Page 22 of I'm Your Guy
“Evicted, though,” Rigo says sadly. “What are you going to do with your furniture?”
“I don’t know,” I say, glancing at the midcentury furniture that Macklin and I had picked out together. It’s nice stuff. But I don’t need all these reminders of my ex, and I can’t afford a storage unit. “Craigslist, maybe.”
He groans. “After all that work you put into it?”
“It’s fine,” I say quickly. “Designing interiors is my jam. I can just start over. I’ve done it before.”
Rigo makes a frustrated sound. “Do you need me to see if the fine arts department at school is looking for models again? The term will be ending any day now, but I could check.”
“Great idea,” I say quietly. “Thank you.” It’s not like I have a lot of dignity to defend. Stripping down to my underwear in order to buy some groceries? Sure. Why not. “Thanks, Rigo. You’re a good friend.”
“Not good enough,” he grumbles. “I should have noticed you weren’t coming around.”
“It’s okay,” I say quickly. “I’m fine. I just have a lot on my plate. But this morning I had a meeting with a potential client. If I get the job, I might need to hire some painters in a hurry.”
“Yeah?” His voice perks up. “Don’t lose my number. I want to buy Buck something outrageous for Christmas, so I could use the cash.”
Now I’m sorry I brought it up, because DiCosta is probably not going to pull the trigger. He’s probably interviewing another designer right now. One who drives a nicer car and who isn’t quite so desperate.
And one who isn’t quite so gay. I got a strange vibe off him. Like he was uncomfortable and didn’t quite know how to talk to me. If that’s his issue, then I guess I’m better off without him, right?
Right.
My bank account, however, is not. Nor is my empty stomach.
I hang up with Rigo, and then drop my head into my hands. I’ve got to stay positive. A guy who’s about to sell his furniture on Craigslist can’t afford the luxury of a doom spiral.
Ping. Ping. My laptop chimes twice in quick succession.
Warily, I raise my head. I can’t afford any more bad news today.
But when I check, I discover an email with a signed, scanned copy of the contract I sent to Tommaso DiCosta. The only message is: Okay, Montana. Let’s do this.
The other message is from PayPal, and the subject line says, Hot Shot DiCosta just sent you $4,000.
NINE
Tommaso
We’re sitting in the video room watching tape for our upcoming game against Philadelphia. I’m having trouble concentrating. It’s partly because I already know Philly’s best tricks.
But that’s not the whole problem.
This morning, on my way to practice, I’d let Carter Flynn into my home. Right this moment he’s in my living room, painting the walls a shade called Damask.
Otherwise known as white.
There are, apparently, a million shades of white paint. Carter chose this one because “it has a very clean undertone. It’s warm without being too yellow, which you need in a north-facing room. And it doesn’t take on green or pink hues.”
That’s a lot of overthinking if you ask me. But I’m well aware that people can overthink anything. Like me, for example, sitting here in the video room replaying my first look at Carter this morning when I opened the door. He’d stood there with a ladder and a box filled with paint cans. Wearing spattered old camo-print pants and a threadbare T-shirt in spite of the cold temperatures.
He’d smiled at me like I was his favorite person in the world. “Morning! Hope you’re ready to have your home transformed!”
I’m always a little sluggish in the morning. That must be why I couldn’t say anything intelligible. Instead, I’d stood there for a long beat, staring at the spray of faded freckles across the bridge of his nose. They made me want to put my mouth right there...
God, I’m a mess. Hours later, I can’t stop thinking about the tune he’d whistled as he’d laid drop-cloths on my living room floor.
Or the shape of his ass in those pants.
