Page 3 of I'm Your Guy
“Just had to let you know—the brand decided to go with someone else.” She sighs. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” I say immediately. “Nailing down sponsorships is the least of my problems right now.”
“I know,” she says gently. “But I won’t give up. Someone is going to come along and offer us a deal.”
“It really doesn’t matter,” I insist. “I don’t need the money.”
“Speak for yourself,” she says, and I can hear the humor in her voice. “But it’s more than money, DiCosta. If we get one brand to shine their love on you, then others will follow. We want the world to see you as more approachable. It will make everything easier.”
Bess is smart, and she knows what she’s doing. But I just don’t have the bandwidth to worry about my reputation right now. “We’ll get there,” I say mildly.
“I know it,” she agrees. “Now go buy a couch. I’m no help with that, but I could find you a decorator if you need one.”
“Wait.” This had not occurred to me. “Can I hire someone to shop for my couch? That’s a thing?”
“DiCosta, trust me, you can hire out anything. Call me after practice if you need a decorator.”
“Will do.” We hang up, and I rise as the office door bursts open.
The asshole salesman comes striding out, with Mr. Hottie following him.
“Don’t come back here until you’ve solved this,” the salesman says.
“Got it,” Mr. Hottie replies in a tight voice. He saunters past me. Even his gait is sexy. Under his breath, he says, “Worst store in Denver, anyway. It’s not like I’m dying to shop here again.”
Later I’ll wonder what made me do it, but I follow him outside like a puppy. “Excuse me, sir?”
Hottie turns around. “Who, me?”
It takes me a moment to answer, because he’s really spectacular up close. I didn’t know eyes came in that deep, stormy shade of blue. And I can’t decide what color his hair is exactly. More like ginger than chili powder…
His eyes narrow, and I suddenly remember that I was saying something. “Yeah, I had a question for you.” I jam my hands in my pockets and try to focus. “If this is the worst store in Denver, what’s a better one? I need to buy a lot of furniture on a tight timeline. And that guy just wants to spit a lot of jargon at me.” I jerk my thumb toward the store. “Not helpful.”
“Yeah. Big yikes.” Mr. Hottie frowns. “That guy wouldn’t help his own mother out of a ditch. You’re not a designer, right? You’re shopping for yourself?”
“Trying to.”
He flashes me a quick smile. “Then go somewhere that actually likes its customers. Crate and Barrel. Macy’s. Room and Board.” He shrugs. “Or if you want to hire somebody to handle it for you, I’m your guy.”
“Wait, you’re a decorator?”
Eyebrows lift over those intense blue eyes. “Interior designer.”
“Oh. What’s the difference?”
“The pay scale. Theoretically.” He sighs. “And level of training. Designers have…” His gaze abruptly swings toward the street. “Oh fuck.” Then he dashes away from me, midsentence.
I see why. There’s a traffic cop standing at the bumper of a battered Subaru, writing out a parking ticket. I hurry to follow, because I’m pretty sure this man can solve all my problems.
“Officer, it just expired,” Mr. Hottie sputters.
“Too late,” the cop says.
“I’ll leave right now,” Mr. Hottie tries.
“Wait,” I argue, because this is unacceptable. “We were having an important conversation.”
The officer doesn’t even spare me a glance. “The meter is expired. And this ain’t your first offense. Car’s got a rap sheet. I gotta call a tow truck to impound.”
