Page 2 of I'm Your Guy
“As a baseline, what do you think of this style?” He stops in front of a lime-green sofa.
It’s a horrible color. One time we got a rookie player drunk on vodka and Gatorade, and he barfed that exact shade.
“That’s not the one for me.”
“Why? Is it the button tufting? Is it the camel back?”
“It’s bright green.”
The salesman actually rolls his eyes. “The color doesn’t matter at this point. Every piece of furniture in this store is available in three hundred different fabrics.”
“Three hundred?” That is not a selling point.
“How do you feel about the shelter shape?” He points at a brown one.
“It’s okay.”
“Or the Chesterfield?”
I shrug, because I can’t remember which one that was.
“How do you feel about welting?”
Again, I have no idea what that means, but I’m saved from answering. “Look what the cat dragged in,” he says with a growl. I follow his gaze to Mr. Hottie, who’s still waiting by the door marked Office. “Excuse me a moment. I have to take the trash out.”
As he stalks toward the office, Mr. Hottie begins to look nervous.
Not my problem, I remind myself. It’s actually easier to browse without that man’s help. I walk among the sofas for a moment, trying to picture them in my living room. They’re all kind of bright, with lots of bold colors and showy fabrics, and I’m in too big of a hurry to special order something.
When I spot a gray one, I cross the room to check it out. There’s a tag attached to the arm, but when I flip it over, there’s only a baffling list of serial numbers that means nothing to me. The only words that make sense are Made in North Carolina.
“You’ve got some nerve!”
The anger in the rude salesman’s voice makes me flinch. But it’s not directed at me. It’s coming from behind the office door, only a few feet away.
“This isn’t a consignment shop,” he snaps. “It’s not my problem that your boyfriend split, or that you took a job with assholes. And if you don’t set your delivery date by next week, I will not be responsible for my actions.”
Yikes. I can’t imagine what Mr. Hottie did to deserve all that venom.
But again—not my problem. My phone rings, and I yank it out of my pocket, because my family is having a rough time, and I need to be available for them.
Nope. It’s my agent. Maybe she knows something about couches. “Hey, Bess? I’m in a furniture store. Do you happen to know what a Chesterfield is?”
“Not a clue,” she says. “Sounds like a British soap-opera character.”
“Huh. What about an English roll arm?”
“Sounds like a judo move.”
I smile for the first time today. “How about a tight back? Or welting?”
“Oh—I know this one. A ‘tight back’ is a compliment for a really nice ass. And ‘welting’ is what happens to my husband’s body after a really rough game.”
I burst out laughing, because Bess always makes me feel better. Hiring her was the best decision I ever made. “So I guess you can’t help me pick out a couch?”
“Lord, no,” she says. “I don’t go into stores unless Tank makes me. Even then, I expect a bribe.”
“I knew I liked you.” Giving up on the search, I sit down on the nearest sofa. “So what’s on your mind?”
