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"Ah! It was one of those meetings. Yeah, I have a special suit I wear when I have a meeting with my bank adviser. It says I have a stick up my ass and never stray from the beaten path. Now, give me all the money in the world." I'm surprised that even someone of his caliber still has to work to impress the bank. Then again, the loans Bennett Enterprises asks for probably have quite a few more digits than mine do. "I'm glad you made time for this."
"Hey, just because I don't know jack shit about decorating doesn't mean I don't want to have a say in the things I'll buy."
"I've had clients who gave me carte blanche. I gave them a general concept, and they pretty much left me to my own devices."
He pinches his brows together, rubbing his jaw. "How did that work out for them?"
"Good for some, not so well for others. Which is why I prefer to window-shop with the client. Shall we go in?" I ask. Christopher surveys the four-story shop as if it's his own personal hell. "I promise it'll be quick and productive."
"And fun. That's the most important part." He leans into me slightly, unleashing the full power of his gaze on me. "You promise to make it fun?"
"Only if you promise to keep your eyes from wandering."
"Touché. After you."
The store is unusually quiet when we enter it, with only about a dozen customers shuffling around.
"Hi, Donna," I greet the first-floor supervisor, who is currently with a young couple, showing them a selection of curtains. She gives me a quick nod, but she winks at Christopher. My insides tighten, as I lead Christopher further inside the building, then up to the next level. I suppose he's used to this kind of attention from women. Curiosity grips me all of a sudden. Did he return Donna's blatant ogling? Doesn't matter. He can do whatever he wants.
"I called the store to check which of the items you liked from the catalog are on display, and they have quite a few. We can start by looking at the couch you chose. It's in a different color, but you can test to see if it's comfortable enough for you."
When we arrive in front of said item, Christopher plops himself on the U-shaped sofa.
"It's comfortable," he says as he runs his palm over the armrest. "Perfect." Christopher stands up, stretching his legs. While we check out the chestnut table and the chairs next, two warehouse workers move out one of the huge couches available on display. Their orders must be not to disassemble it, and the poor men have a hard time moving the giant around.
"I worked in a warehouse one summer," Christopher says unexpectedly.
"You did what?" I asked, stunned.
"Yes."
"How come? I thought your family…."
"By the time I was in high school, we had plenty of money. I think my parents feared us kids would grow up to be self-entitled brats."
"Which would have been a real possibility."
"Yeah. So for my sixteenth birthday, I asked for an exorbitant computer so I could play my video games. My parents and oldest brother made a deal with me. I had to find a summer job, and if at the end I still wanted that computer, I had to use my earnings, and they'd pay the difference. I was a sixteen-year-old with zero skills except pranking and playing video games—two things that don't belong on a résumé, unfortunately. My options were limited, so I ended up working in a warehouse."
"What happened?" I ask, entranced.
"When I received my paltry checks, I realized they'd barely make a dent in footing the bill for my computer. And working side by side with people who had to live on a slightly higher paycheck kind of made me feel like a self-centered schmuck. As my dad put it, it taught me the value of hard work and money. I ended up saving that money and continued using the computer I already owned, which was a good one anyway."
"Wow, your parents are so smart. That's a brilliant tactic. I'll keep it in mind in case I ever need to apply it to the kids. Any other wisdom?"
"Parenting tips, you mean?"
"Yeah."
"Nothing comes to mind right now."
"I've read some books on the topic," I confide in him, "but I don't feel like much of a parent. It's a work in progress."
"Everything is," he says encouragingly. "Don't be too hard on yourself. I'm sure my parents made mistakes too, but there were so many of us that by the time they got to me, they’d already perfected their techniques."
"That's really encouraging," I tease, but already feel better. We return to inspecting the table and the chairs, and in the end, Christopher declares he likes them, insisting the chairs be fitted with leather seats and backrests as well.
"Next on the list?" he inquires. "This really is efficient."
