Page 19 of Love Lessons
“Who’s that shirt for?” she demands.
“Don’t ask. Someone I’m trying to win as a client, but he’s not buying what I have to sell.”
“Crikey, huh?” She grins. “None of this stuff is returnable, though.”
It’s true, and Charli is the more practical of us. “That’s okay,” I insist. “If he doesn’t like it, he can use it as a dishrag.”
“Please. You’d rather die.”
“Let’s hope it won’t come to that.”
* * *
That eveningI screw up the courage to walk over to Ian’s place with the shirt. There’s nobody inside the downstairs retail space, so I ring the buzzer for the apartment on the floor above. I’m pretty sure that one is his.
“Hello?” his rough voice calls a moment later.
“It’s Vera. Your neighbor,” I add, just in case he knows a few different Veras. Then I cringe.
Awkward much?my inner voice asks.
“Hi, neighbor,” he says. “Come on in.”
The lock clicks, and I pull the door open. The narrow hallway is dingy, but painter’s tape has been applied along the moldings, so I guess Ian is working on that. With a little love and attention, this building could be super cute. The lighting is hideous, though. No paint job in the world will look appealing without better lighting.
I’ll probably have to tape my mouth shut to avoid pointing that out.
As I trot up the first flight of stairs, the apartment door swings open to reveal Crikey’s big frame in the doorway. He’s wearing sweatpants and another tattered T-shirt, this one with paint splotches on it. “Hello, countess.”
Yowza. I take in his chilly blue eyes, and I feel… butterflies.
Okay. That’s weird. Maybe I have a thing for guys who don’t like me all that much.Nice job, girl. Excellent strategy.
“Hi,” I finally say, and it comes out sounding breathy.
His mouth twitches with an almost-smile. “To what do I owe this honor?”
“Well, you’ve got my barber’s kit. And, um…” The bag in my hand suddenly seems like a terrible idea. “I found a nice shirt at a sale, and maybe it’s something you’d like. It’s, uh, really simple, but it compliments your coloring.”
“Mycoloring,” he echoes, like he’s never heard the word before. “Usually, I just wear white shirts. Keeps things simple. But I guess I could branch out.” He turns around and strides back into his apartment. As if I should follow.
So I do. But two steps into the room, I halt again, because I can’t believe the difference between the dingy hallway and the apartment. “Wow. This isgorgeous. I guess you started your renovations in here?” There’s a generous living space with big windows facing the street. There’s an antique fireplace that’s even grander than mine. And an open-plan kitchen with a cozy-looking table against the window.
The walls are a perfect snowy white, and the air has that new-apartment smell. “It’s going to look nice in here when you get some furniture.”
“Thanks,” he says easily. “My furniture shows up tomorrow. And I like painting. It’s the only kind of work that provides instant gratification.”
“Instant?Not hardly. There’s taping and cutting in and sometimes sanding. And ladders.” I make a face, and he rewards me with a smile that emboldens me. “But giving a hot guy a haircut, on the other hand, that’s instant gratification.”
He laughs, and I feel it inside my chest. “Careful, neighbor. I might start to think you like me.” He plucks my barber’s kit from beneath a wooden chair and hands it to me. “Here’s your stuff.”
“Thanks. Sorry I didn’t pick it up sooner.”I was too chicken to knock on your door before now.
“It’s no problem. I appreciate the haircut. Management liked it, too. The GM sent back a nicely patronizing reply telling me how well I was representing the organization.” He rolls his stormy eyes.
“Okay. Well. Good?” I stammer. I still feel awful for calling the cops to his party. He can probably read it off my face.
“So, let’s see this shirt.” He crosses his arms across his broad chest. “What does a stylist think I should be wearing, anyway?”
