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He takes the point with a one-shoulder shrug. “What were some of the other outcomes of the White Shirt Challenge?”
The room’s getting too warm. Every inhale is full of steam and fragrance. I’m fogging up like a mirror. “Some wasted time going somewhere like Chanel or Gucci.”
I squeeze past him in the doorway. He smells like a sweet tea bag; how obnoxiously nice. He tags along beside me, extending our claustrophobic squeeze. “Going to Gucci is a waste of time?”
“It’s like a trick question. You’ll never find a shirt there for only $300. That’s a mistake that has pushed some young men to the brink.” I walk through the living room and click on a few lamps. “Some go to Target. Some take the $300 and never come back. You did good,” I admit grudgingly. “Vintage is what I would go for, too.”
“No, she absolutely hated the shirt. My first task in the morning is to bury it in the garden, I quote, ‘a minimum of three feet deep.’ I think she’s serious.”
“I guarantee she is.”
“Despite the fashion fail, she appreciated the lateral thinking, and the $298 change.” Now he’s standing in the doorway to my bedroom. He puts his hands on his hips. “Don’t mind me, I’m a very nosy person. Ruthie Midona’s bedroom.”
(This is said with completely unearned awe.)
If he slides a toe over that threshold, I am grabbing him by the scruff and throwing him out. “You shouldn’t just look without being invited to. What if there’s . . . mess?”
He makes a soft noise, like tsk. “I’ve already established that you’re a very tidy person. I love looking in women’s rooms. I learn a lot.”
“I’m sure,” I reply so dourly that he laughs. “Go on then, roast me. Tell me how boring I am.” Taking control of oncoming teasing is an advanced technique.
“You’re very, very interesting.” He’s utterly sincere. I need to remember that’s his countertechnique. “You always seem so concerned. Relax. You’ll get a wrinkle. It’s all good.”
I know he’s got a reason for hanging around here, and it isn’t anything to do with how interesting I am. If this was high school, I’d suspect he’s got a forgotten essay due tomorrow. Please get the heart stab over with. “Look
at those baskets on top of the wardrobe. They’re all labeled. With my label maker.”
He shivers like a goose has walked over his grave. “Hot.”
“Oh, very.” I always thought of my bedroom as cute and cozy, but I think it looks very childish to him. My eyes drop to my bed and I feel heat rising up my neck.
“Hey man,” he says to the ancient teddy bear on my bed. “What’s up. I’m Teddy. And you are?” He looks at me sideways. I seem to feel his smile low down in my body. Really low. He says, “Please, please tell me it’s called what I think it’s called.”
I barely survive the voice and the eyes. “His name is Rupert,” I lie with dignity.
He doesn’t buy it. “Sure. So who sees this room?” What odd phrasing.
“What do you mean? No one sees it except me. And now you.” This makes him smile again and dislodge his shoulder from the doorframe. “Scoot, Teddy. I’ve got a bath to take.” I almost get him out.
“I have a bit of a problem.” His hand wraps around the door, and I see those knuckles. TAKE. A timely reminder. The lingering is about to be explained.
“Tell me about it in the morning.” I begin to peel each finger loose. T, A, K . . .
“I have no sheets. Or towels. Or . . . anything that isn’t clothes. Not even a bar of soap, let alone a scented candle. I think I need help.”
Maybe I should be hospitable to the boss’s son.
“I’m sure there’s some emergency supplies in there. Let me take a look.” I follow him into his new home and wince. Cold, dank, and barely furnished. Okay, I do feel bad for him. “This is the thermostat. I’m not sure it works.”
“It has all the charm of a Soviet missile testing facility. Can you please be my interior decorator?” Teddy bumps my shoulder with his in a friendly way. “I’m on a budget, but I know you can work miracles.”
“Sorry, I’m not taking on new clients.”
“I’d much rather be in there”—he nods at our shared wall—“with you.”
My heart unstitches itself from my rib cage and bounces across the floor. Just as I’m about to start scrambling for it, he adds, “Kidding, kidding. I only want you for your TV.”
Translation: Don’t get the wrong idea, dork. I open the linen cupboard. “I could have sworn there was a set of sheets around here.” There’s not even a roll of toilet paper. Very hard times.
