First Chapter: I'm Your Guy
Dear readers:
Here’s the unedited first draft of Chapter One from this fall’s I’m Your Guy! We can’t wait to bring you the rest of it!
~ Sarina & the team
***
Tom
I’ve got a half hour, and an empty house that needs filling. So I walk into the Upholstery Emporium with my platinum credit card and a sense of purpose.
But I stop three paces in. There must be an acre of furniture in front of me. Who knew there were so many different couches? I just need one large enough for a guy who’s six-two, that looks decent in my new house and can be delivered before Christmas.
Not so much to ask, right?
But this is a damn ocean of sofas. And the chairs—I also need a couple of those—seem to be completely on another side of the room. Why wouldn’t they just put this stuff together so I can see it all in one spot? And does anybody work here?
I glance around, and nobody seems to fit the part. There's a couple holding hands. Shoppers, obviously. The only other person in view is leaning against a wall next to a door marked office.
The first thing I notice about this man is that he's super attractive. Like, Adonis level of hot. With reddish blond hair that looks soft to the touch, and a toned, slim frame. He’s sharply dressed in tight trousers and a deep blue button down shirt.
The second thing I notice is that his jacket is slung over one arm. And his body language is all wrong to be an employee. He looks like he's waiting for somebody.
Not helpful.
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 make an involuntary journey back to Mr. Hottie against the wall. I’ve spent my whole life trying not to notice when a guy is super hot. Sometimes, though, there’s just no getting around it. He's way more interesting than furniture.
But his back straightens suddenly, and I don’t want to be caught staring. So I turn my head and see another man striding purposefully across the room. This one wears a name tag. Bingo. “Excuse me, sir, do you work here?”
“Of course.” His tone is about as friendly as the bark of a rabid coyote.
But I’m the customer, and the customer is always right. So I persevere. “I need some furniture.”
“Do you have an appointment?” he asks in a condescending voice.
Shit, really? I shake my head.
He gives me a look that confirms what I’d already expected—that he’s a dickwad. “Do you at least know what you want?”
“Not a chance. But I have an empty three bedroom townhouse in need of furniture.” And a big fat bank account, you grumpy 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 houses or furniture, 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. The walls are white.”
He snorts. “Where is it and when was it built?”
“It's in Boulder. Not new, but newish? The kitchen has granite 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 upholstery. “The floor is laid out by style. You've got your mid-century 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 all look like couches to me.
“Just as a baseline, what do you think of this?” He stops in front of a neon-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 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. I’m in a hurry, here.
“How do you feel about the shelter shape?” He points at a grey 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. And then I realize he’s spotted Mr. Hottie, who’s still waiting by the door marked office. “Excuse me a moment. I have to take the trash out.”
That sounds ominous. And as he starts toward Mr. Hottie, the younger man begins to look nervous.
Not my problem, I remind myself. And 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 kind of bright, though. Lots of bold colors and showy fabrics. And I’m in too big of a hurry to special order.
So 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, the tag contains only a baffling list of serial numbers that mean 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 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 yelling.
But again—not my problem. And now my phone is ringing in my pocket. I yank it out, because I’m having a rough month, and I need to know if my mother needs me.
Nope. It’s my agent, though. 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 grin. “How about a tight back? Or welting?”
“Oh—I got this. A tight back is what you say when a guy has a really nice ass. And welting sounds like my husband’s body after a really rough game.”
I burst out laughing, because Bess always makes me feel better. This year I fired my long-time agent and hired her. So far it’s 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. And 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?”
“There’s a fashion brand that’s interested in you. Could be a really lucrative sponsorship.”
“Yeah?” I sit up a little straighter. I don’t have any big-money sponsorships yet, so I’m definitely interested. “Like workout gear?”
“Not exactly,” she says. “It’s underwear.”
“Underwear,” I repeat. “Compression shorts?”
She chuckles. “No, it’s more fashionable than that. I’ll email you some links, and we’ll talk after you see it.”
“Okay, sure.”
“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. “Should I hire someone to shop for my couch? Would that work?”
“Tom, if you find the right person, you can hire out anything. Call me after practice if you need a decorator.”
“Will do.” I stand up to go when the office door bursts open and the asshole who works here comes striding out. “Don’t come back until you’ve solved this,” he snaps.
“Got it,” Mr. Hottie says in a defeated voice. His face is red, like he’s upset. Head down, he walks toward the door. Under his breath, he says. “Worst store in Denver, anyway. It’s not like I’m dying to shop here.”
I follow him outside. “Excuse me. Sir?”
Hottie turns around. “Do you mean 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. It’s reddish, but not bright red.
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 wanted to spit a lot of jargon at me.” I jerk my thumb toward the store. “Not helpful.”
Mr. Hottie rolls his eyes. “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. “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?”
The brows lift over those intense blue eyes. “Interior designer.”
“Oh. What’s the difference?”
He sighs. “The pay scale. Theoretically. And level of training. See…” His gaze abruptly swings toward the street. “Fuck. No!” Then he dashes away from me, mid-sentence.
But now I see why. There’s a traffic officer standing at the bumper of a battered Subaru, writing out a parking ticket. And 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?” Then I see his eyes come into focus 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 box office for charity. But I guess they can have the next set 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 the guy 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.”
Then 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?”