Page 108 of I'm Your Guy
He drops his voice and looms a little closer. “You think you’re the only one with trashed credit? Think again.”
“Whose fault is that?” I demand, not caring who hears. “It was your brilliant idea to put Mrs. Clotterfeld’s furniture on our personal credit cards.”
“Look.” He sets down his scanner and gives me a glare. “Get off your high horse already, cowboy. You left me all alone to handle the most high-maintenance client I’ve ever met. While you were off dealing with the sane clients.”
“So you could focus,” I snap. “She was a lot of work.”
“She was hellish,” he seethes. “And when I got stressed out and upset, and I didn’t know what to do, you didn’t even want to hear the details.”
“That’s not true,” I hiss as I tap my credit card.
Except maybe it is a teeny bit true. I was afraid for our business. I’m better at design than conflict resolution. And the numbers she was racking up on her bill were big and scary.
“Are you sure about that, Carter?” he asks quietly. “Because I don’t think I hallucinated your unwillingness to deal with her.”
“But you’re better at conflict,” I point out. Besides, I’m not the one who skipped town when shit went wrong.
“I’m better at conflict, because you made me be,” he thunders. “You like the fun parts of the job, and you ignore the tough ones. You just want a guy to take care of you, so you don’t have to do anything difficult.”
Well, ouch.
He grabs my receipt off the register and thrusts it at me. “I see your credit card still works. So you’re doing fine.”
“Yeah, super fine,” I growl. “Trying to dig myself out from the hole you made. I had to sell our furniture. And now I’m functionally homeless.”
He rolls his eyes. “You don’t look homeless. And you’re too pretty to end up sleeping in your car. I’ll bet you’re warming some guy’s bed, right? A fun little arrangement between friends. Or acquaintances. Why be picky?”
I stiffen.
Macklin snorts. “You should see your face. I called that one, huh? Knowing you, though, you probably think you’re in love with him, just like you told yourself you were in love with me. Who’s the new Prince Charming? The one who’s going to sweep you off your feet and make all your troubles go away? Do I know him?”
“Now that’s just cruel,” I whisper.
He shrugs. “But is it wrong? You probably tell yourself that I’m a horrible person, and that our losses are all my fault. Because it’s so much easier than acknowledging that running a business is really fucking hard, and nobody is coming to save you.”
“Fuck you, Macklin,” I say. Because it’s impossible to come up with the right zinger for your ex when you’re choking on your own anger.
And it’s even harder when you’re afraid that he could be right.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Tommaso
When I arrive home from practice, I head to the kitchen for a glass of water. When I look out the window, I do a double take. Furniture has appeared on my screened-in porch.
I open the sliding door and step out in my socks. You’d think I’d be used to these sudden upgrades to my life. A porch that was just an empty square at breakfast time now looks inviting in spite of the cold.
But each time Carter works his magic, it still feels like a miracle. The place looks great. As usual, he’s found furnishings that are simple, yet appealing. The chairs are made of some kind of metal that’s coated to be weatherproof, plus a simple seat cushion in an evergreen color.
There’s a table between the chairs. When the weather gets warm, we can carry out a couple of plates and eat here.
It’s going to be awesome.
I shoot him a text, thanking him for the surprise. But he doesn’t text back, and he doesn’t return to the house, either—not until I’m putting on my suit for tonight’s game.
“Up here!” I call after I hear the front door open.
Carter doesn’t appear. He doesn’t say a word until I walk down the stairs and find him sitting on one of the leather chairs, looking both thoughtful and distracted. “Hey,” he says, not quite meeting my eyes. “You’re leaving early for your game?”
