Page 24 of I'm Your Guy
I know because I’m related to some of them.
TEN
Carter
Rigo is up on the ladder cutting in the crease between the wall and the ceiling, while I’m squatting on the floor to paint baseboards. If I’m lucky, this will be a two-day job. That’s all the time that Rigo could give me. His painting business is fully booked, and he reserves a third of his time for serious painting in the studio.
Worst-case scenario, I’ll finish it up myself on the third day.
Rigo brought his Bluetooth speaker with him, and he’s blasting ABBA tunes while we paint. I’m a little sick of “Dancing Queen,” but he says up-tempo music makes him paint faster.
Unfortunately, I don’t hear the key in the lock, and so I don’t notice that my client has arrived home until I feel cold air on my skin. I whirl around awkwardly and let some paint drip onto the drop cloth, like a dope.
Shit. I hastily set the brush down on the pan and stand up. Rigo cuts the music, thank God. “Hello!” I sort of squeak. “Didn’t know you’d be home so soon!”
He’d said I could paint while he was “at work.” I’d assumed that meant all day, until at least five o’clock. It’s only two, but here’s my snack of a client, with a gym bag over one shoulder, two large pizza boxes in his hands, and his usual scowl on his face.
I hang my head, because a more professional designer would have asked and not assumed. “We can be out of your hair in half an hour.”
“It’s okay,” he says gruffly. His eyes dart from me to Rigo, who’s still on the ladder.
Rigo’s giving Tom a weird, wide-eyed look and hasn’t said hello at all.
That’s odd. He’s my chattiest friend.
“I got a double order of pizza, so I could share,” DiCosta rumbles. “Let me just put this on the counter and get out some plates.” He walks out of the room.
Rigo’s eyes follow him, and then he hastily climbs down the ladder. “Holy shit,” he hisses. “You never said you were working for Tommaso freaking DiCosta!”
“Um... What?”
Rigo’s eyes are like saucers. “He’s a D-man for the Colorado Cougars. Can you get tickets?”
Tickets? My eyes track Tom in the kitchen. Come to think of it, he’s awfully tall. “That’s, uh, a basketball team?” I whisper.
I hear a snort from the kitchen, so I know l’ve been overheard. My ears begin to heat. This is mortifying.
“Hockey, you dope,” Rigo whispers back. “God, Buck is going to lose his mind over this. Don’t you google your clients?”
“Um…”
Tom steps back into the room. He’s removed his jacket, revealing, yup, a tight-fitting blue shirt with COLORADO COUGARS emblazoned on the front. Their logo designer had obviously just been phoning it in. There’s a pair of crossed hockey sticks below a snarling cougar’s face. It’s not subtle.
Neither are the muscles popping out all over the place under that shirt.
“Pizza’s still hot,” he says. “I’ve had a long day already, and I’m diving in. Got one with meat and one without, because I didn’t know what you like.”
“I love pizza!” Rigo says. Then he practically gallops after my client into the kitchen.
Reluctantly, I follow. I’d rather we let the hot grump eat his food in peace, but Rigo doesn’t know the definition of restraint, so I join them just to keep a leash on my friend.
That’s what I’m telling myself, anyway. The pizza smells amazing.
“It’s a shame Carter hasn’t found you a dining table yet,” Rigo says, helping himself to a slice of the vegetarian pie. “Or a set of stools for this counter. That would come in handy right about now.”
“Working as fast as I can,” I say stiffly. And then I select a piece of veggie pizza, too, because Tom seems to favor the meaty one. I bet he could eat an entire pizza all by himself. After all, he’s a professional athlete.
I’d had no idea. When I’d met him at the furniture store, he’d been wearing a very sharp suit. But the abs of glory make sense now.
