Page 135 of I'm Your Guy
I’m not proud of it, but for a moment, I actually consider whether I could just hide up here until Tommaso takes his mom to the airport.
Okay, I’m not that big a coward. Am I?
I stall a few more minutes, reading my email. There’s a message from some guy named Hale, asking if I can call him about furnishing a condo.
When I google his name—because I’m wiser now—I learn that he’s a goalie who’s just been traded to the Colorado Cougars.
Holy heck. Another hockey-player client?
That’s exciting enough to get me out of bed. I spend a few minutes making myself presentable. Not that it’s easy.
I open Tommaso’s dresser drawers and scan the contents until I find a waffle-knit T-shirt that looks like it’s probably a little too snug on him. Which means it won’t completely drown me.
I put it on, push my shoulders back, and walk downstairs like I belong here.
I’m probably not very convincing, though, because redheads blush very easily. It’s a curse. It really is.
“Carter! Good morning,” Mrs. DiCosta says when I enter the kitchen. “I knew you could make it here for breakfast! But it’s the weirdest thing—I didn’t hear the door open.”
If there were a mirror in here (and there isn’t, because what self-respecting designer puts a mirror in the kitchen?) I’m sure I’d see a bright red face looking back at me. “I guess I’m stealthy like that.”
“Hmm,” she says. “Maybe my hearing is going. You look nice in that color,” she says, indicating my stolen shirt.
“Thanks.”
“So does Tommaso. I bought that for him a few birthdays ago.”
“Oh,” I say, my shoulders sagging. “Figures.”
She laughs so hard she has to grip the countertop. “Sorry,” she says, gasping. “I couldn’t resist. An old lady has to get her kicks somehow. I kept the bacon warm for you.” She opens the oven door. “And I’ll pour you a waffle.”
“Thank you. I think.”
She grins.
“Coffee? Tea?” I offer.
She waves me off, and I put a coffee pod into the coffee maker for myself.
“Are you familiar with the DiCosta family strawberry waffle recipe?” she asks.
“I might have a passing familiarity,” I grumble.
She laughs again. “You are the cutest thing,” she says, taking a breath. “So easily embarrassed.”
I sink down at the table when my coffee’s done brewing. “This is new for me. I never meet the parents.”
“How come?” She slides waffles and bacon onto a plate for me. “Want eggs? I could scramble a couple.”
I shake my head. “This is already perfect. And, well, guys never introduce me, I guess. They’ve usually ended things before we get to that stage.”
“Then they’re missing out,” she says, placing the plate and a fork in front of me. “Are you close to your own parents?”
“To my mom, yes. She’s great. My father passed.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, honey.”
“It happens.”
