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THE FLIRTING GAME

A #1 New York Times bestselling, #1 Wall Street Journal bestselling, and #1 Audible bestselling author, Lauren Blakely is known for her contemporary romance style that’s sexy, feel-good and witty. Lauren likes dogs, cake and show tunes and she is the vegetarian at your dinner party.

By Lauren Blakely

Love and Hockey #6

THE FLIRTING GAME

LAUREN BLAKELY

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First self-published by Lauren Blakely 2025

First published in Great Britain by Penguin Books 2026 001

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SHARING IS CARING SKYLAR

I’m nosy by nature.

If a couple decides to whisper their grievances across a diner table, I’m going to lean back in my booth and eavesdrop.

If someone’s reading next to me on a plane, I’m going to peek at their screen to see if the hero’s about to evade an assassin, rocket to Mars, or buy a chocolate shop as a gift for his heroine. I’ll take the latter, thank you very much.

And when I spot my brother’s cat in the mudroom with her unblinking green eyes locked on the corner of the yard, I need to know what has caught Cleo’s attention at the same time every morning this week.

I can’t leave well enough alone.

As my coﬀee works its magic, I peer through the open window leading to the luxurious catio—an enclosed patio for cats—trying to get a read on her target.

But I can’t tell what it is from inside my home. Hopping onto the mudroom cubbies, I adjust my fuzzy

pajama bottoms covered in illustrations of martini glasses and a threadbare T-shirt that says, Everything is Fine Here in a font of ﬂames. I poke my head out, taking another drink from my steaming mug, coﬀee tendrils wafting into the warm October air.

“Sharing is caring,” I tell the feline, but the regal tuxedo is perched on the highest shelf of the catio maze my brother built in his townhome—before he took oﬀ for an assignment in Europe six weeks ago and I moved in— and she’s pointedly ignoring me.

After I set my coffee cup at the end of the first cat shelf —like I’d leave my coffee behind—I roll up the cuffs of my pajama pants.

I hoist one leg over the windowsill, brace myself, and haul my ass out. Why didn’t I venture here sooner? This catio is state of the art, with screened walls keeping the kitty safe and an obstacle course of shelves giving her premium vantage points.

The catio is about fourteen feet long and ten feet wide, so I’ve got some distance to cover. Have I mentioned that each shelf along the catio only has about three feet of headroom?

I take a fortifying sip of coﬀee, then do my best John McClane impression, crawling through the catio like I’m sneaking through heating vents to save Christmas.

I wiggle forward like a caffeine-addicted snake, and finally— finally—I reach Cleo.

Oh. Hello there, hot neighbor.

My eyes pop. My pulse spikes. Hell, my coﬀee cup sweats.

Cleo is a naughty girl. She’s been staring for a week at an absolutely strapping specimen on the back porch of

the house next door. I’ve never seen him before though. Is he a guest? Or does he live there? And if he lives there, why didn’t my brother tell me?

I jerk my gaze away from the vision of well-muscled glory and turn an accusatory stare to my companion. “You were holding out on me,” I whisper, betrayal laced through every word. “Where is the leaning in, girl? I’m seriously disappointed.”

Cleo lifts her haughty chin like she obviously doesn’t care. Well, she doesn’t. The greedy little thing has been keeping the hottie all to herself.

But not anymore.

I sit next to her, take another sip of coﬀee, and settle in to check out my next-door neighbor properly—or improperly, as the case may be—as he does porch yoga.

Shirtless.

This is the pick-me-up I needed. Earlier this week, I’d lost out on a project I busted my butt to land. The client went with a big corporate design ﬁrm instead of little old solo me. This bit of good fortune is the karmic jump-start I need this morning before I get into the badass businessbabe zone to meet another potential client this afternoon.

I swing my gaze back to the man. Should I get my binoculars? I have a mini pair inside—well, they’re opera glasses, technically. I found them on an epic thrifting treasure hunt a few months ago. You never know when you might need them. For birds, obviously. I spotted a redwinged blackbird in the yard just last week, and I’m seriously thinking about taking up birdwatching.

But I don’t know how long the show will last, so I stay put. My gaze roams over the well-built man with all those muscles on display. He’s only wearing compression shorts.

They’re bright yellow. I don’t love the fashion choice, but given the free view, I can set that aside.

He stands tall, his sturdy arms raised to the sky like he’s trying to touch it.

I swear I can make out every muscle. The biceps, the triceps, the make-my-jaw-drop-ceps.

His hair ﬂops over his forehead with just the right amount of devil-may-care messiness that begs you to run your ﬁngers through it. Are those golden strands woven through his brown hair, or is it just the October sun haloing this Greek god? If I were the sun, I’d shine on him too.

Just look at him with that strong proﬁle. Chiseled jaw. Roman nose. Carved cheekbones. Fair skin kissed with just a hint of tan. I sigh contentedly. Despite my head nearly bonking the roof, and my legs scrunched up crosslegged, I’m going nowhere till the curtain call.

