Page 16 of I'm Your Guy
He also turned me down when I offered him breakfast. But then he eyed the food like a junkyard dog. Now he’s eating it like it’s a race, and he’s trying for a podium finish.
He’s confusing. Yet I really need his help, and the clock is ticking. I’ll probably have to take a chance on this guy, even if it’s risky. Even if he makes my heart pound.
That’s not a plus.
“So how would this work?” I ask, pulling my head back into the game. “You’d be doing a lot of shopping for me. How are you compensated?”
In other words, let’s cut the bullshit and discuss the things that really matter.
He drains his juice. “There are two ways to pay a designer’s fee. Sometimes we charge a percentage of the bill. But in your case, I think a flat weekly rate makes more sense. If we work together, this is a big job that would dominate my working hours during the holidays.”
Huh. “What kind of flat rate?”
He takes a moment, pacing around the kitchen, hands on his trim hips. “The tight timeframe makes this job weird. I’ll spend a lot of time calling around, bargaining for fast delivery.”
“Can you, uh, take delivery, too? I’m not home very much.”
He stops pacing and stares at me. “That’s not usually how it’s done.”
“Yeah, I bet.” I heave a sigh. “But I travel a lot for work. A lot. And I need more than your usual clients. I need Christmas decorations, too. Hell, I even need Christmas presents.”
He blinks.
“So tell me this—how much would five or six weeks of your time cost? If you could spare every minute. So that would be, like, a tenth of your annual salary.” I brace myself to hear a crazy number.
My visitor rubs his handsome chin. “I’ll have to drop everything else. But the holidays are usually slow, to be fair. Still, I’d have to charge you four thousand a week, for five weeks. And that’s before you get to the cost of the furniture.”
Oh, phew. That’s not too bad, seeing as I don’t want to do the work myself. “So that’s twenty grand total for the design fee.” I rarely spend twenty thousand dollars on anything—but it shows. My nicest possessions are the Lexus SUV in the carport and the high-end exercise equipment in the basement.
But I make two million a year, so this is probably the right moment to part with some cash. I just wish I knew if Carter was a good guy, and reliable, or not. “I could pay you week to week, right?”
“Of course,” he says, pacing again. “I’m sure it sounds like a lot of money. But I could make this place look great. On one condition—we paint the living room. I’m good at my job, but even I can’t work around that yellow.”
I step into the living area and look at the paint, possibly for the first time. And I see what he means. “It’s like urine, am I right?”
“I wasn’t going to say it, but yeah.” And then something new happens. Carter smiles. It’s like the sun coming out. I get stuck staring at him again, because he looks like a whole new person. There’s a dimple in one of his cheeks, and I have the strangest urge to measure it with my thumb.
“Painting takes time,” he says. “But I know a guy we could hire. That would be my first call.”
Oof. “That sounds complicated.”
“A little. But do you really want to buy furniture to match a paint color you hate?”
“They’re just walls,” I say. “I can live with them.”
Those blue eyes widen. I’m good at reading people, and I can sense a wave of disbelief with a side order of frustration. He tries not to let it show, though. “But this is your home. You’re going to live here, right?”
The way I travel? It kind of doesn’t matter. But I don’t mention that. He doesn’t seem to know what I do for a living, and I don’t feel like explaining it. “What color should walls be? Plain white?”
Again, a look of disbelief. “That’s one way to go. But the thing about walls is that you don’t have to paint them all the same color. To save time, we could paint most everything a warm shade of white, except for the accent wall…” He indicates the fireplace wall. “That’s where I’d put a color that picks up the chimney stones. A slate shade, maybe.”
I don’t know what color “slate” is. But I just nod, because he seems to know what he’s talking about.
His eyes narrow again. “Slate is a greenish gray. It’s not the only choice, though. I’ll bring you some samples.”
Maybe I’m not the only one who’s good at reading people. “Sounds better than this pee shade.”
He grins. “Right. Now let’s talk about your personal style. What kind of furniture do you like? And don’t say ‘normal.’ One guy’s normal might be a La-Z-Boy recliner and a foam beer cozy. And one guy’s normal stuff might be marble statues and lava lamps.”
