Page 12 of I'm Your Guy
After locating Mr. DiCosta’s unit, I swing my car into the visitor’s parking spot nearby. Normally, I would try to hide my heap of a car from the client’s view. Nothing says failure like driving a fifteen-year-old Subaru with rusted wheel rims. But this client has seen my car already, so the damage is done.
I hurry up the short walkway to his front door and knock. He makes me wait, and while I stand there on his doorstep, a doom loop cycles through my brain.
I worry that he changed his mind and didn’t even have the courtesy to cancel our meeting.
I worry that I won’t get the job.
I worry that I will get the job, but it will turn out to be a disaster. He’ll be a raging narcissist like Mrs. Clotterfeld, and he’ll find some new and terrible way to take advantage of me.
This isn’t like me. I used to feel a surge of excitement every time I met a new client. But that’s gone now, and it’s depressing. I liked my life better when I trusted people.
It’s cold out, too, so I rub my hands together impatiently. Where is he? I step back for a glimpse through the picture window. Is he even home?
That’s when I spot my potential client striding toward the door while hastily pulling a T-shirt over his head. Wowzers, the man is ripped. Muscles bulging everywhere. It’s the kind of body you only see on TV.
Or—fine—in porn. His abs line up in a neat egg-carton pattern, and his V-cut is so sharp a man could cut his tongue on that thing.
Those abs of glory quickly disappear behind the T-shirt, which is for the best. If I drool all over this man, I’ll never get this job.
Clients want us to kiss their asses, but not literally.
The door finally swings open, and he greets me with a scowl.
My confidence withers by another degree, and I brace myself to hear him say that he won’t be needing me after all. “Morning,” I say with false cheer. “You did say eleven o’clock.”
“Right. Sorry,” he says gruffly. “Running a little behind this morning. Got back to town late last night.”
“It’s no problem,” I say through a pasted-on smile. Because I really do need this job. Even if he’s the kind of jerk who values his own time above everyone else’s. Even if he’s a nightmare to work with.
I promised myself I wouldn’t design for any more assholes, but I don’t have a choice. Without this job, I might be sleeping on the streets next month.
Another long beat goes by, and he’s still scowling. Finally, he opens the door a little wider. “Come on in. You can see what we’re dealing with. I wasn’t joking when I said I needed everything.”
Indeed he does. The door opens into a small vestibule, which leads into a spacious, open floor plan. There’s a generous seating area and a fireplace. To the rear, at the left, a wide, arched doorway draws the eye into a gourmet kitchen with a dining alcove. To the right, a staircase to the second floor is tucked into the corner.
I walk slowly into the center of the living space and lift my eyes to the high ceilings with their rough-hewn beams. The airiness of the space is appealing. It’s large, yet still scaled to the human form. The front window faces northeast for good afternoon light.
And that’s when I feel it—the frisson of excitement I always experience when faced with a new job. Maybe this guy is a dick. Maybe my business is still doomed.
But I could make this place amazing.
He clears his throat. “What do you think?”
“Good vibes. So much potential. And it’s roomy without being cavernous. What’s on the second floor?”
“Two bedrooms, two bathrooms. But I’ll only use one. I’m putting my guestroom back there—in the room behind the kitchen.” He points toward the rear.
I’m already nodding. “That’s a nice separation of public and private space. I like it.”
“There’s a partial basement, too. But we can ignore that for now. There’s enough to worry about already, and not a lot of time to do it.”
He’s not wrong. The only furniture in this room is a beanbag chair plopped right in front of a TV. And the TV sits directly on the wood flooring.
Wow. This guy needs everything.
“You weren’t kidding when you said it’s a big job.” And repainting the living room will have to come first. The walls are an unfortunate shade of ochre.
“Yeah,” he grunts, retreating toward the kitchen. “Will this even work? Can you get this place livable by the holidays?”