He bends, folding at the waist, dropping his arms to his feet, and—oh my god.

There’s a ﬁrst time for everything, and I might need to make a T-shirt that says, “I was today years old when I became an ass woman.” Because I could set this cup on that ﬁrm rear end.

I take a satisfying sip of coﬀee as he moves into some kind of plank, and…that pose. Dear god, that pose is doing unfair things to my lady parts. So unfair that I hum, low in my throat, and…coﬀee shoots out of my nose.

I swear Cleo rolls her eyes as I mutter, “Ack.”

The man spins around, eyes darting left to right as if he’s searching for the sound of the noise.

Mustn’t have been a mutter. Could have been a shout.

I hunker down, hoping he can’t see the woman spying on him from her catio like some weirdo in pajamas.

But he’s a weirdo too. What kind of person does yoga without listening to music? Or better yet, a podcast? He’s exercising and thinking?

I don’t think he spots me though. He turns back around, settles into a plank, and holds it.

Stop the presses. Why have I never realized what a plank is a metaphor for? He lowers his pelvis while arching up his torso, and…it’s oﬃcial. I’m now a convert to the church of yoga. I happily settle in for more enjoyment featuring downward-make-me-stare-harder-dog and whydon’t-you-warrior-with-me pose.

A whimper from inside my home interrupts the spectator sport.

My shoulders slump.

Another whimper drifts to my ears.

I say goodbye to the heathen cat and the peep show, then wiggle backward like a snake with regret.

Nature calls.

By the time I unfold myself from the catio and step into the mudroom, Simon—my little rescue dog—is practically bouncing with his legs crossed like a kid waiting for the bathroom.

“I’ve got you, buddy,” I say to my favorite person, grabbing his harness and leash. I slip them on him—while still holding my coﬀee because this gal can juggle—and hustle to the front door.

I glance down at my outfit. Hmm. The shirt has a bit too much breathing room. Setting down the coffee, I reach for a jacket from the hook, not even looking at it, then snatch my life-sustaining coffee again.

Only when I step outside do I realize I’m still in my pajamas—and I’ve grabbed my bathrobe.

But Simon doesn’t care what I’m wearing, and I have

plenty of time to make myself presentable before meeting the prospective client later today. So I shove my feet into my gardening boots from the front porch and trot down the steps, thinking about how I can ﬁt yoga TV into my morning schedule every single day.

2 AIR DOG FORD

The second the timer on my watch goes oﬀ, I break my Shavasana. Sixty seconds of relaxation after twenty-nine minutes of yoga—done. I hit the button to silence the alarm, push up, stretch my neck from side to side, and yank open the sliding glass door to head inside.

Zamboni waits patiently in her dog bed, her partGerman Shepherd, part-Corgi head popping up, tilting slightly as if to ask, How did it go?

“I kicked calm ass,” I say, patting her behind the ear as her black-and-tan tail thumps against the cushion.

I duck into the main bedroom, grab a pair of basketball shorts from where they’re neatly folded on the bureau, and tug them on over my compression shorts before heading into the closet. After ﬂicking through my options, I pick a gray T-shirt with my alma mater’s logo, then carefully slide the hanger out from the bottom to keep the neck from stretching. Life’s too short for stretched-out T-shirt collars.

When I’ve pulled it on, I return to the kitchen, open the counter-depth fridge, and grab the pre-sliced frozen

bananas from the freezer. Next, the kale I picked up at the farmers’ market. Then some frozen mango. All of it goes into the high-end blender sitting on the clean white countertop. I hit blend on the perfect concoction—kale smoothies are a party in the mouth, and I challenge anyone to prove me wrong.

As the machine chops, dices, and liqueﬁes, I mentally check in on my goals for the day. My personal conditioning coach had me add yoga to my routine this season, so I’ve knocked that out ﬁrst thing. It’ll be time for the real work when I meet with her later today for a session. She’s a hard-ass—exactly what I wanted when I signed with her at the start of the summer.

After ninety seconds—the ideal blending time for peak consistency—I stop the machine, grab a spatula, and scoop out a sample.

Yup. Perfect. Just like it is every day.

I hold out the spatula to Zamboni. “Come here, girl.”

She trots over, sitting before I even have to ask. “You are the best girl in the world,” I say, letting her lick the spatula clean. She asks for more, so clearly, she agrees.

“Don’t worry. When I open the best smoothie shop in the city, I’m naming it after you,” I promise, then send her back to her bed, where she’ll wait until it’s time for a walk.

I pour the smoothie into a stainless steel to-go cup, pop the lid on, then grab my earbuds from the case where I always set them. How people lose these things, I will never understand. Just put them in the same damn place when you’re done. Easy.

I put them in, leash up Zamboni, and say, “Let’s do it.”

