“What I mean is,” he says, looking away, “you have carte-blanche here. Do whatever you want to do.”
That’s pretty much the best thing a designer can ever hear from a client, and so vanishingly rare to experience that I feel the need to test it.
“I’ll want to wallpaper that powder room,” I warn him. “I’m thinking hand-painted florals.”
I wait for the wince. Every male client winces at hand-painted florals.
He doesn’t even blink. “Sounds good to me.”
“And there will be pillows everywhere. I started my career slinging pillows and I can’t quit them. They’ll be all over every sofa. Piled three rows deep on your bed. You’ll have to throw them off every time you get in it. You’ll be cursing my name.”
His gaze slips down my body and then away as he focuses on something in the distance. “I won’t be cursing your name when I take those pillows off my bed, I promise you that.”
The drawl lands somewhere low in my belly.
No, not cursing my name,an inner voice taunts.Murmuring it softly. Growling it directly in my ear as he?—
“There will be art all over the walls,” I blurt. “Plants to water. Antiques and knick-knacks as far as the eye can see.”
I keep waiting for the flinch, and it’s still not coming.
“Perfect,”he says.
A smile comes to my lips. “Even that peacock lamp?”
Finally, there’s a pause. He exhales, sounding hilariously resigned as he says, “If you think it belongs here, it belongs here.”
Wow. I think he actually meant it when he said carte-blanche. I mean, I love that objectively ridiculous lamp, but it’s man-repeller in the form of home decor.
I can’t help but grin. “You’re putting a lot of faith in a girl you met wearing a sexy bunny suit on the side of the road.”
“If hockey’s taught me anything, it’s that you need to push past your limits sometimes. Get comfortable being uncomfortable.”
“Is that so?” I bite my lip. “And how do you get comfortable being uncomfortable?”
He says, “Practice.”
Unhelpfully, my brain serves up all the videos of him on ice that I watched. The pregame stretching, rolling his hips forward with a slow patience that made me put my phone face-down and stare at my ceiling.
Fifteen years of that body learning how much it can take. How hard it can go. How long it can keep going. Lots and lots of practice.
I lick my lips.His eyes have been holding steady on mine, but they dip to my mouth now.
Do not objectify the client.
“Okay then.” I stick out my hand for a handshake. “Welcome to Lila Interiors.”
Slade takes it. But instead of shaking it he just holds it, his thumb resting on my knuckles, and the warmth of his palm against mine makes it hard to remember what I was about to say next.
“You’ve got your work cut out for you here,” he says.
“It’s good work.” I lean in slightly. “And I promise I won’t make you commit to the peacock lamp.”
His gaze roams over me, softening slightly as he keeps my hand in his. “I’ll commit to anything you want me to.”
Chapter 7
Poker Face
