Page 13 of I'm Your Guy
Livable? I could make this place into the snuggest, hippest, most inviting home in Colorado, as long as the budget is generous.
I follow him into the kitchen, and I don’t let myself sound too excited. “What’s the exact deadline? The holidays can mean different things to different people.”
He pulls a loaf of sourdough bread out of a bag on the counter. “Let’s say noon on December twenty-third. That’s when she arrives.”
“Okay,” I say, pulling out my clipboard out of my messenger bag, and scribbling down that date. And now it’s time for my pitch. I take a deep breath. “Mr. DiCosta, this space has a lot of potential. It’s great. But right now, it’s an empty shell. It’s a house, not a home.”
He raises one dark eyebrow in a skeptical expression.
I press on. “My job is to gather a full picture of your home life, and then interpret your preferences, values, and tastes into my design. By the time I’m done, you won’t want to leave.”
Usually, the client smiles right about now, but DiCosta is rubbing his forehead, like I’ve just given him a migraine. I watch the muscles in his forearm work and wonder if he does bodybuilding as a hobby.
“Dude, look,” he says.
My heart drops. Nobody ever got a job with a sentence that starts Dude, look…
“I don’t mean to burst your bubble. That’s a pretty speech, but we need to be on the same page. If I hire you, it’s because I don’t have time to even think about any of this. I hate shopping, but I also hate sitting on a damn beanbag chair to watch the game.”
Fearful that I’m losing this gig, I start nodding like a puppet. “Must be murder on your back. We can fix that.”
He shrugs. “I don’t need a therapist or a Zen master. I just need a solid guy who can magic this place together in a damn hurry. And not bug me too often with the details.”
Oh hell. This man has no idea what he’s asking. No decent designer would agree to those terms. “Listen, I understand the time constraints. And we’ll get to that in a second. But unless mind-reading is a real thing, this job isn’t possible without some buy-in from you. Everyone has preferences, even if they don’t realize it. Even if they’d rather have a colonoscopy than go to the mall.”
He snorts. “Yeah, busted.”
“I’ve heard every word you’ve said. I’d really like to work with you, and I’m willing to do all the leg work. But I’m not clairvoyant, Mr. DiCosta. You’ll have to make yourself available to approve the things I pick out for you. That’s the only way this works.”
“Oh,” he says, his expression falling.
I hope I didn’t just talk myself out of this job. “Please believe me when I say that you don’t want to turn a stranger loose with a big budget and no direction.” I point at my chest. “Even this stranger, who has impeccable taste. So, if I take this job, we’d still have to communicate. Frequently.”
His jaw works as he thinks this over. “But you’d handle all the shopkeepers, right? I’m not going back to that sofa store.”
“I solemnly swear on this slab of quartz composite—” I place my hand on the countertop. “—that you will not have to speak to a single salesperson. I’ll do all the actual shopping, and bring you ideas for approval.”
“And no jargon?”
“No jargon,” I agree. “If anyone tries to talk to you about welting or button tufting, I’ll fight ’em off with a wingback chair.”
In spite of his beard, the corners of his mouth twitch. “Fair enough. So how would this work?”
I rub my hands together. “You mentioned there’s a visitor you’re trying to impress? Let’s start with that as a goal. What kind of statement are we making?”
He pulls a bread knife out of a well-furnished knife block. His kitchen is stocked, I notice. “The visitor is my mom.”
“Your mom,” I repeat. That isn’t at all what I was expecting.
“Yeah,” he grunts. “We don’t see much of each other, and I bought this place so we could have a nice Christmas together. So that guestroom—” He points toward the rear of the house again. “—should be furnished really nicely for her. The bathroom, too.”
“Right,” I say, recovering from my surprise.
I don’t point out that for less money he could have booked a luxury vacation for the two of them. Somewhere that already has furniture. “Let me take a look,” I say instead.
After passing through the kitchen area, I inspect the back room, which is probably meant to be a den. It’s a nice size, but utterly empty. It lacks a closet, but otherwise it would make a fine guestroom. Bonus—the walls are white and not that piss yellow from the living room.
The three-quarter bathroom is also cheery, with white subway tile and a pedestal sink.