We head outside, where I lift my face to the sky. The sun is shining—it’s warm for an October morning in San Francisco.

I take a sip of my kale goodness while Zamboni trots beside me, perfectly in stride. I toggle to my audiobook and hit play on a new book my sister, Hannah, recommended—Own Your Time. The premise? Treat your day like a resource and devote your hours to three main priorities.

For me, that’s a kick-ass ﬁnal hockey season, my family, and—Zamboni, obviously. This girl has been my main squeeze since my marriage imploded spectacularly two years ago.

But thinking of that shitshow does not align with my priorities whatsoever, so I slash it out of my head.

As I listen, I mentally check oﬀ my schedule for the rest of the day, considering how each task aligns with my priorities. The session with my conditioning coach? That’s a no-brainer for goal alignment.

Another appointment with a potential decorator for the house I bought as a retirement gift for my parents? Yup. I want the best for them, but that’s not easy. My mother makes Moira Rose look low maintenance. Mom’s already fired, oh, I don’t know, 478 designers, give or take. Last night on the phone, I finally told her I’m hiring the next qualified one no matter what. And I’ll stick to it. Hopefully I can hire the candidate today since we need to get this moving.

Also, I need to hit the sack early tonight and get a good night’s sleep because this year—my last year in the pros— will be my best. Screw everyone who said I should have retired last season. Hell, screw everyone who ever said I wouldn’t make it in the NHL.

I proved them wrong then, and I’ll do it again now. I’m thirty-six, and I plan to go out on the highest of high notes.

As I round the corner, Zamboni still in perfect heel, I catch a glimpse across the street. Whoa.

That is one sexy, hot mess of a redhead.

Floral bathrobe. Red pajama pants with—wait, are those martini glasses?

Why the hell is that cute? It shouldn’t be cute. And yet she’s hard to look away from. Her coppery hair is piled into a messy bun. Actually, scratch that. The messiest of buns.

And she’s walking an adorable Doxie. Or really, the Doxie is walking her.

I slow my pace before I even register watching them, considering…saying hello.

Except, nope. Not today. I’m not going to go chat up a random woman walking a dog in my neighborhood. That does not align with any of my priorities.

I snap my gaze forward, the picture of self-discipline. I turn on my block, and ten seconds later, a brown-andtan Doxie rockets around the corner, trailing a long leash and beelining toward Zamboni. My girl whips around with an apprehensive bark—a ladylike one—as the little dog yaps out an enthusiastic greeting right in Zamboni’s snout.

My pulse settles—the dog’s not attacking—but I’m still on my guard even as a voice calls from behind me, “I’m sorry! He likes dogs!”

I glance around.

Oh. It’s her. And damn. She’s prettier up close, even when arriving in a cloud of chaos.

Freckles dance across pale cheeks. Green eyes ﬂash with amusement as her dog wags its tail so fast it’s practically vibrating. She lets out a low laugh and tugs on the

tiny tornado’s leash without looking up at me. “I meant— he’s very friendly.”

“Yeah, I see that,” I say dryly.

“I should have asked ﬁrst if they could say hi.” She turns around, looking up and meeting my gaze for the ﬁrst time. “Oh. You’re the—”

She swallows her next words, leaving me guessing. Maybe she’s a hockey fan. It’s rare someone recognizes a player when we aren’t wearing helmets and uniforms. But as she ﬂicks her gaze over me, the inspection seems to satisfy her, as if it answered a question. Still, I don’t ﬁll in the abandoned sentence—I’ll feel stupid if I’m wrong.

The woman moves on. “I would have asked ﬁrst, but as you can see”—she gestures to her haphazard clothes— “the day is kind of getting away from me.”

I nod at her ceramic cup. “At least you have coﬀee.”

“It’s lukewarm, but hey, it still works.”

“Caﬀeine doesn’t care about temperature,” I agree. Then I realize—she doesn’t have a lid. What kind of maniac walks around San Francisco without a lid on their coﬀee cup?

But hey, some people like to take risks. Is talking to her a little longer a risk I want to take right now? I’m considering the question when, out of the corner of my eye, I see something I can’t unsee.

Her tiny dog is no longer licking Zamboni’s face.

He’s mounting her. Enthusiastically. He’s humping her like a deranged stuﬀed animal let loose in a strip club.

No. Just no. I point, stiﬀ-armed, at the animal. “What the hell?”

The woman winces. “He’s frisky today.”

“No kidding,” I say sharply.

She laughs awkwardly, and I can’t tell whether she’s

embarrassed or cheering him on. Her beet-red cheeks say, Oh no! But the chuckling says, Go get ’em!

“Just make him stop,” I say stiﬄy. “That’s gross.”

“Simon, no,” the woman calls. “Simon, that’s enough. Simon, stop right now, you naughty little devil.”

