Page 15

15

ANDI

I spend about fifteen minutes debating with myself whether to bring a bottle of wine to Ford’s place.

It’s just dinner.

We don’t need wine.

But wine is nice and it’s always good to bring something when you’re a guest.

But I’m not really a “guest” since I almost feel like I live at his place these days.

In the end, I grab a bottle of merlot and carry it with me down the hall.

All because of that moment earlier where he joked about having makeup sex.

And because I actually have been thinking about sex with Ford, I didn’t take it as a joke like I usually do.

And he knew that.

And it got really hot in my condo.

I spent even longer debating what to wear, and much of the debate was similar.

It doesn’t matter what I look like for Ford; he’s seen me at my worst now.

It’s not like this is a date.

But my need to look my best wins out, although I’m wearing jeans and a fitted black turtleneck sweater, nothing fancy.

My hair is done in loose waves, and I did put on makeup—eyeshadow and mascara, and a shiny pale pink lip gloss.

I pause outside his door.

Be cool, be cool.

I knock and walk in, as I’ve been doing lately.

“Hi!”

Oops.

He’s asleep on the couch.

I cover my mouth.

Tilly is with him, on her back on his chest, tucked into his arm.

She’s asleep, too.

Both of their faces are so beautiful, relaxed in sleep, Tilly’s little mouth soft, her cheeks round, Ford’s carved and darkened with stubble.

Sweet Jesus.

He’s wearing gray sweatpants and a snug white T-shirt that hugs his biceps and chest.

The shirt has risen up to reveal a strip of bare skin.

This is both the sexiest and most endearing thing I’ve ever seen.

I stand and look at them for probably too long, until Tilly moves, lifting her little arms above her head in a stretch, scrunching up her face.

When she lets out a squawk, Ford’s eyes open.

Blinking, he focuses on me.

“Oh. Hey. What time is it?”

Pretending I just arrived, I saunter closer.

“Just after six.”

“Oh, man. Sorry. We fell asleep.”

“I see that.”

Tilly’s squirming and he sits up and holds her.

“See, was that so bad?” He looks back at me.

“She didn’t want to sleep. I should change her diaper. And change my clothes.”

Tilly looks at me, kicks her legs and holds out her arms to me.

My heart.

“Hello, baby girl.” I reach out and take her from Ford, and give her a kiss on her cheek.

“Did you miss me? It’s been hours!”

“Sooo long,” Ford says with gentle sarcasm as he stands.

“You go change. I’ll change little miss’s diaper.”

“Thanks.”

We meet up back in the kitchen.

Ford has changed into a pair of dark jeans and a navy, orange, and sky-blue polo-style shirt.

Despite the unusual shirt, I feel that punch of attraction that keeps happening.

I set the bottle of wine I brought on his kitchen island.

“I brought this. But we don’t have to drink it. Or we can. Or you can keep it for some other time.” Babble away, Andi.

So not cool.

“I have some, too, but we can open this.” He checks out the bottle.

“Oh hey, don’t even need a corkscrew.” While he opens the wine and pours two glasses, he says, “Dinner’s mostly ready. I just have to cook the pasta and put it all together.”

“Were you helping your dad make dinner?” I ask Tilly.

“No? You wouldn’t go to sleep? How can that be? Let’s go have a chat.” I take her and my wine over to the living room and set her in her bouncy thing, then sit in front of her.

“You changed your clothes. Look at this pretty sweater. Tell me what you did this afternoon.”

Ford joins us, sitting on the couch.

“We went shopping at Trader Joe’s. Then we stopped at the park and she went on the swings.”

I blink wide eyes.

“Oh, wow. Just like a big girl!”

“She liked it.”

“Did you like it? Yeah?”

She smiles back at me.

“Ammagaddagoo.”

“Oh, that does sound fun,” I reply.

“Tell me more.”

Ford laughs when she jabbers more baby sounds.

He gives her a bottle and we play with her for a while with some of her toys.

Then she starts to rub her eyes and lose interest in the toys.

“I think she’s ready for another nap,” I say.

“Amazing. Maybe we can eat dinner in peace.”

After we get her into her little cot in Ford’s bedroom, I help Ford in the kitchen.

He heats up the sauce he made for the pasta while I grate parmesan cheese for the salad.

Then we sit down at his dining table to eat.

“I like your place,” I tell him, looking around.

“It’s a little different than mine.”

His décor is light-colored and airy, similar to mine, although his furniture is sleek leather and smooth wood, where I have a comfy sectional with a lot of cushions that you sink into and antique oak pieces I picked up at flea markets over the years when Trevor and I didn’t have much money.

“Yeah. Yours is nice too. I wish I had a balcony like you.”

“It’s small, though. And there’s the rooftop terrace. You use that a lot.”

“I think I’m the only one who does.”

I pick up another piece of ravioli with my fork.

“This is so good. Is there corn in here?”

“Yeah. I got it at Trader Joe’s. Don’t think I made it.”

“Well, you made the sauce. And it’s delicious, too.” I pop the pasta into my mouth and enjoy it.

“So, do you have a mantra when you meditate?”

“Yep.”

“What is it?”

“Be the shark.”

I blink, then chuckle.

“Okay.”

“It was something I read once. You can be the shark and rule the ocean, or you can be a goldfish and wait for fish food in the aquarium. I don’t like waiting. Especially for food,” he jokes.

“Food is definitely important. How did you get so interested in sharks?”

“I don’t know. They’re just interesting. Big, dangerous fish. At the top of the food chain.”

“Hmmm.”

“There are lessons we can learn from them.” He sets down his fork and picks up a piece of focaccia.

“Keep swimming. Keep moving forward. Sharks can’t swim backwards,” he explains.

“Right. That’s a good rule. Keep moving forward.”

“Also, don’t let fear hold you back. Some sharks are afraid of dolphins.”

“Oh, I love dolphins! Who could be afraid of them?”

“Right? Great white sharks are supposedly man eaters, but they don’t really like the taste of humans.”

“Good to know,” I reply dryly.

He grins.

“What about you? Do you have a mantra?”

“I don’t meditate.”

“You should.”

I tip my head to one side.

“Why?”

“It’s good for you.”

“So is fiber.”

He barks out a laugh.

“True. Meditation helps deal with stress and anxiety.”

“Ohhh, like the stress of being in the net with players shooting pucks at you.”

“Exactly.” He gives me a look.

“Don’t tell me you don’t have stress in your job.”

“Oh yeah, I do.” I pucker my lips up briefly.

“Dealing with people is always stressful. Right now I have one client who is so indecisive I almost lost my mind the other day.”

“There you go. Meditation would help that.”

“Hmm. Maybe some time I’ll try it. I do try to stay positive, though. I think about the tattoo on my back.”

He blinks.

“You have a tattoo on your back?”

“Yeah.” Without thinking, I stand up, turn around, and pull up my sweater.

The words Rise above the storm and you will find the sunshine are inked in script up my spine.

“Very nice,” he says in a choked voice.

“I like it.”

I pull my sweater down.

I probably shouldn’t have done that, but I kind of like that I flustered him.

I take my seat.

“How about yoga?” he asks.

“Have you done yoga?”

“No.”

He heaves an exaggerated sigh.

“Andi, Andi.”

“You’re a hockey player. You don’t do yoga.”

“Sure, I have. It’s great for flexibility. I’m very flexible.” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.

I grin and shake my head.

“It’s also great for staying calm and balanced. Sometime, I’ll take you to a yoga class.”

Sure he will.

“Okay.”