Page 71 of I'm Your Guy
Sounds nice when he says it, but I’m not sure it works that way.
“So after all this time…” He sips his coffee. “Who’s winning?”
“Hmm?”
“The contest,” he says. “You? Or Cousin Marco?”
I answer without a thought. “Me. Definitely me. The stat sheet doesn’t lie.”
“But he’s still a problem for you,” Carter says. “Still a thorn in your side.”
“At least I don’t have to look at his ugly face every day like I used to.” I take another bite of bacon. “And it doesn’t count if I still need an antacid every time I hear his name, right?”
Carter’s eyes widen. “Um…”
I laugh, because even Marco doesn’t bother me much when I’m eating bacon and eggs at a table with Carter. That’s got to mean something.
If only I knew what.
TWENTY-SIX
Carter
After brunch, I load the dishwasher and wash the griddle. I know how to be a good guest in someone’s home. I have lots of practice by now.
It kills me to admit that I need to accept Tommaso’s offer to stay here for a few days. It’s not what a professional would do, and I hate the idea of mooching off a client even more than I hate glass coffee tables and millennial pink.
On the other hand, I hate bankruptcy more. So I’m just going to suck it up and be as gracious as I can while avoiding homelessness.
Tommaso heads outside with a shovel for a while to deal with the snow on the front walk and the back deck. After that, he disappears into the basement. I hear music and the distinct clank of metal plates as they’re stacked onto a barbell.
I don’t picture his big, strong body straining to push that barbell over his head. Nope. Not even for a minute do I imagine the taut, sweaty abs of glory or his rippling biceps.
There’s grunting, too. But I’m strong. I ignore it. And anyway, I’m busy with the curtains. I’ve finally got them all hemmed, and now I need to hang them.
I’m adjusting the ladder when Tommaso emerges from the basement, red-faced and sweaty in a tight T-shirt. “You need any help?”
“It’s under control,” I say quickly.
“Cool. Just say the word.” He trots up the stairs, and eventually I hear the shower running.
After climbing the ladder, I use the pencil to make a mark on the wall where the curtain bracket belongs. And I absolutely do not think about water sluicing over the abs of glory. Because I am a professional.
Unfortunately, professionals only have two hands, and by the time I get to the longest curtain rod—the one for the living-room picture window—I’m unable to hold the rod level, measure, and make pencil marks all at the same time.
Tommaso comes back downstairs just as the curtain rod threatens to topple from my hands. I cut off my string of curses and ask for help. “Could you, uh, hold one end for a sec?”
“Of course.” He carries a chair over from the dining table and stations it at the other side of the window. “Ready?”
“Thanks.” I lift the hardware into place and pull a level out of my back pocket to check our positioning. “Can you raise your rod another quarter inch?”
“Uh, yup.” He chuckles. “My rod is raised.”
“Tommaso DiCosta.” I mark the spot where the bracket should go. “Did you just make a dirty architecture joke? I love those.”
A grin splits his beard. “All right. Let’s hear some.”
“Okay—you know how your glass shower stall upstairs is shaped like a box?”