Her scolding would work better if she weren’t laughing. The cute voice calling him a naughty little devil is not doing the trick. Nothing is. The little horndog doesn’t stop. He grips my girl’s hips with his tiny paws and just keeps pumping.

It’s not even remotely funny. Balancing my kale smoothie, I reach for the dog at the same time the redhead does Bam.

Her elbow knocks into my cup. It shoots up a few feet, then plummets. I snatch it before it splatters onto the sidewalk.

Her coﬀee?

Not so lucky. Nor is sweet Zamboni. The coﬀee spills. All over my dog.

“Seriously?” What the fuck has this sexy chaos demon done to my day?

“It’s not hot! I swear. Also, that stopped him so…yay?” She scoops up her dog, then tries to clean my dog with the end of her robe.

Why? Just why? I should stop her, but she’s mopping Zamboni’s back like the fate of the world depends on getting her clean. “I’m sorry!”

“Yeah, me too,” I say, grabbing her coﬀee mug from the sidewalk. The handle’s nicked, but otherwise it’s ﬁne. “Now she’ll need a bath. And probably therapy.”

“Don’t we all?” The woman flashes a grin that is way too confident for someone who just spilled coffee on a

stranger’s dog. “I got some off her, though, so double yay.”

“Thanks.” I hand her the mug and assess my dog. Surprise—my girl is still covered in her drink. I’ll have to take care of her myself. That’s usually the only way to get things done anyway.

“But nice reﬂexes,” the redhead adds in an upbeat tone. “Is that a smoothie in there?”

Is she going to ask me to make her one? “Kale smoothie,” I mutter.

“Good thing that didn’t spill then. Shame about my coﬀee, but I suppose there was nothing to be done.”

“Except use a cup with a lid?” I ask, bewildered. How can one person be both sexy and disastrous at the same time?

She shrugs, unbothered. “Why would I dirty another dish?”

“That logic doesn’t even make sense.”

“It’s more environmental this way. If I poured it into a to-go cup, that would mean more water, and so on,” she argues, adjusting the Dachshund mix in her arms.

Wait. I mean…the humping hound. Because the dog is still going, thrusting his little doggy hips as he dangles from her hands.

I stare at him. Then at her. Then back at him. “He’s still humping?” Because…holy shit. Her mutt is out of control.

She snaps her gaze to the pup, chiding him with, “Simon, you’re in air jail.” She shifts her focus back to me, lifting her chin. “It’s just excess energy. It’s something some dogs do when they’re excited…or overstimulated.”

I arch a brow at the last word. “Overstimulated?”

“It doesn’t mean that. It’s just a thing some dogs do.”

“They hump the air?” Where does she come up with this stuﬀ?

She jerks back, as if she’s oﬀended. “Are you actually critiquing his style?”

“His style of dogging it while he’s in air jail?”

She clutches the pup closer as he gives a ﬁnal thrust, like a wind-up toy winding down. “He’s just…high energy,” she says defensively.

“He’s just…inappropriate,” I toss back.

She rolls her eyes. “Simon, let’s go.”

In a huﬀ, she spins around, heading down my block.

Don’t want to be anywhere near her unchecked energy, so I turn the other way. My jaw tightens as I walk. So much for my neat and orderly day.

FRIDAY NIGHT MONKEY

SKYLAR

I’m still fuming an hour later as I ﬂip through a rack of vintage handbags. “Can you believe the gall of that guy, critiquing my dog’s humping style?”

The thrift store smells like old books and good deals, while some kind of indie pop plays faintly overhead. Trevyn holds up a sequined silver clutch against his glowy ebony complexion, raising a What do we think? eyebrow.

Mabel inspects a full set of Le Creuset baking dishes, which are, for some reason, displayed next to the bags.

“I stopped Simon before anything happened,” I continue, still indignant at my uptight neighbor and insulted on Simon’s behalf. “There was no need to insult his technique. Some dogs just have urges. My mom’s Chihuahua humps a stuﬀed monkey every Friday night. She even calls it Friday Night Monkey—so what’s the big deal?”

Trevyn chokes on a laugh. “I—okay, wait. Friday Night Monkey?”

Mabel sets down a cherry-red pan, tilting her head, her big brown eyes curious. “That’s a lot to unpack. I’m

not even sure where to start,” she says, tucking her chestnut waves behind her ears.

“It’s not like they’re going to make some freaky little Chihuahua-Dachshund-Corgi-German Shepherd mix,” I argue. “Simon’s neutered.”

I pluck a faux leather tote from the shelf next to a set of whisks. This store oﬀ Fillmore Street is nailing the gadgets-and-accessories theme. I desperately need a new bag for my meeting today—something stylish, professional, and eco-conscious. I also desperately need this job. Being a one-woman shop is hard, and it means hustling for every job. The corporate design ﬁrms keep getting bigger and gobbling up more work, so a job for a whole house is a big deal.

