Page 14 of I'm Your Guy
“Just curious,” I say, returning to the kitchen. “No furniture at all?”
He shakes his head as he puts two slices of bread in the toaster. “Long story. My wife got the house in our divorce. Since then, I’ve been living in a model unit at an apartment complex.”
“Ah, I see.”
“Yeah. I was the last new tenant in the building, so I negotiated to rent the furniture, too.” He shrugs. “Never had to buy a thing. Not the couch, not even the art on the walls.”
I suppress a shiver just imagining the cheap, soulless furniture the real estate developer had put in that unit. “Okay, then it’s time for an upgrade. Assuming I could furnish this place in time for you to host your mom, I’m going to need a lot of information from you. I’d need to know your taste, your budget…”
He looks up from his work. “Avocado toast?”
“Sorry?”
He points at the avocado he’s slicing. “I’m making avocado toast. Want a piece?”
“No thank you,” I say automatically. “You go ahead, though.” Eating on the job isn’t very professional. I couldn’t do that.
“My budget is flexible,” he says. “I don’t tend to buy expensive things, because I’m not home enough to enjoy them. But I’m in a big hurry, so I realize I can’t be a tight-ass about prices right now.”
That’s well put, but still not helpful. “Okay, but my idea of expensive and yours might vary wildly. For example, couches start at around two thousand dollars and can go as high as fifteen thousand. A dining table might cost about the same. You’ll also need rugs, dining chairs, end tables, lamps…”
“Yeah, yeah. I know,” he says. “Doing it all at once is gonna cost a mint. Maybe you could make a list, with estimates. Just so I won’t have too much sticker shock.” His toast pops, and the scent of bread fills the room. I watch, mesmerized, as he begins to drizzle the bread with olive oil.
Specifically, I’m watching his forearms flex as he works. They’re musclebound and covered with fine black hair the same color as the happy trail I happen to have glimpsed on his abs…
Stop it.
To distract myself, I pull my laptop out of my messenger bag, open it on his countertop, and fire up a spreadsheet.
It doesn’t help matters that Tom DiCosta is totally my type. He’s scruffy enough to appeal to my lifetime cowboy fetish, but I also like that little wrinkle of concentration on his forehead as he works. I like men who can think, as well as throw me around in the bedroom.
But I won’t even have a bedroom unless I land this job.
I start typing a list of furniture items. “Your TV needs a table?”
“Yep.” He mashes avocado slices onto the toast.
My stomach gurgles audibly, because I haven’t eaten today, and I’m out of groceries, because I can’t afford to buy more. “A sofa and two chairs… or, alternatively, a sectional and one chair. An area rug, at least ten feet long, but twelve would be better…”
“I’ve got a measuring tape in the garage,” he says.
“We’ll get to that in a minute. TV console. End tables. Lamps. We could easily fit a dining table for four in that alcove.” I point to the space. “Would you need it to be expandable to seat six or eight on holidays?”
He shakes his head. “Not a chance.”
“Four it is.” I make a note.
“Don’t forget the bedrooms,” he says. “I have a mattress on the floor right now. King-sized. I should have a frame. And a dresser. Downstairs, my mom will need a bed—double or queen-sized. Not too high off the ground. And a dresser and a table or whatever.”
“Okay. Two bed frames, one mattress. Bedside tables. A dresser in each room?”
“Yeah, that makes sense. And…sheets and stuff.”
Sheets and stuff? What are we, fourteen? “So…bed linens. Are you a fan of quilts, or duvets and covers?”
“Whatever you’d normally choose. I don’t think about decorating.” He picks up a salt grinder and seasons the masterpiece he’s made. Then he moves to the refrigerator and pulls out a bottle of fresh-squeezed orange juice—the kind you get from a gourmet store.
It’s the color of sunshine, and I gaze at it longingly. It’s been a while since I had enough cash to go out for brunch with friends.
