Page 31 of I'm Your Guy
“Good,” he says. “Because you look beat, Jersey. Like, tired to the bone. And I hate thinking of you going home to that empty house and having nowhere to relax.”
That nickname again. It makes me smile. “I’m not going home,” I say. “I’m going to the airport for a flight to Tennessee.”
“Right.” He shakes his head. “Crazy story you just told me, though. Have you seen your cousin since the fight?”
“Only twice, on the ice,” I admit. “I dread every game against Trenton. He wants a rematch, but if I fight him again, my coach will be pissed.”
“Big yikes. So what do you do?”
“Grind my teeth instead.” And now I’m sick of talking about myself. “We were never close, anyway. You have a big family?”
“No way,” he says. “Since my father died, it’s just my mom and me.”
His father died. My stomach lurches. “Oh shit. When did he pass?”
“When I was nineteen. Heart attack.”
“I’m really sorry to hear that.” And suddenly the couch’s magic is lost on me. I sit upright and take a deep breath.
“It’s okay,” he says. “I’ve had a few years to get used to the idea.”
An electrical burst of anxiety pulses through me. I stand up from the cloud couch and inhale. “Buy the couch, okay?”
“I will,” he says. “And I’ll arrange for delivery as soon as I can. Right after the living room paint is dry.”
“Oh, right. Hold on.” I dig a hand into my suit pocket and extract a keychain. “My extra key. I’ll be out of town.”
Then I do something that’s surprisingly difficult for me, considering what I’m paying this guy to furnish my house.
I hand it to him.
TWELVE
Carter
Tommaso can’t meet my eyes as he hands me the key. He thinks I don’t understand how difficult it is to let someone else into your life, even if it’s just for a paint job.
But I know more about this than he thinks. Nobody becomes an interior designer by accident. In order to do this job, you have to have an understanding of what a client’s home means to him.
Even when the client doesn’t quite understand it himself.
“Thanks for this,” I say quietly. “I won’t abuse your trust.”
“Not much to steal,” he says gruffly.
I scramble to my feet and tuck away the key. “It’s not just about valuables, big man. It’s about privacy. And I would never violate yours.”
His dark eyes flash with something unreadable. “Thanks. I appreciate it. Now what else are you going to make me look at? Time’s a-wasting.”
That guy who spilled his guts to me on the sofa? He’s gone. The big, gruff hockey player is back in the driver’s seat.
I steer him toward the dining section, where I point out two different tables. “They’ve both got a rustic vibe to them,” I point out. “This first one is all wood, nice joinery. More traditional. But I also like that one—with the iron base. It has a more industrial feel.”
The corners of his mouth quirk up, and I watch him scrutinize my two choices. “Huh. Okay. I like them both.”
“Try the chairs,” I suggest. “Maybe they’ll sway you.”
Frowning, he takes a seat at the first one, looking lordly in his business suit. Like a warrior knight at the Round Table. He runs a rough palm over the wood. Then he gets up and crosses to the other one. “What’s the story about the girl in the bears’ house? Trying all the furniture?”