I waggle the bag for my friends. “Is this the one?”

Trevyn and Mabel stare at me.

“Then why are you so mad?” Mabel asks, ignoring the bag question.

I huﬀ, lowering the bag. “It’s the principle of the thing.”

“The principle of not wanting your dog to be banged by a rando on the street corner?” Trevyn doesn’t play devil’s advocate. He is the devil’s advocate. “Look, if someone’s Yorkie tried to get it on with Barbara-dor, I would cut them with my sharp wit.”

“And his wit has a razor’s edge,” Mabel remarks, patting Trevyn’s strong arm.

“Thanks, doll,” he says, ﬂashing her a bright smile.

Ugh, I hate that they’re right. “Fine, maybe Simon was…” I roll a hand, then concede, “Uncouth.”

“You think?” Trevyn says with a snort-laugh.

“Just a little,” I mutter, then sigh again. “It’s just that Mister Porch Yoga was so…put together.”

“And that bothers you?” Mabel asks.

“Of course it bothers me. His dog walked in perfect heel, his clothes were neat—they were gym clothes, and yet it looked like he’d ironed them. Ironed them.”

“Give me his number,” Trevyn says with an appreciative purr.

“So you object as someone who detests ironing?” Mabel presses.

That’s not what’s really irritating me, of course. Mabel stares at me, tapping her Converse-clad toe, and I can tell my friends see right through me.

“Fine,” I say, tossing up my hands in surrender. “He’s irritatingly hot. He’s infuriatingly sexy. The furrow in his brow. The ruler-straight line of his lips. And the way his blue eyes are so…icy hot. But he’s a dick, so now I can’t enjoy staring at him every morning. He’s ruined my routine.”

“Your routine of checking out the hot neighbor you just discovered today?” Mabel asks, deadpan.

“Yes! And I only moved in six weeks ago, so I think I’m well within my hot-neighbor discovery window.”

Trevyn cracks up, then drapes an arm around me. “You and Simon are a perfect match.”

“Like this bag and you,” Mabel says, holding out a faux leather tote with a little more structure to it. “This bag says I don’t have a frisky frankfurter, and I deﬁnitely didn’t walk around the block in a robe while meeting my hot neighbor who hates me because of my dog.”

I snatch it from her grasp. “Then I’d better get it.”

Trevyn sighs dramatically in relief. “Thank god.”

“Please, you love thrifting,” I say. “I’ve seen you get lost in thrift shops.”

“Not the way you do,” Mabel points out.

“Well, it is my job,” I reply. Well, speciﬁcally, my job is scouring consignment shops. As an eco-friendly interior designer, my mission is to help clients ﬁnd sustainable furniture and decor. That makes me a huntress of sorts.

And this bag? It’s clearly made to last a hundred years, so it represents my brand well. I don’t skimp on quality when I hunt for deals.

“And since it’s your job,” Mabel says, “we decided you also need this blazer.” She pulls a pastel sky-blue one from a nearby rack—the exact shade I love. “It’s a vintage power blazer. Pair it with a T-shirt—”

“Plus nice slacks and this bag,” I continue, my excitement building. “It says I have range. It says I can achieve a lasting style that won’t hurt the planet. It says I can track things down.”

Yep. A few new accessories, and I’ll be ready to nail this meeting and win a new client. I slide my arms into the blazer, and it ﬁts perfectly. I spin around, modeling it.

“Like a glove, baby,” Trevyn coos.

I beam, stroking the soft fabric. “It was made for me.”

Mabel nods. “I approve.”

I let out a long exhale. “I feel better. Thanks, friends. I needed this.”

“Good. You don’t smell angry anymore,” Mabel teases.

“Did I smell angry?”

“Oh, I’d say the scent of annoyance was pretty strong,” she adds. “But now? You just look like a badass babe.”

Mission accomplished.

I march to the register, saying hi to Hetty as I swipe my phone. Then I drop the blazer and bag into my reusable canvas tote, and we head out onto the busy block, past cute boutiques with sidewalk sales and a perfume shop that just opened and peddles the prettiest vintage bottles.

As we near the crosswalk, Trevyn stretches his arms and grins. “So, are we going to talk about the hot neighbor discovery on the podcast?”

I run a design podcast, co-hosting with Trevyn and Mabel, that just cracked eight hundred ﬁfty—count ‘em, eight hundred ﬁfty—subscribers. Add in our video version, and it makes nine hundred thirty-one. Technically, Hot Trends, Classic Spends is all about how to get the look you want without the waste. But somehow, we always circle back to dating instead of design hacks. Dating is a never-ending well for content, especially since I’ve been single for over a year after Landon, AKA Mister We’lltake-the-next-step-as-soon-as-I-open-my-board-gamestore, left me in the lurch.

Five years together—ﬁve years—and in one afternoon, he packed up and left. That’s how I learned my biggest lesson: I deserve the best, and I’ll never come in second again.

