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His arm is brushing against my side.
He is being helpful.
And I need to be polite. Only what comes out of my mouth is not polite at all.
“One hand usually does the trick,” I say.
“Two—or three or four—are always better,” he replies. “But I don’t need to tell you that.”
Goddamn, he’s indecent. And charming.
Doesn’t mean I don’t want to throttle him for what he did. But this conversation is almost…pleasant.
Fun.
I turn to the box. Ford moves to stand beside me, and I ring with the memory of how delicious the bulk of his long, broad body feels next to mine.
“I see you’re still the same shameless perv underneath that fancy suit.” We each take two corners of the cake platter in our hands.
Together we lift the cake out of the box onto the table. The tip of my finger catches on the frosting.
“Inner perv doesn’t come out all that often anymore, but yeah. Definitely still there.” His eyes move to my mouth as I lick my finger clean.
They darken.
Wrong that I take a sick kind of satisfaction in knowing I’m affecting him this way?
Wrong or right, I have a lot I need to do before the shower starts. Grabbing the empty box, I’m just about to turn away when he speaks up again.
“How have you been, Eva? You look great.”
I blink. Talk about being taken off guard.
“Thanks,” I say slowly. “I credit anxiety and brown liquor with helping me maintain my girlish figure.”
Ford scoffs. “Still a whiskey girl?”
“Always.”
“So what’s on your mind that’s got you so anxious?” he asks as he opens a package of cocktail napkins dotted with gold-foiled bees.
I have stuff I need to do. But if I’m being honest, I’m hungry for real conversation. Real connection. Working for myself, and by myself, can be awesome. But it also gets lonely.
I can’t remember the last time someone other than my parents or my sister asked about me.
I can’t remember the last time someone genuinely cared about my answer.
“Life. Being a thirty-two-year-old self-employed woman. These days it’s work—well, mostly—that keeps me up at night. The deadline for my second cookbook is coming up—”
“Second? You have a first?” He sets the napkins down beside the cake, eyes lit up. “Eva, that’s fucking amazing. You’re doing exactly what you always wanted to do. You know how few people can say that at this stage in life?”
A flare of anger ignites in my chest.
“Are you serious? Last time I checked, you didn’t approve of my choice of career path. At all. What was it you said? Something along the lines of me ‘not being ambitious enough?’”
Ford groans.
“Yeah, I was an idiot back then.” He runs a hand across the back of his neck, a red flush creeping its way up his chin. “Needless to say, I’ve learned a lot since undergrad. As an entrepreneur myself, I have a hell of a lot of respect for people who have a vision and go after it with all they’ve got. Especially if that vision is off the beaten path. I used to think—God, I thought a lot of stupid things, but now I see how brave you are. It’s inspiring. And so goddamn refreshing, Eva, I can’t even tell you.”
His eyes are earnest as they search mine, and that flare inside my chest bursts into something like…pride. Surprise.
Joy, even.
Over the years, a lot of people have made me feel ridiculous for having the dreams I do. Ford didn’t when we first met, but the older we got, the more judgmental he became about them. Wanting to become a writer—and a pit master of all things!—has always made me stick out like a sore thumb. I’ve gotten a lot of amused, judgmental side-eye about it.
Right now, though? Ford isn’t making me feel like a joke.
He’s making me feel like a rockstar.
What the hell is going on? Has he really changed his tune that much?
“Thanks,” I say slowly, bewildered. “I love it. Usually. My readers are the best in the world, and they really seem to connect with what I’m doing, so. Yeah. Although I have to admit, sometimes being an entrepreneur is a lot less glamorous than it sounds.”
“Being your own boss usually is.”
“Right? People say, ‘oh, wow, good for you, you made it.’ Which is awesome in many ways. But the dirty little secret no one tells you is you’ve gotta hustle twice as hard now. You still have to work. Still have to produce. Only now, the bar is set higher. You can’t ever rest on your laurels.”
“You can’t rest on your laurels,” Ford says. “But you can trust yourself. Trust your process, because it’s working. Clearly. Trust the universe, as cheesy as that sounds.”
“C’mon. You know what a control freak I can be when it comes to my passions. I don’t trust. I try. I hustle.”
