Page 49 of I'm Your Guy
Carter
I hadn’t known he’d been on a video call. I’d just been working on the dinner order.
But his mom’s voice is still echoing in my head. Who’s your new friend? He is so cute.
Something in her tone made my skin prickle with awareness. Like there was more to the question than I would have expected.
And in Tommaso’s answer, too. Don’t jump to conclusions.
I’d been listening so hard that I forgot to breathe. But then he’d run upstairs fast enough to leave a contrail.
So what did I just overhear? Why did she ask it like that?
God, it is none of my business. I don’t have any right to be curious.
I place our dinner order, and then open his refrigerator to retrieve the drink ingredients I’d brought with me today. I feel a little foolish. Like I’m trying too hard, and it shows.
But it’s too late now. I retrieve some ice from the freezer and make two cocktails. If he’s not amused, he doesn’t have to drink, right?
Plus, it gives me something to do with my hands.
I’m almost calm again by the time he enters the kitchen. He leans against the countertop, muscles flexing beneath his form-fitting tee, his face revealing nothing.
My stomach jumps with nerves, because this guy always overwhelms me. I can’t explain my reaction to him, and I can’t seem to control it, either.
His dark eyes land on my cocktail shaker. “Hey, what’s that?”
“Well…” I laugh awkwardly, and then bang the ice cubes around in the shaker one more time. “I had this whole plan when I realized you were going to turn up before I made it out of here tonight. I thought if I made you a cocktail, you might look at some fabric samples with me.”
Those broody eyes widen. “You made me a cocktail? What kind?”
“It’s, uh, a Cosmo. I meant it as a joke. You said you’d never tasted one, so…”
His beard quirks as he smiles. “Really? You’re hilarious. Okay, let’s do this. I feel like I’m on vacation right now. My house looks amazing, and somebody made me a pink drink.”
The tight band inside my chest relaxes by a few degrees. “That was the idea. To get you good and relaxed so that I could make you think about curtains.”
“Curtains?” He gives me a look of genuine horror. “What do I know from curtains?”
“Nothing, and that’s fine,” I say quickly. I open a cabinet and pull down two wine glasses, because he doesn’t own martini glasses. Nobody’s perfect. “I just need to show you some fabrics and get your opinion about window treatments.”
“Window treatments.” He pronounces it the way some people say rat poison. “Okay, fine. And what are we eating?” He absently pats the abs of glory, which are poorly hidden beneath a threadbare T-shirt.
“Fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and sweet-potato fries.” I pour two drinks out of the shaker, and Tommaso reaches for one of them. “Hold up, Jersey. This needs a garnish.”
I reach over and swat his arm away. Or at least I try to, but my fingers land on his forearm, and it’s like pushing on heated steel. Awareness of him zings through my body.
Our eyes meet, and his are smoldering. But then he withdraws his hand. “A garnish, huh?”
“A garnish,” I repeat, but it comes out with the same tone that I might use to say, lick me all over.
Do I need a cold drink, or what?
I hastily cut a couple of lime wedges—not my tidiest work—and then affix them to the glasses. “Cheers,” I say, lifting a glass and handing it over. “Drink up, Jersey. We’re talking about curtains whether it kills you or not.”
“It might.” But he smiles, and those dark eyes are warmer than I’ve ever seen them. He touches his glass to mine and then takes a sip. “Hmm.”
“Tasty, right? And I promise—it won’t turn you gay.”
