Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 102411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
“So he is Sexy Reno Guy?” Trevyn smirks, enjoying himself way too much.
“I would never use such a term,” I say, acting all prim and proper.
“Doesn’t mean we can’t. Right, Trev?” Mabel, the little scamp, flashes a grin at Trevyn.
He leans back in his chair. “I’m all for calling it like it is.”
“As I said, he’s a client.” And he has muscles for days. And hair that I want to rope my fingers through. And a stern expression that I find ludicrously hot.
“Poh-tay-toe, poh-tah-toe. He can be a client and hot. The two aren’t mutually exclusive,” Trevyn points out, always stirring up trouble. “Mabel, level with our followers. Have you ever had a hot…client? Like, the owners of the cafés and places you supply to?”
“I don’t think of my clients that way,” Mabel answers diplomatically, and who’s the prim and proper one now?
“Oh, the tables have turned,” I say to her.
“When you’re hauling boxes of baked goods at four in the morning, you’re not usually thinking of someone’s hotness since your own hotness is in the swamp,” she explains.
Trevyn snorts. “Liar. One, you’re always hot, Mabel. And two, your hotness detector does not turn off even if you’re a swamp.”
“He’s right. The radar is twenty-four-seven,” I say.
Trevyn levels me with a sharp stare. “My point exactly. So the sooner you admit your new client is a hot tamale, the better off we’ll be.”
“And why’s that?” I counter.
He sets his chin in his hand. “Because it’s more fun for me.”
I laugh, then relent slightly. “Fine, I’ll admit Sexy Reno Guy is easy on the eyes. But that’s not the point—”
“That’s the whole point,” Mabel says, and we spend the rest of the show arguing about design and the client hotness scale.
Trevyn tries to goad me into ranking everyone I’ve ever worked with on a one-to-ten scale. And, like a perfect sidekick, Mabel encourages him.
But I stay strong. I refuse.
I’ve already called him Sexy Reno Guy, and that’s plenty for now.
No need to indulge any more wildly inappropriate thoughts about my tightly wound, hard-ass, hot-as-hell client.
Some people dream of relaxing on the beach. But my happy place is a two-block section of the Dogpatch District that’s home to design business after design business. From lighting shops to furniture stores to a place that specializes in bio-glass, I could spend all day here. Sometimes I do.
I say goodbye to Trevyn as he drops me off at the corner, then I dive straight in. While Ford and I are going to a consignment shop tomorrow, I want to do some preliminary work today on materials for countertops or bathroom sinks—I have a feeling we might need to redo a few of those in his parents’ new home.
I rap on the door of the appointment-only Reflective Showroom, and Amika hustles over to let me in.
“Come in, come in. I read that Simon is demanding a steady supply of dog bones and biscuits,” she says, her British accent carrying a soft lilt from her years in India.
“I work for my pets,” I say.
“And why isn’t he here today? I love my little Simon hugs.”
“He needed to catch up on his beauty sleep. Apparently, there’s a Doxie law that they must sleep twenty-one hours a day.”
“Reasonable. Totally reasonable.”
“I also had to do my podcast. And Simon’s a little too chatty in the studio.”
“He has a lot on his mind,” she says.
“And you have a lot of new stuff here,” I say, my eyes widening as I scan the showroom.
“We do. Let me show you around,” she says, and just like that, I’m a kid in a candy store—running my fingers over smooth marble and snapping pics of shimmering glass, already picturing the perfect countertop.
I thank Amika and pop into the bamboo furniture showroom a few doors down, snapping pictures of some fantastic new chairs and stools with neat, clean lines. Next, I dart into the lighting shop, making notes on my tablet of new recessed ceiling lights and a plethora of LED options.
I can find all this online too, but nothing beats actually seeing the products you might recommend to a client—touching them too. Making sure the Internet doesn’t—gasp—lie.
I also check out some vintage desk lamps for Sofia Ximena, a civil rights attorney who hired me to make some updates in her new office. It’s only slightly intimidating outfitting a high-profile law practice where they all do good work in crisp navy suits as they fight the system, but hey, if I’ve been tasked to help them see their documents better, I’m up to the challenge. I snap some pics to send to Sofia.
When I’m done there, I pop outside and check the time. Mom should be here any minute for our weekly lunch, so I tuck my tablet into my tote bag and check my reflection in the window of a tile showroom, spotting Mom several feet away as I do. I spin around. She’s sporting big sunglasses, a slouchy bag she’s had forever (because, as she puts it, who needs more than one handbag?), and a warm grin.