Page 1 of I'm Your Guy
ONE
Tommaso
I’ve got a half hour, and an empty house that needs furniture, so I walk into the Upholstery Emporium with my platinum card and a sense of purpose.
I pull up short when I see what I’m up against. There must be an acre of furniture in front of me. Why does the world need three hundred different couches? I just need one, preferably large enough for a guy who’s six-two. And I need it delivered before Christmas.
Not so much to ask, right?
Except I’m standing in an ocean of sofas. And chairs. I probably need a couple of those, too. But they’re on the other side of this vast space. Does that make any sense?
And does anybody work here?
I glance around, but nobody fits the part. There’s a couple holding hands. Shoppers, obviously. I spot another guy, but he’s leaning against a wall next to a door marked Office, a jacket over his arm. Probably waiting for a salesperson, just like me.
Something makes me look twice at him, though. And when I do, I forget all about furniture. He has reddish-blond hair that looks soft to the touch. His toned body is sharply dressed in tight trousers and a deep-blue, button-down shirt.
There’s really no other way to put it—he’s smoking hot. Hollywood hot. With piercing blue eyes and a pouty mouth. Not that I should notice that.
A glance at my watch tells me that I’ve already wasted five minutes, and I’m no closer to having a furnished house.
My eyes do another sweep of the store, still looking for a salesperson. When I don’t find one, my gaze makes an involuntary trip back to Mr. Hottie against the wall. I’ve spent my whole life trying not to notice attractive men, but sometimes a face comes along that stops me in my tracks.
Shut it down, DiCosta.
Mr. Hottie’s spine suddenly straightens, and I don’t want to be caught staring, so I look away. That’s when I catch sight of another man striding purposefully across the room. A salesperson. Bingo.
I flag him down. “Excuse me, sir, do you work here?”
“Of course.” His tone is about as friendly as the bark of a rabid coyote.
But I have money and an empty house, so I persevere. “I need to find some furniture, and I’m in a hurry.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
Shit, really? I shake my head.
He gives me a condescending look that confirms what I’d already expected—he’s a dickwad. “Do you at least know what you want?”
“Not a chance. But I have an empty three-bedroom townhouse.” And a big fat bank account, you arrogant little prick.
As my mother would say, he’s working my very last nerve. I’ve grown accustomed to getting good service in Denver. The city loves me. But this guy? He sighs like I’m ruining his day.
“What style is your townhome, sir?”
“Style. Um…” I tug at the collar of my shirt, because I don’t know a damn thing about home design, and that’s why I came here in the first place. “It has… Well, there’s a fireplace in the living room.”
“Stone? Brick? Contemporary? Early American?”
I close my eyes briefly and try to picture the fireplace. “Stones, I think.”
He snorts. “Where is it, and when was it built?”
“It’s in Boulder. Not new, but newish? The kitchen has white countertops.” The kitchen was a selling point for me. My mother likes nice kitchens. When she visits next month, she can cook if she’s feeling up to it.
“You should look around, then.” He waves a hand toward the acre of furniture. “The floor is laid out by style. You’ve got your midcentury modern.” He points at some sofas. “Your tuxedo. English roll arm. Lawson style—those are kind of sloppy, but some people are into that. Chesterfield style, which are stuffy, but again—some people are into that.”
I’m so fucking lost already. They just look like couches to me.
