Page 103 of I'm Your Guy
“Let’s hear them. My head is all over the place.”
“All right. First of all, I just want to say that you amaze me. That drawing is incredible. You have so much to give, Carter. Even if you’re struggling right now, I don’t think you should give up.”
Warmth blooms behind my breastbone. “Thank you,” I say quietly. “I think I needed to hear that tonight.”
“The second thing is a question. I once had a coach who always asked us—what’s the pinch point? What’s standing between you and the thing you want?”
“Money,” I say flatly. “A storefront is perfect for me, because it’s free advertising. I’d be relaunching my business in a bigger way. If you can’t find me, you can’t hire me, so the storefront would help. This would be a big step forward. But if it puts me into another financial hole…” I heave a sigh.
“So it’s a capital problem. How much capital is standing between you and, say, a year of trying to get your business off the ground?”
“Um…” If I were any good with money, I’d already know this. “Thirty thousand dollars, maybe? There’s the rent, of course. But then I’d have to design the office in a stylish way. I’m good at making low-end things look high end, but it wouldn’t be free.”
“Thirty grand is not a whole lot of capital,” he says slowly.
I close the sketchbook and toss it aside. “Maybe not to you. But it sounds like a goddamn fortune to me. And please don’t offer to invest. I can’t take your money, and it would pain me to say no.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” A grin twitches at the corners of his kissable mouth. “But let me show you something. Is your laptop handy?”
“Of course.” I grab it off the bedside table and wake it up.
He pulls it onto his lap and types Kelsey yoga therapy into the browser. Then he pulls up a Kickstarter page. “Look at this. Kelsey is the girlfriend of one of my teammates. She raised forty grand in fourteen days. And now she has her own yoga-therapy studio.”
I take the computer and scroll through the campaign. “But she has so many friends,” I point out. “I don’t know two hundred people, let alone two hundred who want to chip in to help me launch a business.”
“Are you sure?” he asks. “Because look at the tiers. I did that one.” He points to the hundred-dollar tier. “I don’t really know Kelsey, and I don’t need any yoga therapy. But I got a T-shirt that says Kick Your Own Asana. I did it to be a good teammate, and I kind of liked the shirt.”
I blow out another breath and try to picture it. “That’s an expensive shirt.”
“That wasn’t the point,” he insists. “People like good ideas. And they like investing in their friends.”
My mind whirls. “I can almost picture it. My thing is home design, so I wouldn’t do a shirt. I’d do an overpriced mug instead. Designed by me and made in Colorado. A hundred and fifty bucks.”
“See? There you go.” He squeezes my knee with one of his oversized hands. “And how about another tier at, say, three hundred dollars that offers a one-hour consultation with you, in person.”
“But consultations are free,” I argue. “Like when I drove out here to meet you? That’s standard.”
Tommaso licks his lips. “Best meeting ever. But this wouldn’t be the same thing. This would appeal to someone who isn’t sure they want to redesign anything. They’re on the fence. But they paid for your time, so they don’t feel any pressure to commit.”
“Oh,” I say slowly. Then I lean back and close my eyes. “How are you so in tune with all this business stuff?”
“It’s…like a puzzle?” he says with a shrug. “I like problem solving. If I ever go back to school, I’d probably study business.”
“I can see that,” I realize. “You’re practical to a fault.”
He shrugs. “I bet you could make this work. You’re good at your job, and you have a big personality. Besides—someone is going to earn money as a designer in this town. Why not you?”
Well really. Why not me? “Thank you, Jersey. That’s really nice of you to say.”
“I’m not that nice a guy.” He picks up my hand and flattens it to his mouth, kissing my palm. I get goosebumps as his beard tickles my skin. “But I believe in you. If you can get me to understand what design is for, you could probably convince Attila the Hun to invest in an accent wall.”
I let out a startled laugh. And then I give in to the gratuitous desire to wrap my arms around Tommaso’s chest. He smells like pressed cotton and heat.
He puts the laptop onto the side table before tugging me closer. “I’m sorry I was a dick this morning. I wish I could have been the guy you deserve.”
“Jersey, I know,” I say, burying my nose in his neck. “I’m over it already.”
He pulls back and gives me an assessing glance. “I’m a work in progress. For example, I used to dread sex. And now I have to restrain myself from pushing you down on this bed and humping your leg like a horny Rottweiler.”
