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"It is." I can't help smiling. "It gets crazy sometimes."
"I know what you mean."
"True. Your sister Pippa said you are nine siblings. That must’ve been something while growing
up."
"Yeah. To be honest, I think my parents might know what you mean more than I do. I was causing all that craziness. At least part of it."
His easygoing nature surprises me. I've worked with men in powerful positions before, and most were cold, even stuck-up. But Christopher doesn't take himself too seriously, even if he has a corner office with a brilliant view of San Francisco.
We're interrupted by a knock on the door, and his assistant steps inside. "Christopher, your next appointment is here early."
Shoot.
"Half an hour early?" he asks skeptically. His mouth sets in a thin line, his eyes losing some of their spark. Ah, I bet he’s a shark in business meetings.
His assistant shrugs. "I can tell them to wait."
"No one likes to wait. We'll wrap up here quickly," he tells her, spurring me into a panic. Nodding, his assistant leaves the room again.
"Sorry for cutting this short, but those are partners with whom we're renegotiating some contracts. Nothing's worse in a negotiation than a partner pissed off he had to wait, even if it's their fault they arrived early."
"I understand."
"I'll be honest, Victoria. I saw the pictures with your portfolio, and Alice and Pippa spoke highly of you. I've seen what you did for them, and I think you can make any place look like home. I'm great at my job and have a number of other talents.” A smile tugs at his lips. “But decorating is pig latin to me."
And there he goes with that self-deprecating humor again, mixed in with an unexpected dose of cockiness. But something in the way he delivered the line about “a number of other talents” makes me want to know more instead of having me roll my eyes.
"What are you looking for?" I ask.
"Thing is, I have no idea." He leans back in his chair, lacing his fingers on top of his head.
"I can work with that," I assure him.
"You can? You're magic, then."
"Close to it. I've been in this business for eight years. I've worked with people who had a wide array of tastes. Why don't you show me the plan for your apartment, and I can run some ideas by you right away?"
"No time right now. Besides, I don't want to hurry this. I receive the keys to my apartment in six weeks, so we have time."
"Then e-mail me the plan and any pictures you might have, and I'll pitch you a few ideas in a reply. You have my contact information."
"I do."
We rise from our chairs in unison, and as he walks me to the door, I say, "Let me pay for the dry cleaning of your shirt. I'm really uncomfortable."
"Would you be more comfortable if I got rid of my shirt?" His voice is laced with boyish playfulness and the hint of a dare. I open my mouth, fully intending to blatantly ignore his question, but other words slip out instead.
"Do you often offer to strip for women you just met?"
Hell no! I can give good banter when it's required, but he's a potential client. Banter has no business here. His dark brown eyes widen. Clearly, he wasn't expecting this.
"Do you often spill hot chocolate on men you just met?"
"Touché."
"For your own peace of mind, I keep spare shirts in my office. I just didn't have time to change into it because you arrived early. And so is the next meeting, but I'll change the second you leave. Unless you want to watch?" He winks, and my mind spins.