“No,” I say ﬁrmly. “I won’t give my hot neighbor the satisfaction. Just like I won’t give him the satisfaction of me checking him out tomorrow morning.”

Mabel laughs. “So you’re going to punish him by not ogling him?”

“Sounds about right.”

“Sounds like you’re punishing your eyes.” She squeezes my shoulder with aﬀection. “Ever heard of cutting oﬀ your nose to spite your face?”

“Check him out tomorrow, Sky. Just check him out,” Trevyn goads.

Right now, I need to go home and review my notes for my meeting. I’m going to nail this job. This gal is not going to let that happen again. I’ve got a new bag, a new blazer, and a can-do attitude. Try and stop me.

I say goodbye to my friends and head to my temporary home in Hayes Valley. When my brother Adam, a scientist, landed a coveted year-long research post studying eﬀorts to reduce carbon emissions around Europe, he took it. Then he asked me to move into his home to look after his cat while he’s traveling. Um, hell yes. Of course, I pay him rent too.

Adam’s place is right at the end of a cluster of townhomes, which means Hot and Mean Yoga Guy’s house is a little bigger than my current abode. But it’s a great deal on a fabulous place, even though I have a bone to pick with my brother.

I let Simon into the tiny backyard for a bathroom break when I get home—refusing to look at Hot and Mean Yoga Guy’s yard—and then call Adam.

It’s evening in Amsterdam, where he is this month, so he answers with a question. “Did you break the water heater? The dishwasher? The dryer?”

I gasp. “Excuse me. I’m handier than you.”

“Did you, Skylar?” he presses.

“No! I didn’t break anything, and I could ﬁx all of those if I did.”

“Did Cleo escape then?”

“I don’t only call when there are problems,” I point out.

“Is there a problem?” he counters.

I sigh as I head back inside with Simon at my feet. “Yes, a big problem. Why didn’t you tell me your neighbor is hot?”

He’s quiet for a beat. Then, in a softer voice, he says, “Jessica? Yeah. She’s something, isn’t she?”

“No,” I say, rolling my eyes at his mention of the artist who lives down the street and sometimes shares seeds

with me for planting. “Though, yes, she is quite pretty and nice. I mean the guy right next door.”

“Oh,” he says with a snort. “The hockey player.”

“He plays hockey?” But of course he plays hockey. That explains those strong thighs and the buns of steel. Plus, that to-go cup save, darting out his hand like a superhero. I hate him even more now.

“I’m pretty sure,” Adam says. “I mean, we’re not friends. But I did talk to him once when there was that windstorm and a tree from my yard landed on his property. He was cool about it, and some neighbors are dicks. He oﬀered to help haul it oﬀ and plant another one.”

“Really?” Ugh. I hate that he was cool about it. I double hate that he wanted to plant a tree. I mean, I love it, and I hate that I love it.

“Skylar, why are you asking? Are you causing trouble with the neighbor?”

Shoot. Adam would not be happy to hear about the argument this morning. “Of course not,” I say, upbeat. “I was simply curious. I noticed him from the catio.”

“Good. Because the world is community-based these days. We all need to get along with each other,” he says.

He’s right. Maybe I should leave, I dunno, a nice gift on his front porch to say sorry from Simon. Like some shishito peppers. Just in case one is super-hot and burns his tongue. Not that I’m being petty or anything.

“I get along with everyone,” I say breezily. “Even Cleo, and you know what she’s like.”

“A cathole,” he says with a laugh. I smile, and we catch up on his work for a few minutes before we say goodbye. Then, I settle onto the couch to prep for my meeting while Simon snoozes on my lap. I review the notes that the potential client sent me. His

name is Devon, but that’s all I know about him. The job is for an old house that needs an updated look, and he and his mother love my eco-friendly approach.

And they need someone to start immediately.

I’m their gal.

I grab my stuﬀ and head out for my meeting in Sausalito—but not before peeking at the house next door, making sure my neighbor isn’t outside. And dammit.

Mister Haughty Hockey is bounding down the steps confidently. He’s wearing charcoal slacks, a short-sleeve button-down that shows off his biceps, and aviator shades. Why must he wear aviator shades? That just makes it harder not to stare at him. I give in as he strides to a gleaming silver car parked by the curb. Of course his ride is spit-shined. Probably smells like new car and efficiency. I bet the inside doesn’t have a single food wrapper or rogue fry.

I growl under my breath, wait until the coast is clear, then I take oﬀ for the bus stop. On the way, I pick up a leftover cardboard takeout box from the sidewalk so I can toss it in the recycling bin.

Well, you have to practice what you preach.

DESPERATE TIMES

FORD

My mother clucks her tongue. “I should come down to handle this.”

I drag a hand through my hair. “You don’t need to,” I reassure her.

