Page 15 of I'm Your Guy
Those were the days.
Tom opens a cabinet and produces two juice glasses. He pours, and then slides one of them over to me, without asking.
Okay. Well. I guess it’s just good manners to share a drink with the man. “Thank you.” I lift the glass. “Cheers.” When I take a sip, it tastes like heaven. “What’s your taste in furniture?”
“Just normal stuff.” He shrugs.
“Normal stuff,” I echo slowly. “That could mean so many things. Where did you grow up?”
“Tom’s River, New Jersey.”
Interesting. He doesn’t speak with a Jersey accent, although he does give off a kind of urban vibe. “Okay, listen. I grew up in Montana, and my aunt Betsy thinks it’s normal to put a wagon-wheel chandelier in every room, have salt and pepper shakers in the shape of cowboy boots, and hang lots of dead animals on the walls. You see what I’m getting at?”
He scowls again, and it’s much more attractive than it ought to be. “Okay, no dead animals. Just keep it simple, and we’ll be fine.” He puts the avocado toast onto two plates, and then slides one of them over to me. Parking his hip against the counter, he takes a bite.
I eye the plate he’s passed me with some confusion. Did he not hear me when I said no? That’s another red flag. Clients who don’t listen are frustrating. And I can already tell that getting stylistic opinions out of him will be like pulling teeth.
But, fuck it. My mouth is watering already. I pick up a piece of toast and bite into its crusty edge. Then I groan, because I didn’t know bread could taste so good. It’s yeasty and salty, with just the right olive oil tang. The avocado is perfectly ripe and creamy.
Even if this whole job evaporates before cocktail hour, it might be worth it just for a taste of this glorious toast.
FIVE
Tommaso
I have a problem.
No, I have several of them. But the newest one is the outrageously attractive man standing in my kitchen. The one who just let out a groan of pleasure.
It’s not that I’d forgotten that he was attractive. It’s just that I’m pretty good at ignoring hot men in my life. I work with men all the time, so I have to keep a certain remove. It’s a skill I’ve developed.
Or so I thought. But I wasn’t prepared for Carter to walk in here and throw me off my game with his flashing blue eyes and big opinions.
Having him here in my personal space makes it worse somehow. The more we talk, the livelier he gets. His cheekbones are splashed with color, and he waves his hands around when he talks.
Today he’s wearing an oxford-cloth shirt in an eggplant shade that would look silly on me. But the color makes his blue eyes pop.
Focus, DiCosta. “You’re from Montana, huh? You don’t look like a cowboy.”
“No kidding,” he says through a bite of toast. “That’s why I left. Not a lot of appetite for fabulous, gay designers in the little town where I grew up.”
That shuts me up—the way he just flung it out there. With a casual shrug, too. Like calling himself gay and fabulous is no big thing.
“Design is meant to be personal,” he says.
I nod, but then I don’t hear much of the next few sentences, because my brain is like a busy squirrel, distracted by all the little details. The chiseled planes of his Hollywood face. And the color of his hair. Like gingered straw.
This part of me—the greedy part—mostly stays in its cage. I keep the door locked tightly at all times. Once in a while, though, I meet somebody who rattles the bars.
And maybe my defenses are down. It’s been a rough couple of months. It kills me to admit it, but I’m coming a little unglued.
Now here’s this dangerously appealing man in my house, with his excitable gestures and bright eyes. My brain is like, Look! A shiny new thing! What would it feel like to run our fingers through his hair?
Yeah, no. And now Carter wants to hear all about my “tastes and preferences”? That is a dangerous conversation. And every time he looks over at me, my brain makes up a brand-new “taste” or “preference” in regards to him.
It’s distracting. I don’t like it.
Meanwhile, he seems to want this job, but he’s full of contradictions. He gets excited when he talks about furniture, and he seems to care a lot about design. Yet he drives a car-shaped pile of rust.
