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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?”
WHAT JUST HAPPENED? This thirst trap in an Italian suit just saved my ass. But how?
“Did you just bribe a cop?” I ask in a strangled voice.
“I incentivized him,” the man says with a cocky tilt of his chin.
“Um…” Isn’t that illegal?
I keep my mouth shut, because this man could break me in half. He’s tall and broad, with so many muscles that even the finest imported wool can’t hide them. He has dark hair, a Mediterranean skin tone, and the kind of perma-scruff that only some men can pull off.
The kind of scruff that would give me beard burn in fun and interesting places.
He points at my car with a broad hand, and I can’t help but notice its roughness. He has hands like a construction worker’s, and yet he’s wearing shoes that probably cost more than my past-due rent.
“You’ve really got to move your car now,” he barks. “And I have somewhere to be. But first give me a business card. I need furniture, and I need it soon.”
I blink. This has been a disastrous day, and I can barely function right now. But I have business cards in the cup holder, and I snap to attention. “Right. One sec.” I open my car door and grab a card. “Here. Call me if you’re serious about furnishing your house.”
“Serious as cancer,” he growls. “Thanks.” He strides away, all dark-blue suit and attitude.
I watch him go, and the view from the back is just as fine as the front. In my line of work, I’ve gotten used to dealing with the rich and the beautiful. His entitled attitude is pretty familiar, with one big exception—he just did me a huge favor.
My bank account contains exactly twenty-seven dollars. I literally cannot afford to pay for a parking ticket, let alone the whopping fine you get when your car is impounded. The wolves are howling at my door.
Yet Mr. Italian Suit just chased one of them off with his dark brown eyes and a cash bribe. No, wait. It wasn’t cash. Tickets to a game, maybe? I don’t follow sportsball, so I didn’t catch which one.
It doesn’t matter, anyway. I just hope the guy calls me. The holidays are approaching, which means the design business goes into a lull. I’m going to be eating a lot of ramen until after New Year’s. If I can afford to eat at all.
I climb into my car and start the engine. It’s a short drive back to my apartment building near the University of Denver. When I turn onto my street, I slow to a crawl and check for the landlord’s presence.
Yikes—he’s right out front, organizing the recycling bins. I quickly pull into an on-street parking space and cut the engine.
I’m late on the rent. Really late, and it’s the second time this has happened. Mr. Jones is on my case, and he has a quick trigger finger for those Ten-Day
Demand forms that landlords use to threaten eviction. If I don’t catch a break soon, I know he’ll come for me.
Sitting here hiding from my landlord in my car, it’s hard to feel optimistic. A year ago, I had a boyfriend who loved me, and we were co-owners of a growing design business. I thought all my dreams were coming true—that our business would expand and my student loans would continue to shrink.
But I let my guard down, and I made bad choices. I trusted the wrong people. And when our design business hit the skids, our relationship collapsed like a paper lantern in a rainstorm. Six weeks ago, I came home to find Macklin packing his clothes into a suitcase.
“Where are you going?” I’d demanded. But in my gut, I already knew he was bailing out.
“Phoenix,” he’d said, giving me an apologetic look. “I got a buddy there who works in real estate. They need a home stager.”
I was so startled—and so enraged—I hadn’t even known what to say. “That’s it? You’re just leaving me with this mess we’re in? Where is the love?”
At least he’d had the decency to flinch. “You don’t love me. Admit it.”
“I do too!” I’d yelped, because I didn’t want to cede any points to him at all.
“You don’t,” he’d insisted. “You’re pissed off at me all the time.”
“Because we’re in debt! And you’re the one who put us there.”
Another flinch. “Yeah, but are you really surprised? We don’t have a storefront. We don’t have enough contacts in the industry, and nobody will ever give us capital.”
“That’s not what you used to say!” I’d argued. “You were sure this would work.”
“Was I?” He drops his head for a moment before he zips up another duffel bag. “We were so cocky. We made fun of those guys wearing orange aprons at the Home Warehouse, selling cheap kitchen cabinets. Like we were so much better than that.” He rolls his eyes. “We're
clearly not cut out for running a business. We shouldn’t have even tried.”
That last blow had landed hard. Ten minutes later, as the door clicked shut behind him for the last time, I realized that the loss of my dreams hurt a lot worse than the loss of my boyfriend.
Clearly not cut out for running a business. Shouldn’t have even tried.
The only saving grace is that he was already out the door before I dissolved into tears of rage.
Once again, I’d trusted the wrong man, and once again he’d betrayed me. I’d been left with credit card debts from a horrible client. And a lease, of course.
Without Macklin around to help out, I’d quickly fallen behind on the rent. A friend found me a night job as a model for a life drawing class at the art school. Four nights in a row, I’d posed in my underwear while a room full of retirees wielded charcoal pencils.
But that had been a one-time gig, and now my rent is late again.
Still hiding in the car, I pull out my phone and bide my time by checking my email. I’m desperate for a new client. Or—even better—a payment from the one who’s the root of all my problems.
The evil Mrs. Clotterfeld.
Six months ago, she hired us to redesign a three-million-dollar mansion in southeast Denver. Macklin and I had celebrated with a sushi dinner. The Clotterfelds are notable Denver socialites. When she chose us as her designers, we were sure we’d finally hit the big time.
Sure, she was arrogant and shaky with the details. So many clients are. But she signed our contract and paid the first part of our fee.
My bank account had never been so happy with me. At first, things had gone smoothly enough, notwithstanding her atrocious taste. She was a fan of gold piping and paisley. I’d been willing to smile my way through all the tassels, even if the place ended up looking like a cross between Downton Abbey and a high-priced bordello.