“Are you sure?” She arches a brow on the phone screen. “You’re running a hand through your hair. You do that when you’re stressed. Just let me help. I love to help.”

“If by help you mean ﬁre everyone, then no, Mom.” I pace the empty living room, my footsteps echoing across the ﬂoorboards of the Sausalito home I bought for her and my dad. It’s been their dream to retire by the water, and you can’t beat the views of Richardson Bay in this seaside town across the Golden Gate Bridge from San Francisco.

“I only ﬁred people who weren’t executing my vision. The last one didn’t know what to do with her time. The job shouldn’t have taken a week, even with the non-toxic paint I picked out. They do it so quickly on TV.”

I stride over to the sliding glass doors. “You manage to sound so reasonable.”

“I am, Ford. I’m incredibly reasonable. I expect excellence. You’re the same way. You expect excellence from yourself on the ice.”

She’s a little bit right, but I’ll never admit the similarity. My mother has been running the renovation like a reality TV show host—the kind who makes everyone cower. “Firing a dozen contractors and designers is not going to help you and Dad move in here by the end of the year.”

She shoots me a doubtful look over FaceTime as she adjusts her pearls. Because of course she wears pearls while watering plants in her Seattle backyard. “Was it really that many?” she asks airily. “It seemed like one.”

“It was hardly one.” I watch the boats gliding along the sapphire-blue water of the bay. It’s serene here and feels far removed from the events of this morning. I bathed Zamboni and worked out with the conditioning coach, gaining the necessary distance from the madness of that run-in. Did that sexy chaos demon get distance too? Has she given it a second thought?

I dismiss her from my mind and focus on the current problem. “Look, I’m meeting with a new designer, and it’s going to be great. You’ll be able to move in very soon.”

“I should meet with this person,” Mom says, setting the green metal watering can by a garden bed. “It’ll be easier that way.”

It’ll be easier if she’s not involved at all. The more involved she gets, the more opinions she has, the more issues she ﬁnds, the more problems she makes. She thinks she’s being helpful, but she’s steamrolling me, and I just want to do something nice for her and Dad.

I brieﬂy remember wanting to do something nice for my ex-wife—and look where that got me. I’d arranged for

a private chef when she wanted to learn to cook, only for her to shack up with him instead.

This is not the same, of course. This is for my parents. But I have a plan for this year, and micromanaging a home renovation is not part of it. Giving my parents the home of their dreams is. That’s the point of hiring a designer—not that it’s been easy. The last person I interviewed reeked of weed, and the person before that said her design aesthetic was actually brutalist, not environmentally friendly.

“I’ve got this, Mom,” I say, ﬁrm but not pushy. If Mom senses an opening, she’ll take it. And I can’t go through a dozen more designers.

“I really should oversee it,” she adds in the persuasive tone she uses to convince people to donate to the charity she works with. The Seattle-based organization brings recycling and composting initiatives to communities all over the country, including here in San Francisco.

“No, Mom, you should focus on making sure your final charity gala goes off without a hitch. Designers exist to handle the inside. I’ll make sure she does everything to your standards and shows you what she selects,” I say as a flock of seagulls flies by. I breathe in calmly, savoring the view.

“When are you meeting with this person?” “Today.”

She hums, doubtful. “Well, do you want to conference me in?”

I don’t know how my mother is going to survive retirement. She’s reduced her hours to part-time, but she’s still entirely too busy. “Let me do this for you and Dad. I’ve always wanted to. You know that,” I say. “And don’t worry. The designer will be great.”

And honestly, Skylar Haven better be. I reviewed her design portfolio online, and the style is one hundred percent my mom’s—creative but classy, a little edgy, and very eco-conscious. So it’ll be like a breakaway shot, a nice easy path to the goal.

“Call me the second it’s done, Ford. Since you refuse to video call the whole time,” she says.

I roll my eyes, making sure she sees. “Bye, Mom.”

I love her. Really, I do. But she’s making ﬁnishing this house harder than playing an entire hockey season on a torn groin.

Hanging up, I check the time before tucking the phone into my back pocket. The designer should arrive in ﬁve minutes, so I head out to the deck overlooking the water. In the short wait, I take my phone out again. One thing has been weighing on me since this morning—the nagging worry that I was too harsh about the Doxie’s shameless display. I ask Google, “Why do neutered dogs hump?” and scan the answer.

Was the hot-mess redhead right? No way. I check another site. Then another. Then one more.

“Huh,” I mutter. Apparently, yes, dogs can get overly excited, and that extra energy turns into—you guessed it humping.

Maybe I owe her an apology if I ever run into her again while walking the dog.

I check the time as the doorbell rings. Nice. She’s a touch early. I seriously appreciate that.

I stride over to the door, swing it open, and freeze. The hot-mess redhead stands in front of me, looking shockingly professional and cheery. Gone is the just-rolled-outof-bed couture. In its place? A polished, businesslike blazer and slacks, and hair that’s actually seen a brush.

