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“Hey, I’m glad I caught you.” His light tone was enough to jerk me back toyou see him every day, chill the fuck out.
I returned his smile. “What’s up?”
“I landed an early appointment with a small business loan officer. He’s going to review our business plan and such. It’s not an official application, but I should come away with some pointers and an idea of if we’re still on the right track.”
“That’s awesome.” My hesitation from yesterday had vanished, and his enthusiasm was infectious this morning.
His grin spread. “It really is. I’ll take lots of notes. You free tonight if we need to make changes?”
“Sure.”
“Epic. I’ll catch you this afternoon.” Tanner turned away.
“About last night.” The words slipped out before I could stop them, and I winced, hiding the expression before he looked at me.
Tanner raised his brows. “Which part?”
“With Daria.” Stop talking. Shut up. But it was too late. Not finishing the thought would make things worse. “There was nothing going on.”
Tanner’s easy chuckle sliced through me. “I get it. She’s fun to hang with, she’s smokin’ hot, and I don’t see her pulling Alana from classes or kicking us out over a neck rub, so it’s all good.”
“Right. Catch you later.”
He waved and headed outside.
I slouched, resting my weight against the counter behind me. Why was I doing this to myself? A hint of pain in the bedroom was fun, but I’d never thought of myself as a masochist. But poking and prodding Tanner day after day to see if he felt more for me than friendship, and continually being let down, was me torturing myself.
Work called, and supposedly I got to design today. Losing myself in a mural would be the perfect way to reset my mind.
The antique shop was nestled with other small businesses on Main Street of the small town where Brooke lived. It was a bit of a drive to get here, but it wasn’t too bad considering how isolated the place felt.
The limited on street parking made it difficult to get a spot near their awning covered entrances. There was plenty of time for a stroll, so I grabbed a spot a few blocks away. I slung my briefcase containing a giant sketchpad over my shoulder, and after a short pause to grab coffee, I stepped through the doors of Deacon’s Derelicts and D’art.
That was a lot ofDs, and with any luck, he was the kind of guy who would snicker at that statement as much as I was.
Inside, a corridor of display cases lined an entryway, and led to the main store. Behind the glass were assorted knickknacks of pop culture memorabilia—a Scooby Doo lunchbox, an A&W glass mug, and an assortment of decorative shaped tins ranging from trains to bears.
When I reached the main shop, a vast space spread out in front of me that defied how big this place should be, based on outside appearances. I’d walked into a TARDIS of a shop, decorated with Ds. What a glorious day.
“Colin?” A deep, rolling voice drew my attention.
I turned to find a man standing a few feet away, watching me with piercing green eyes, his dirty blond hair pulled into a bun on the top of his head. He was cute. Not drop my coffee to swoon cute, and in the beige tank top and khakis, probably more Brooke’s type than mine. “You must be Deacon.”
“I’ll be whoever you’re looking for.” He winced as he extended his hand. “That was awful, wasn’t it?”
When I shook his hand his grip was firm and warm. I didn’t know if I wanted the feeling to do something for me or not, but it didn’t. “It wasn’t great.” I kept my tone light. It would be easy to take the line and run with it. Something likebut it was cute. I couldn’t push out the words, though. “But I’ve heard a lot worse, so I won’t hold it against you,” I teased. “I know I’m early, so don’t feel like you need to drop everything because I’m here.”
“I amsuperbusy right now.” He cast his gaze around the shop with a faint smile.
The place was full… of furniture, fixtures, art, and I was pretty sure that was a battered shield in the corner next to a spear. But there were no other people. “I can see that.”
“I’ll make time for you, though.” He gestured toward the far wall, which was currently covered with painted recreations of kitsch. Like a sports bar, but not real objects. “I had someone do that about six months ago, I gave them artistic freedom and they gave me Coca-Cola logos. According to Brooke, you can do better.”
“I can do different. Better is a matter of opinion. But yeah, I can do better.”
“I’m already sold. How does this work? Do you keep your paints in your magic sack?”
I shook my head with a smile. “I’ll sketch out a concept, if you like what you see, there’s a fifty percent deposit”—which would pay for the paints, so I wasn’t out that cost if for some reason a client didn’t finish paying—“and I start work tomorrow.”
