it’s good, with a hint of sweetness and a little peppery bitterness. It’s everything a kale smoothie should be.
“You sure you hate kale?” I ask.
“I’m sure,” she says.
“All the more impressive then. This is good.”
Whipping off her shades, she smiles, and this time it’s bright and big, like her personality.
Those clever green eyes twinkle as she wraps her pretty lips around the metal straw in the cup.
I didn’t anticipate how dangerously sexy that’d be.
The way she looks at me from under those long lashes as she drinks some of her tropical smoothie and hums.
Actually hums. Like one of those food shows where the host goes all orgasmic. I can’t look away. Hot tension courses through me as she rolls her lips together, then says, “This is sweet.” She bobs a shoulder. “Just like me.”
“Good,” I mutter. My brain spins with inappropriate thoughts, and I clench my phone tighter. Focus, man. Focus.
She turns to the car. “Ready to go?”
That raises a question. “How did you know this was my car?”
“It’s neat,” she says, then wiggles a brow as she lowers her voice. “Also, I saw you get into it the other day.”
She’s observant. Note to self: make sure she doesn’t see you when you check her out from the hot tub.
I open the passenger door for her and try not to watch as she slides into the front seat. But I like the way she moves. I like the way she flicks her hair off her shoulder. I like, too, how she settles into my car, like she’s comfortable being there.
When I jerk my gaze away from her, I’m shaking my head at myself.
Because I also like that she enjoyed the drink, plain and simple. Which—fuck me—means I didn’t make it to prove a point to myself that I’m cool and in control.
I made it…for her.
“Your car could win an award,” Skylar remarks with a whistle of appreciation as she looks around the interior, checking it out while we zip off.
“Yeah? For what?” I ask, since it feels like I’m being set up.
“Neatest car ever,” she says. “This is Swedish, right? It’s that new Swedish electric car that everyone’s loving?”
“Yup,” I say, “but I didn’t get it to be trendy.”
“Of course not. You got it because it’s very you—form follows function,” she says.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I say warily.
“It is,” she says, then peers at the floor again, then at me with assessing eyes. “Look at the floor. Did you vacuum it this morning?”
“Obviously.”
“Wait. Why is that obvious?”
“How is it not? Things don’t get clean on their own,” I say as I turn onto Castro Street.
“But you clean it every day?” She seems perplexed by this.
“No, Skylar. A magical fairy appears out of thin air with a broom.”
“I’m even more impressed now that the car is cleaned with a broom,” she says.
I fight off a laugh. “So it’s the broom for you? Not the fairy?”
“Oh, the fairy’s cool too,” she says, then lifts a hand toward the gleaming dashboard, like she’s about to stroke it, but she jerks her hand back a second before she touches it. “Wait. Am I allowed to touch it?”
“Why would you not be allowed to touch it?”
“Because it’s so neat, so Swedish, so…excellent,” she says, then takes a drink of her smoothie, making another one of those sensual purrs. I keep my focus firmly on the road. Not on her lips. Not on that sound. Looking at her mouth right now would be a serious hazard.
She cranes her neck around to the back seat, then returns to the front. “Yep. Just like I imagined.”
“You imagined my car?” I ask. This woman keeps me on my conversational toes, that’s for sure.
“Definitely. I had a feeling it would be like this,” she says as I slow at a light. “Are you a neat freak, Ford Devon?”
I bristle. “Just neat. Nothing freakish about it whatsoever.”
She nods. “Hey, neat freak is a compliment too.”
I scoff. “How do you figure? It’s got freak in it.”
“Maybe I like neat freaks,” she says, smirking, “who drive Swedish cars.” With an impish shrug, she takes another sip of her drink, her lips curved around the metal straw.
My jaw tightens, and I grab the mug from the console, then knock back some kale smoothie like it’s the source of my superpower. Well, I hope it is, but as I set it back down in the holder on the console, I nearly do a double take. Wait—is that her dog giving me the side-eye on the mug?
Quickly, returning my eyes to the road, I blurt out, “Is your dog on the mug?”
“Yeah,” she says, with a delighted kind of grin. “It says I Swear I’m Not Judging You.” Then she lowers her voice. “But he’s totally judging you. I mean, his Internet name is Simon Side-Eye.”
I tap the gas pedal. “Your dog has an Internet name?”
“And his own line of merch. He even works with an eco-friendly company that fulfills his merch orders. He’s quite the business dog.”
And she is quite the surprise. As we wind past Twin Peaks, I don’t mind that my very neat car is now filled with her…wild spark.