The copper strands fall in soft waves, framing her pretty face and a bright smile.

A smile that vanishes as soon as recognition dawns in her eyes.

“Are you kidding me?” I ask.

She gawks, blinks, and says almost hopefully, “I must have the wrong home.”

This has to be a mistake. She can’t be the designer. “Are you…” I swallow roughly, then manage to get out, “Skylar Haven?”

Her lips curl like she just ate something sour and nods slowly, as if reality is sinking in. “Yes. Skylar Haven with Haven Designs.”

My mind whirls, assimilating the situation. She may be a sexy chaos demon, but her style is Mom’s style, and I need someone to take on this job, yesterday.

But I can’t let on how desperately I need this to work out. The thing I’ve learned playing in the pros? Never let the enemy see a weakness. “I didn’t know you owned anything besides a robe.”

She slides a ﬁnger down the lapel of her blazer, furrows her brow, then shrugs. “It works as a robe, too though. See? I’m all about using things in multiple ways.”

Damn. She’s good. I try not to laugh, but it’s hard. I turn away, but I still open the door and let the sexy chaos demon past the threshold, hoping I won’t regret it.

I’LL RAISE YOU A CHAIR SKYLAR

Clearly, this is a test. What other explanation could there be for my potential new client being a man who hates me?

The man I supposedly despise too.

I mean, ﬁne. What did he really do other than admonish my dog-rearing skills? But isn’t that enough?

Still, I won’t let on. I’m dressed to impress, and I’m going to move forward and dazzle him with my skills. Would a big design ﬁrm freak out? Nope. I won’t either. No way am I going to let another gig slip through my ﬁngers.

I stick out a hand, keeping my brightest business smile in place. “Pleasure to meet you,” I say, ready to put the morning’s incident behind us. “I’m so excited to see the house.”

Maybe he’ll just forget we became mortal enemies this morning.

He looks at my hand with a raised brow. Then, after a beat, he takes it. “Ford Devon,” he says.

Ah. He just used his last name over email. Interesting. “So it’s not just Devon?” I ask. “Do you prefer Devon?”

“Ford will do,” he says, then blows out a breath. His forehead is all bunched up. This man is so intense. “I… wasn’t expecting you.”

“And I wasn’t expecting you,” I say lightly. “Are you moving out of the house next door to me and into this one?”

He tilts his head, looking thoroughly confused. “What do you mean?”

“Well, we…”

Oh. Shit.

He doesn’t realize I live next door to him. He doesn’t know I spied on him from my brother’s catio this morning and must not have seen where I marched away to this morning. And he deﬁnitely didn’t see me this afternoon when I peeked on him from the front door.

Oh, god. Could this get any worse?

I have to tap dance my way through this. I swallow and power through. “I live on Franklin Street in Hayes Valley. My brother mentioned some of his neighbors before I moved in a month and a half ago.”

There. When all else fails, blame thy brother.

My potential client’s handsome face goes entirely blank. Ice blue eyes glazed. Lips parted.

Shock, thy name is Ford Devon. “You’re my neighbor?” he chokes out. “My next-door neighbor.”

Some luck, huh? But I smile. Fake it till you make it. “Yes, I am.”

Too bad I don’t have those shishito peppers right now. I could use an apology gift. But then again, do I really want to start a business meeting with an apology? Actually, maybe I should. I was probably too amused by Simon, and then too annoyed by Ford. I can’t just gloss over the…illicit encounter.

“And I’m sorry again about this morning,” I say, shifting into full-on professional mode. “But I already have some amazing design ideas for your house based on the info you sent over earlier.”

“This house is for my parents, actually.”

“Great, well I think your vision—integrating the natural charm of Sausalito while still keeping a modern, recycled aesthetic—is very doable.” I gesture toward my bag with my tablet in it. “Would you like me to show you what I have in mind?”

He blinks, then collects himself. “Sure.”

You’ve got this, Skylar Haven. You’re a badass babe.

I click open my portfolio, and as he takes me from room to room, I pull up a range of design ideas that could work—reclaimed wood, bamboo furniture, secondhand furniture that’s as good as new, and a house ﬁlled with just the right amount of greenery.

“My mom does love plants,” he says, almost begrudgingly.

Bingo.

“And I know all the best places to shop,” I add, my confidence surging. “From San Francisco to Cozy Valley and down to Palo Alto—there are so many great options for sustainable materials and decor.” I scan the walls in the living room. They’re sage green, easy on the eyes. Most of the others are a soft shade of eggshell, a relaxing, warm hue. “I see you’ve already painted. That’s great.”

Ford lets out a low huﬀ of amusement. “My mom hated the painter. Loved the colors though.”

Hmm. She sounds hard to please, but I love a challenge. “What did she dislike about the painter?”

“The timing. She wants everything done yesterday.”