Macklin took on most of the work with her, while I’d serviced our other clients. But I
hadn’t realized she’d begun to slide on paying for her purchases. And—like a fool—Macklin let her get away with it. He hadn’t told me right away, either. He’d known I would panic.
And, yup, I’d panicked, even if I’d understood the bind Macklin was in. She was our golden goose, and he’d been afraid to offend her. A guy couldn’t accuse one of the richest women in Denver of being a deadbeat and still ask her for referrals.
Except she was a deadbeat, and Macklin, making a really horrible decision, had put fifteen thousand dollars of custom upholstery on my personal credit card.
The order had come in weeks ago, and it’s still sitting on the loading dock at Upholstery Emporium, where I’d gone today to beg for more time to pay.
More time won’t even help, though. Mrs. Clotterfeld has clearly dumped me, just like Macklin did. And since my idiot partner paid the deposit instead of getting the money upfront, she feels free to walk away.
Mr. Jones is still out in front of the building, so I start a new email on my phone. My sternest one yet.
Dear Mrs. Clotterfeld,
The furniture you ordered from the upholsterer is past due, and the store has insisted that we arrange for immediate payment and delivery. If you do not make immediate payment, they will send it to an outlet shop, while I send your debt to collections.
Please forward the payment by end of business today, or there will be no way left for me to help you.
I reread the sentence and then replace “today” with “tomorrow.” That’s the problem with ultimatums. Once the deadline is past, you weaken yourself by extending it.
God, if only there was someone to tell me how to handle this. A lawyer could help me, but I can’t afford one. Not only am I broke, but I’m demoralized.
I thought Macklin and I were in love. We weren’t.
I thought I was a savvy businessperson. I wasn’t.
I thought I was on the rise—that after all my hard work, I’d finally launched my little business. Nope and nope.
And now the guy at Upholstery Emporium is threatening to tell every design shop in Denver that I’m bad news.
Nobody is coming
to save me. And the worst part? I got played by a man who doesn’t pick up his own socks, and by an old woman who thinks that purple paisley is fashionable.
When the landlord finally retreats, I shove my phone into my messenger bag and climb out of the car. I walk quickly up the block and make it to my door without seeing his narrow, little ferret face.
But when I spot the notice taped to my door, I quail inside. I yank it down and read it.
To my horror, it isn’t the same Ten-Day Demand as I got last time. This one is different. It says Notice to Quit.
Mr. Flynn:
This serves as your official Notice to Quit the premises. As a repeat violator, the property owner is within his rights to begin a nonnegotiable eviction process. Payment of back rent is due by November 30th, but will not halt the eviction.
You are ordered to quit the unit by month end, or the sheriff will remove you and your property from the premises.
Oh. Shit.
I read the letter three times, but it gets worse on every pass. So I close my eyes and lean my head against the wooden door to my apartment.
My former apartment.
Housing is hard to find. And nearly impossible to find if you can’t scrape together a security deposit, plus first month’s and last month’s rent.
This is it. My breaking point. I’m going to end up combing Craigslist for whatever roommate-wanted situation sounds the least creepy.
If I can even afford that.
And November thirtieth? That’s two weeks away.
Just as I’m processing this thought, the old bastard sneaks up behind me. “Carter Flynn. You read the notice? Take note of the date.”
I whirl around, furious. “November thirtieth? Who could move that fast? I need until New Year’s at least.”
His wrinkled mouth twists. “No can do. I do not run a charity, Mr. Flynn. I have two buildings, sixteen units. If even two of them are stiffing me, I come up short of cash.”
“I’m not stiffing you,"
I growl. “I’m being stiffed by a client. And it means that—”
He holds up a hand, cutting me off. “Are you even hearing me? I know exactly what that means. You can’t meet your obligations, plain and simple. Whatever bad decisions you made are not my fault. Get your fancy-ass furniture out of my apartment, or law enforcement will do it for you on the morning of November thirtieth. I’ll call ahead to make sure they’re right on time.”
I can only gulp, because I feel so stricken.
He’s absolutely right. As Taylor Swift would say, I’m the problem. It’s me.
“Got it?” he snarls. “This isn’t a warning. This isn’t something you can talk your way around. Someone else will live here on December first—someone who can pay the damn rent.”
Sheepish now, I nod. Then I go inside and close the door while I still can.
I ARRIVE at the stadium six minutes later than usual, and the disruption of my routine makes me unhappy.
Call me disciplined. Call me superstitious. Call me whatever you want, just don’t call me late for game night.
I bleep the locks, straighten my suit jacket, and head inside.
“Tommaso! Tommy boy!” My teammate David Stoneman shouts as I hang up my coat in the outer locker room. “How’s the new pad? Did you christen it yet?” He wiggles his eyebrows in a ridiculous way.
Stoney, the team clown, is not even expecting an answer to this question. But someone else gives him one anyway. “He can’t. First you gotta sage the place. Then you can break it in.”
“Sage it?” Stoney asks. “Wut?”
“It’s a purification ritual,” explains Ted Kapski, our team captain. “You roll a big blunt—but not with pot. With sage. Then you trail the smoke through every room. Keeps the ghosts away.”
“You’re shitting me.” Stoney’s eyes narrow. “Is this like that time you told me that kiwi fruit were actually testicles?”
Kapski’s eyes brighten. “You don’t believe me? Put a hundred bucks on it.” He reaches for his wallet.
“Noooo.” Stoney holds up both hands. “Keep it in your pants, Kap. I’m not losing any more money to you this week. I just assumed that if rolling a blunt for your house was a thing, I’d’a heard about it already.”
Everyone laughs, and I move past these clowns and into the dressing room. ...
