Page 29 of I'm Your Guy
I exhale. “Let’s do this.”
“First, we’re going to pick out a couch. I know you’d rather just see photos, and some of the things you need will be chosen that way. But you can’t experience fabrics in a photo. And besides—your ass needs to try out a couch before you buy it.”
There is a certain logic to this, I guess. But when he said “ass,” my eyes went directly to his.
Shopping is torture on so many levels.
“Here we go. What do we think of this?”
He’s led me to a generously sized navy-blue sofa. There’s nothing special about it, but that’s totally okay with me. I sit down and run my hand across the fabric. “It’s fine. And it won’t show stains.”
“Very true,” Carter says. “This one is in stock, and ready for delivery. The cost is three thousand dollars.”
“What do you think?” I ask him.
“The roll arm is a little cheugy. And—more to the point—I find the bench to be a little shallow for you. This is not a tall man’s couch.”
Now that he mentions it, the seat isn’t as deep as I am. “It’s in stock, though? My mother would fit on this couch just fine.”
“Are you sending it home with her after New Year’s?” he asks.
“Of course not.”
“Then this ain’t it, chief. I won’t let you sit on this for years just because you’re impatient.”
I sigh. “Is there another option?”
“Uh-huh. And it’s just across the room.”
I follow him to a second sofa, but this one is white. “Dude. I’m almost afraid to sit on that,” I complain. “I can’t do white.”
“Don’t drag my picks until you have all the info. They have one in stock with this fabric in charcoal gray.” He pulls a square of fabric out of his pocket.
I take the square and run my hand over the soft surface. “All right. That’s kinda nice. What do you call this? Velvet?”
“It’s called chenille, which is French for caterpillar.”
“What?”
He grins. “Don’t panic. This is made out of cotton. It’s soft, it’s rugged, and I kind of love it. Now sit down.”
Dutifully, I take a seat. And there’s plenty of room for my big, tired body. “This rocks.”
“Go ahead,” he says. “Put your feet up on the coffee table. Let’s give it an honest try.”
“You sure? My mama would spank me for putting my shoes on a coffee table.”
“There will be no spanking,” Carter says, his eyes flashing.
My body heats. I look away from him and prop my feet on the coffee table. It turns out I’m too tired to think up any more inappropriate thoughts right now. I lean back, and the sofa catches me in its pillowy embrace. “Okay. This is living.”
Carter sits down right beside me and kicks his feet onto the coffee table next to mine. He leans back and sighs, too.
We’re just two dudes kicking back in the middle of a furniture store. It ought to feel weird, but it doesn’t. I only feel relaxed.
“Now we’re talking,” he says dreamily. “Think of coming home to this after a long trip. You’re in your living room. Are we facing the TV or the fireplace?”
“The TV.” I feel my heart rate slow down. “Say what you will, but after a long day on the road, I’m a zombie in front of the screen.”
