Chapter 13 Bird-Watching
BIRD-WATCHING
SKYLAR
I shouldn’t have a thing for apex predators, being a vegetarian and all. Still, there is just something about predatory birds that is so cool.
It’s terrible of me to admire them.
Truly, it is.
But as I’m futzing around the kitchen a couple days later, fighting off a yawn while trying to crush my brother in Wordle—news flash: I’m not even close to beating his solve-it-in-three-tries average—a faint chirp floats through the open window.
Is that…my great blue heron love?
I race across the house in my fuzzy Bees Are Cool socks, complete with no-slip grips, to the front of the home, where I hunt for my opera glasses in the pile of paperbacks I keep meaning to give to my friends.
I hightail it back to the kitchen, past a curious Simon, who lifts his snout from his dog bed, then stretches and pads behind me.
While slinging the opera glasses around my neck, I make it to the mudroom window as a chirp drifts past my ears again.
Hmm. That’s not quite a squawk. But maybe herons chirp before they squawk? “Cleo, is there a great blue heron out there?”
But she says nothing. She simply sits imperiously in the corner, white paws crossed, gaze fixed on the live oak.
Well then.
If I’m going to become an amateur bird-watcher, no time like the present.
I swear I won’t even look at the neighbor’s home. I’ll keep my focus firmly fixed on…the birds. That’s what a new birder does.
I hoist myself over the windowsill, scanning the yard.
There’s a mock orange tree in one corner, a red maple near the other, a California fuchsia in the middle…
and is that a pack of hummingbirds in the fuchsia?
Those birds are so tiny, it really is a good thing I have these opera glasses to check them out.
But I should get closer, especially since someone is definitely chirping again.
With my blue jammies on today, I shimmy along the shelf, sliding closer and closer still to Cleo, while an annoying voice talks back in my head.
You’re trying to spy on your hot neighbor.
Sheesh. My inner voice is super judgy. I try to reassure the voice that I won’t look at Ford’s porch. I really won’t look to the east. I slink along on my belly, then bring the glasses to my eyes.
Whoa. Everything’s blurry. It’s all green fuzz. I adjust the opera glasses, focusing intensely on the California fuchsia. They’re known for hummingbirds, I think. And look at all of them. Just look at them. Just look at…
That tanned skin. The smattering of golden chest hair. And that…is that…an eight-pack?
Five, six, seven…Oh god. Eight. And that treasure trail that leads right into…
Stop!
The man is simply saluting the sun, and I am salaciously, shamelessly…
Oh, is that a prayer twist now? Well, I am praying he holds this pose as I stare without intermission at those bare, toned, and muscular arms. Those sturdy shoulders, rippling and, I bet, firm to the touch.
Those strong thighs, looking far too good in those yellow shorts.
Ugh. My stomach twists. After he shared about his lucky color the other night, his all-female management team, and his focus and dedication, I should not be staring at his, well, focus and dedication. But my god, just look at his biceps.
The left one is Focus, the right one, Dedication.
And I think I’ll name his abs Commitment and Discipline.
And…I’ll stop after I name his pecs—
Oof.
There’s a paw on my face. “Cleo,” I mutter, waving my free hand to get the sleek creature off me, but when I yank the glasses away from my eyes, the feline’s lunging across my face, her murderous paw aimed at a…bug in the screen. I roll away to get out of her line of fire—
And squawk out a wrenching, “Ahhh,” as I topple to the ground and land on my…chin.
I’m moaning in pain, and groaning in misery as the ache lances through my freaking face.
How do you land on your chin, you might ask? By being the new breed of dodo bird who squawks as she tumbles.
“Everything okay?”
I cringe.
That’s Ford. Can he see me all the way from his porch across my yard and down to the ground? Dear goddess of the universe, please let the earth swallow me whole.
The voice grows louder. “Skylar? Is that you?”
I glance around. Pretty sure I can’t hide in the catio. I pull myself up, opera glasses in hand, and wave from inside the catio, figuring honesty is the best policy. “Sometimes I like to watch birds from the catio.”
From across the fenced-in yard, he’s standing on the edge of his porch, his handsome brow furrowing, clearly weighing my answer. Then, I swear I see his dimple flashing as he says, “That tracks.”
I open the catio door—it has one, in case a human needs to, well, enter the catio like a civilized adult—and stroll casually across the yard in my fuzzy socks, like my chin isn’t aching and there’s nothing to see here.
Nothing at all.
I pad up onto my porch, offering a faint smile to Ford and Focus, Dedication, Commitment, and Discipline, then go inside.
Where the chirp is still chirping. “What the hell?”
I retrace my steps to the mudroom, look at the ceiling, and groan. The smoke detector’s battery is low.
I’ve been bird-watching a battery.
Mabel studies my face as I sort through vintage doorknobs at one of my favorite shops later that day. “I hate to ask the obvious, but what happened to your chin?”
My chin still smarts, and I deserve it. I sigh as I look up from the options for replacements for the ones missing at Sofia’s law firm in the Presidio. I set up all the retro lamps in her office a few days ago—she picked Tiffany-style ones, which delighted me.
“I had a battle with a smoke detector.”
Mabel hums, then nods. “Sounds about right.”
“Ford said the same thing.”
“Sexy Reno Guy?” she asks.
I sigh, feeling foolish still. “Yep.”
“What’s going on?”
He’s sarcastic and interesting, thoughtful and curious, and stern in a way I shouldn’t like but do. Plus, he adores animals and seems to intrinsically get me. “I spied on him. Again,” I admit, then tell her everything.
“I don’t know whether to high-five you or warn you about getting caught.”
“Maybe both,” I say heavily.
We resume our hunt, and it’s good to focus on another client.
Later that day, though, my mom calls to tell me the date of Landon’s store opening so I know when to avoid that block.
I make a mental note of the day, then thank her.
Right. No looking back. No getting distracted. No bad decisions. Which means I should probably stop watching my hot neighbor—my client, my very important client—do yoga.
Fortunately, the bruise on my chin serves as a tender reminder.
I return to my couch, ready to focus, to draw up some plans. Then my phone pings with a message.
Ford: This is last minute, but I have some tickets to tonight’s hockey game. Want to go?
My chin says no, but my fingers say Hell, yes.