Not wanting to have this conversation with his mother—because there was no “situation” between him and Victoria, at least not the kind his mom was thinking—he shifted the box in his hands and kissed her on the cheek in good-bye. “I have to get back upstairs. The grill’s warming and Charlie and Tuck shouldn’t be left around open flames without adult supervision.”
His mom opened her mouth, likely to object—and then seemed to reconsider. “Too true.”
* * *
LATER THAT AFTERNOON, Ford made his way through the living room, where a group of die-hard fans sat watching the Cubs game and drinking beer, and out onto the terrace. The loft was packed, both inside and outside. Every year, the party seemed to get bigger, although he wasn’t quite sure where all the extra people were coming from.
He had music playing on the outdoor speakers, and unlike last year’s weather fiasco—an unexpected downpour that had driven everyone inside—it was sunny and in the midseventies. He did a quick round on the terrace, going from group to group to say hello to new arrivals and to make sure no one needed anything. Tucker manned the grill, and in addition to beer and wine, Charlie had made a tropical rum punch, supposedly “for the ladies,” that seemed to be a huge hit.
“Hey, when’s my future wife going to be here?” Tucker asked, standing at the grill with Charlie.
“Still, with that?” Ford said.
Charlie had a question of his own. “Speaking of Victoria, now that you two are hooking up, do you think you could put in a good word for me with her friends? You know, the two cute ones she was with at The Violet Hour.”
“You can put in a good word for yourself,” Ford said. “She mentioned she’s bringing her friends with her today.”
Tucker pointed with the spatula. “Ooh—I call dibs on whichever one looks hotter.”
Ford gripped his friend’s shoulder. “It’s a wonder you’re still single, Tuck. Truly.” Spotting a group of colleagues from the Trib, he headed that way. They were in the middle of a debate over the reasons for the mayor’s recent drop in approval ratings when Victoria stepped out onto the terrace.
Ford’s eyes slowly moved over her appreciatively.
She looked fantastic, wearing some multicolored sleeveless dress and killer turquoise heels that showed off those legs she liked to wrap around his waist when he was inside her. But what most caught his attention wasn’t what she was wearing. Rather, it was the white Pyrex dish she carried in her hands.
The woman had cooked for him.
He excused himself from his co-workers and made his way over to her. “You brought me a casserole. That’s so . . . neighborly.”
Victoria set it down on one of the fold-out tables. “Not a casserole. Moros y Cristianos,” she said with a flourish.
He blinked. No clue.
“Cuban rice and beans,” she explained.
He lifted up the lid and peeked. “Smells delicious. You actually made this?” He grinned when she gave him a dirty look—so much fun, pushing her buttons—and then he turned to her two friends. “I’m Ford.” He held out his hand to the woman he hadn’t met previously—Audrey, he learned—then shook Rachel’s hand in hello. “And I apologize in advance for everything my friends Charlie and Tucker might say today.”
“Speak of the devils and they shall appear,” Tucker said grandiosely from behind him.
“Starting with that,” Ford said.
After introducing themselves, Charlie and Tucker offered to show Victoria’s friends around the place and get them some drinks. As the four of them walked off, Victoria leaned in toward Ford. “Don’t worry—Audrey and Rachel will slap them around if they get out of line.”
He looked down at her. “I think Charlie and Tuck would like that. A lot.”
Victoria laughed just as Ford spotted Brooke heading over. He put his hand on the small of Victoria’s back, whispering teasingly in her ear. “That would be the blonde from my cavalcade coming this way.”
“Where’s Cade?” he asked as Brooke approached.
“Tucker talked him into manning the grill for a while.” She smiled and introduced herself to Victoria. “I hear you’re a divorce lawyer.”
Victoria looked at Ford. “Why is that the first thing everyone says? What are you telling people about me?”
“She met my mom earlier today,” he explained to Brooke.
Brooke looked thrilled to hear this. “You met Maria? Isn’t she great?”
“Oh, just briefly, out front on the sidewalk.” Victoria was quick to clarify. “It wasn’t like an arranged thing.” She smiled. “So, Ford mentioned that you’re a lawyer, too.”
And with that, she and Brooke were off to the races.
They did their lawyer thing, the two of them talking about This Funny Case and That Crazy Thing That Happened in Court with Judge So-and-So, and as it so happened, the two of them had a mutual acquaintance, some law school friend of Brooke’s who worked at Victoria’s old law firm.
Wanting to say hello to a group of new arrivals, Ford excused himself from the conversation. As he headed across the terrace, he glanced back and saw both women laughing as Victoria told some story.
First Nicole had called her a “saint.” Then his mom had described her as “lovely” and had given her a big hug. Now Brooke was hitting it off with her, too.
He sure hoped the women in his life weren’t getting the wrong idea about him and Victoria. Sure, the two of them had fun together, good conversation, and sex that rocked his world. But at the end of the day, he was the relationship layover guy and she was Victoria Slade. She had frozen eggs on standby and had made the decision, long before him, to stay out of the “happily-ever-after rat race.”
So if anyone was getting any bright ideas that this could be turning into anything serious, well . . . that would be foolish.
He paused, an odd feeling in his gut as he watched Brooke and Victoria walk over to the food table, still talking animatedly.
Yep, really foolish.
* * *
AFTER SEEING THE last guests out the door, Ford walked back to the terrace. Victoria leaned against the ledge, the sky behind her a striking mix of purple, orange, and gold as the sun set.
“No Nicole today?” she asked.
He rested against the ledge next to her. “She couldn’t make it work with their schedule. She and Zoe do this single moms’ playgroup on Saturday afternoons. But speaking of my sister . . . I heard you called Peter Sutter at work yesterday.”