First Chapter: I'm Your Guy (For real though!).
Dear Reader,
Previously, as a special treat, I released the first chapter of I’m Your Guy at the launch of The New Guy. The chapter changed somewhat in editing. Enjoy the new version!
Happy Reading!
Read or listen! [Narrator: Jacob Morgan]
Tommaso
I’VE GOT A HALF HOUR, and an empty house that needs furniture, so I walk into the Upholstery Emporium with my platinum card and a sense of purpose.
I pull up short when I see what I’m up against. There must be an acre of furniture in front of me. Why does the world need three hundred different couches? I just need one, preferably large enough for a guy who’s six-two. And I need it delivered before Christmas.
Not so much to ask, right?
Except I’m standing in an ocean of sofas. And chairs. I probably need a couple of those, too. But they’re on the other side of this vast space. Does that make any sense?
And does anybody work here?
I glance around, but nobody fits the part. There’s a couple holding hands. Shoppers, obviously. I spot another guy, but he’s leaning against a wall next to a door marked Office, a jacket over his arm. Probably waiting for a salesperson, just like me.
Something makes me look twice at him, though. And when I do, I forget all about furniture. He has reddish-blond hair that looks soft to the touch. His toned body is sharply dressed in tight trousers and a deep-blue, button-down shirt.
There’s really no other way to put it—he’s smoking hot. Hollywood hot. With piercing blue eyes and a pouty mouth. Not that I should notice that.
A glance at my watch tells me that I’ve already wasted five minutes, and I’m no closer to having a furnished house.
My eyes do another sweep of the store, still looking for a salesperson. When I don’t find one, my gaze makes an involuntary trip back to Mr. Hottie against the wall. I’ve spent my whole life trying not to notice attractive men, but sometimes a face comes along that stops me in my tracks.
Shut it down, DiCosta.
Mr. Hottie’s spine suddenly straightens, and I don’t want to be caught staring, so I look away. That’s when I catch sight of another man striding purposefully across the room. A salesperson. Bingo.
I flag him down. “Excuse me, sir, do you work here?”
“Of course.” His tone is about as friendly as the bark of a rabid coyote.
But I have money and an empty house, so I persevere. “I need to find some furniture, and I’m in a hurry.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
Shit, really? I shake my head.
He gives me a condescending look that confirms what I’d already expected—he’s a dickwad. “Do you at least know what you want?”
“Not a chance. But I have an empty three-bedroom townhouse.” And a big fat bank account, you arrogant little prick.
As my mother would say, he’s working my very last nerve. I’ve grown accustomed to getting good service in Denver. The city loves me. But this guy? He sighs like I’m ruining his day.
“What style is your townhome, sir?”
“Style. Um…” I tug at the collar of my shirt, because I don’t know a damn thing about home design, and that’s why I came here in the first place. “It has… Well, there’s a fireplace in the living room.”
“Stone? Brick? Contemporary? Early American?”
I close my eyes briefly and try to picture the fireplace. “Stones, I think.”
He snorts. “Where is it, and when was it built?”
“It’s in Boulder. Not new, but newish? The kitchen has white countertops.” The kitchen was a selling point for me. My mother likes nice kitchens. When she visits next month, she can cook if she’s feeling up to it.
“You should look around, then.” He waves a hand toward the acre of furniture. “The floor is laid out by style. You’ve got your midcentury modern.” He points at some sofas. “Your tuxedo. English roll arm. Lawson style—those are kind of sloppy, but some people are into that. Chesterfield style, which are stuffy, but again—some people are into that.”
I’m so fucking lost already. They just look like couches to me.
“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?”
“Just had to let you know—the brand decided to go with someone else.” She sighs. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” I say immediately. “Nailing down sponsorships is the least of my problems right now.”
“I know,” she says gently. “But I won’t give up. Someone is going to come along and offer us a deal.”
“It really doesn’t matter,” I insist. “I don’t need the money.”
“Speak for yourself,” she says, and I can hear the humor in her voice. “But it’s more than money, DiCosta. If we get one brand to shine their love on you, then others will follow. We want the world to see you as more approachable. It will make everything easier.”
