Page 20 of I'm Your Guy
“Yeah, that’s the truth.” He actually grins, and it catches me off guard.
The man’s smile is dangerous. I’ve personally done many stupid things for men whose smiles aren’t even half as potent.
But then the smile drops. “You’ll also need cash. After I sign your contract, I’ll cut you a check for the first week’s work, and I’ll ask my credit-card company for a card in your name. To make your shopping easier.”
Something inside my chest loosens when he says that. Because that exact arrangement would have saved me from the trouble I’m in with Macklin and Mrs. Clotterfeld.
If only I hadn’t been so stupid to trust them both.
“Sounds good,” I say with a sigh. “We’ll shape up this place in no time.”
“Cool.” He paces closer to me, and I hold out my hand, ready to shake. This is a big moment for me. This client could save my whole business.
But at the last second, he pivots. “The tree goes right here.”
“Sorry?” I shove my hand in my pocket to salvage my dignity.
“The Christmas tree.” He plants himself in front of the picture window. “Mom will see it when we drive up. She’ll be thrilled.”
“Of course,” I agree softly. That’s the whole point of this job, anyway—creating homes that make people happy. “She’ll love it.”
SEVEN
Tommaso
After Carter leaves, I pace around the house like a caged tiger. The meeting went well, but I feel unsettled.
He was right when he said that inviting someone into your home feels like a big deal. I’m a private person. I’m not used to sharing my space—or my thoughts—with anyone.
Carter seems to know what he’s doing. I only wish he were more chill. Like, I don’t see why he needs me to approve everything. I spend half my life in hotel rooms. I’m used to having no control over my surroundings. I’m a low-maintenance human.
Or I was, before he made me notice the hideous paint color in my living room.
Damn it.
And it wouldn’t even matter if the paint color were the only thing I’d noticed while he was here. But I also noticed the way his arms flexed when he leaned against the breakfast bar, and the way his face flushed when he got excited about something.
What I need is a very boring decorator. I should have posted an ad. Wanted: one self-sufficient designer with immediate availability to go into dreadful shops and talk to salespeople about welting. Whatever that is.
Will ask me questions only when absolutely necessary.
Ideal candidate does not have big blue eyes, a flashy purple shirt, or a hot smile.
I let out a groan and do another lap of the lower floor. My footsteps echo in the empty rooms.
Pausing in front of the kitchen counter, I grab my phone and dial the first number on Carter’s reference sheet.
“Good morning, this is Kathy of Kathy’s Kitchens. Can I help you?”
“Uh, hi. I just interviewed a designer named Carter Flynn. He listed your name as a ref—”
There’s a squeal and then Kathy launches into a verbal avalanche of praise for Carter. I don’t understand half of what she’s saying. But apparently Carter’s “colorways” are inspirational, and his “visual organization” is top notch. Whatever that means.
Bottom line, this woman loves Carter. Although her closing statement is a little odd. “That boy deserves a break. He’s capable of anything. If you hire him, I hope you’re one of the good ones.”
“Uh, thanks,” is all I can manage. “You have a pleasant day.”
I hang up and take another lap. As I’m passing the picture window, I see my teammate Hudson outside on a ladder in front of his window. His boyfriend—Gavin—stands beside the ladder, holding a string of lights.
