Page 68 of I'm Your Guy
“I won’t change my mind,” I insist. “I want to do this for you. Because…” How do I put this without sounding creepy? “Getting to know you has made a difference to me. It’s made me question some decisions I’ve made. And the people I surround myself with.”
He leans back in the chair. “You mean—because you never met a queer guy until last month?”
“It’s not quite that bad,” I say immediately. Then I think about it for a moment. “It’s almost that bad.”
His smile is tired.
I lock the front door and find my bag where I’d dropped it on the floor. “Look, I’m going to bed. Practice tomorrow is optional, and I’m leaning toward skipping it. See you after we both get some sleep.”
* * *
Several hours later I open my eyes, and then immediately close them when I get nailed with bright sunlight.
My first thought is: Carter was right that I need curtains.
My second thought is: Carter is singing “Dancing Queen” in my living room.
I tuck my hands behind my head and smile up at the ceiling. He’s here. Right downstairs. And it makes me so much happier than I have a right to feel.
But I don’t rush downstairs, because I’m vain like that. I take a minute to wash my face and brush my teeth. Then I head down the stairs to greet my favorite designer.
The music has shifted to “Take a Chance on Me.” Carter doesn’t seem to know the lyrics, because he’s humming, “Ba-da-ba-ba-BAHHHH, ba-da-ba-da-BAH. Take a chance on meeee.”
I pause on the stairs. He isn’t just singing on that ladder. He’s dancing. My jaw drops, and my eyes track the circle of his hips and the perfect shake of his ass.
I thought I was coordinated, but I’ve never seen anyone use a level and a pencil and a tape measure at the same time, all while shaking his tush to the music.
“Take a chance on me…”
I wave, to get his attention and prove I’m not just staring at him like a creeper.
Carter turns and spots me. Unfortunately, his reaction is a little more violent than I’d hoped. He flails, and for a moment, I’m sure he and everything he’s holding will land on the floor. But only the tape measure drops with a clatter.
“Sorry.” I descend to the living room. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”
He climbs off the ladder and turns off the music, his face reddening. “It’s so late that I thought you’d gone to practice after all.”
“Nope. Slept in for the first time in months.”
“Same.” He rakes his hair with one hand. “Sorry about the music.”
“I’m not. Coffee?” I head for the kitchen.
“Oh, I’d die for coffee.” He follows me.
“Hey, you should make yourself at home. There’s basically a lifetime’s supply of coffee pods in here. And I have a grocery delivery service, where I order the minimum. But I’m gone so often that I end up throwing food away.” I open the refrigerator. “You eat eggs and bacon? I’m starving.”
He regards me warily. “Go put on a shirt first. The abs of glory are distracting me.”
“The…what now?”
He waves a hand in my direction. “It’s challenging enough for me to be a professional. But you have me falling off ladders with this sleepy, half-naked, sex-hair look, and it’s not okay.”
“Huh. All right.” Self-conscious now, I run a hand through my hair, and he groans, his face flushed.
My groin tightens, but I back away, then head up the stairs to dress more appropriately.
Keep it together, I remind myself. He’s here to work. And I didn’t invite him to stay so I could climb into the guest bed with him. Though the thought holds a lot of appeal…
