Page 50 of I'm Your Guy
Unfortunately, I say this as he takes his second sip, and he almost chokes.
Oops. Way to make everything more awkward. It’s my superpower.
While he recovers, I pull a stack of fabric swatches from my bag on the floor. “All right—curtains.” I plop the swatches onto the counter. “They aren’t very exciting. But they are useful. Your bedroom windows offer no privacy right now, so I figure you want to fix that as soon as possible.”
He shrugs. “I just change in the bathroom. Problem solved.”
“You are practical to a fault, and I admire that. But hear me out.”
He takes another sip of his pink drink and cocks his head. “I’m listening.”
“There are people who approach you in shops. That’s cool and all, but they also post your picture on Instagram. It’s dark out right now—” I point toward the windows. “—and with the lights on, anyone with eyes or a camera can see inside. I mean, there must be something you do outside the bathroom that you’d rather not advertise?”
And, yup, I somehow steered the conversation back to sex. Oops.
Tommaso doesn’t miss it. His eyes go hot. Like, molten. But he doesn’t say anything.
I’m so confused. Do we have chemistry? For real? Or am I just a sad, horny boy with a crush on the hot athlete?
“So…” I take a gulp of my cocktail. “I just thought you might want to put up some curtains in the living room and the bedrooms. I can pop shades into the bathroom windows, too. That’s easy.”
“All right,” he says, clearing his throat. “Let’s have some curtains. I’ll choose a fabric, if I must.”
“Excellent.” Setting my drink down, I turn to the pile of swatches. For starters, there are eight white ones, so I lay them down in a row in preparation for explaining their differences.
But he doesn’t let me. He puts a finger down on the first one—the Belgian Linen—and says, “That one.”
“You barely looked!” I yelp. “And we have to consider whether you want light filtering or blackout…”
He puts both hands on the counter and flexes his arms. His eyes are glittering with humor, plus something dark and wild. “You asked me to choose a fabric. I chose a fabric. What is the problem, exactly?”
He’s teasing me, and I like it way too much. “What the fuck.” I swipe my hand along the counter and gather the swatches into a lump. “Fine. Sure. How about this? If you can choose the same one again, I’ll accept your choice without further discussion.”
“Hallelujah,” he mutters, reaching for the cocktail shaker. “Go ahead. Lay ’em out. I got this.”
All the swatches are white, so I doubt he’ll be able to pick out the same one again. But I don’t like to lose, so while he’s topping up my glass, I jam the Belgian Linen into the pocket of my khakis.
Then I line up the remaining seven squares of fabric. “All right, now which one did you like again?” I take a confident swig of my drink and wait.
His broad brow furrows as he examines the squares. I have to admit, this many choices is overkill. But I’d planned to show him that they all filter light a little differently…
“You dirty rat,” he says suddenly. He sets his drink on the counter and squares his body toward mine. “Where is it?”
Uh-oh. I’ve underestimated him. And my poker face is probably terrible. “Where is what?”
“Carter.” His expression turns as playful as I’ve ever seen it. He takes a step closer to me. “Look, I was just being a dumbass. I’ll let you explain curtains to me, I swear. Just as soon as you admit that you’re cheating at your own game.”
I take a step backwards and struggle mightily not to glance down at my pocket. “I can’t imagine what you’re talking about.”
“Uh-huh.” He smirks. “Where is it?”
There’s a big, muscular hockey player advancing on me. If I didn’t know him so well, I might even be afraid. But I’m not, even though his shoulders are broad enough to blot out the sun. There’s a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. It’s a smile that promises vengeance…
He comes at me like a boxer, feinting as though he’s about to grab me. Since he’s a skilled athlete, I totally believe it.
I am not, however, a skilled athlete. So I take an immediate step backward, pressing a hand on the pocket where the illicit fabric square is hiding.
A split second later, as Tommaso lets out a victorious laugh, I realize I’ve been had. He lunges toward my pocket.