Bess is smart, and she knows what she’s doing. But I just don’t have the bandwidth to worry about my reputation right now. “We’ll get there,” I say mildly.
“I know it,” she agrees. “Now go buy a couch. I’m no help with that, but I could find you a decorator if you need one.”
“Wait.” This had not occurred to me. “Can I hire someone to shop for my couch? That’s a thing?”
“DiCosta, trust me, you can hire out anything. Call me after practice if you need a decorator.”
“Will do.” We hang up, and I rise as the office door bursts open.
The asshole salesman comes striding out, with Mr. Hottie following him.
“Don’t come back here until you’ve solved this,” the salesman says.
“Got it,” Mr. Hottie replies in a tight voice. He saunters past me. Even his gait is sexy. Under his breath, he says, “Worst store in Denver, anyway. It’s not like I’m dying to shop here again.”
Later I’ll wonder what made me do it, but I follow him outside like a puppy. “Excuse me, sir?”
Hottie turns around. “Who, me?”
It takes me a moment to answer, because he’s really spectacular up close. I didn’t know eyes came in that deep, stormy shade of blue. And I can’t decide what color his hair is exactly. More like ginger than chili powder…
His eyes narrow, and I suddenly remember that I was saying something. “Yeah, I had a question for you.” I jam my hands in my pockets and try to focus. “If this is the worst store in Denver, what’s a better one? I need to buy a lot of furniture on a tight timeline. And that guy just wants to spit a lot of jargon at me.” I jerk my thumb toward the store. “Not helpful.”
“Yeah. Big yikes.” Mr. Hottie frowns. “That guy wouldn’t help his own mother out of a ditch. You’re not a designer, right? You’re shopping for yourself?”
“Trying to.”
He flashes me a quick smile. “Then go somewhere that actually likes its customers. Crate and Barrel. Macy’s. Room and Board.” He shrugs. “Or if you want to hire somebody to handle it for you, I’m your guy.”
“Wait, you’re a decorator?”
Eyebrows lift over those intense blue eyes. “Interior designer.”
“Oh. What’s the difference?”
“The pay scale. Theoretically.” He sighs. “And level of training. Designers have…” His gaze abruptly swings toward the street. “Oh fuck.” Then he dashes away from me, midsentence.
I see why. There’s a traffic cop standing at the bumper of a battered Subaru, writing out a parking ticket. I hurry to follow, because I’m pretty sure this man can solve all my problems.
“Officer, it just expired,” Mr. Hottie sputters.
“Too late,” the cop says.
“I’ll leave right now,” Mr. Hottie tries.
“Wait,” I argue, because this is unacceptable. “We were having an important conversation.”
The officer doesn’t even spare me a glance. “The meter is expired. And this ain’t your first offense. Car’s got a rap sheet. I gotta call a tow truck to impound.”
“No,” Mr. Hottie whispers. “No, no, no…”
“Hey, officer?” I try. “You a Cougars fan?”
His chin snaps upward. “Sure. Why?” His gaze zeroes in on my face. “Oh, shiiit,” he says as he recognizes me.
“Yeah, I’m running kind of late. I asked my assistant to park here and wait for me, but I didn’t give him enough change for the meter. The fault is mine.” I pull an envelope out of my pocket. Inside are a pair of comp tickets to an upcoming game. I was going to hand them over to the PR department for charity, but they can have the next pair instead. “Take this, just as a friendly gesture. And then do whatever you need to make this right.”
For a long second, I don’t think he’ll take the bait. But then he slowly reaches for the envelope, nudges it open, and exhales. “Row C. Whoa.”
“Enjoy ’em,” I say. “Now what else do we have to do to get right with the City of Denver?”
He looks down at the beat-up car as if he’s never seen it before. “Move the vehicle, gentlemen,” he says briskly. “Be on your way.” He turns and walks off down the street, shoving the envelope in his pocket as he goes.
That settled, I turn toward the designer again. “Do you have a business card?”
