Page 66 of Crazy In Love
“Yes. I find most people to be readable.”
“Really?” he asked. He slipped his suit jacket off and dropped it on the barstool, and I tried not to stare at the way his broadshoulders strained against his white dress shirt. He unbuttoned the cuffs of his sleeves and rolled them up a few times.
And holy forearms.
Who knew forearms could be so sexy.
“Sure. I’ve always been an observer. I get a vibe from people.” I sat down and pulled out my laptop as his gaze scanned my brown leather backpack. Was he judging me for not having a briefcase?
I mean, this was my first gig, and I’d just found out about it last night.
“Is that backpack a Flyer?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“My college roommate started that company. That’s some well-made shit right there,” he said, and my shoulders relaxed as I pulled up the presentation on my computer. He added, “So, Miss Reader of People, I’m curious—what was the vibe you got when you met Henley?” he asked.
“Sweet, smart, down to earth, and genuine,” I said with zero hesitation as I stared at my laptop, hovering over the first slide.
His lips turned up in the corners. “Lulu?”
“Hilarious, spunky, bold, and brilliant.”
“What about Eloise?” he asked.
“Driven, determined, kind, loving, and a friend for life. All three of them gave me the ‘friend for life’ vibes, actually.”
He nodded. “All right. Fair assessments. And you can’t read me?”
“You are a mixed bag, Chadwick.” I looked up, my gaze locking with his. “Sometimes you appear to despise me, and other times you act like a normal human, and then you go back to seeming highly annoyed. You’re completely unpredictable.”
His head tipped back in a full-bodied laugh. It came from his chest, and I’d never heard him laugh that loudly or enthusiastically before.
Like I said. He was a mixed bag.
“You’re a good reader of people. You just nailed the way I feel most of the time.” He shrugged. “And a lot of that is by design. Not everyone wants to be read, Emilia.”
When he said my name in that deep throaty voice, my hormones spiked to those of a teenage girl on the brink of womanhood.
“Well, you’re good at not being read.” I blew out a breath and turned my screen toward him. “I brought several different aesthetics to show you first, to get a feel for your style.”
It was impossible to get a feel for what he liked by the way his home was currently decorated, because there was nothing here. I couldn’t even call him a minimalist, because at least minimalistic design involved a conscious effort.
Bridger’s home appeared as if he’d just moved in and was waiting for his things to arrive.
I had him look at several styles, moving from one page to the next and taking notes about what he said. What he was drawn to. I was surprised by the things he liked. It wasn’t what I had expected. I’d honestly assumed the whole process would be a fight. I’d expected him to hate everything, and I thought I’d have a hard time nailing down the aesthetic that would work for him.
“I like that a lot,” he said, taking in the rich wood beams and the natural colors and fabrics. “That might be my favorite.”
“Okay, this is great.” I switched to the next page. “This is the last one. What do you think of this one?”
“I like that as much as the last one.”
I nodded. “That is super helpful because I can marry these two looks. Sort of a masculine, cozy, old-world vibe.”
“Cozy? I don’t know about that.”
I chuckled. “Cozy just means comfortable. It means that when people come into your home, they feel like they can plop down on the couch and make themselves at home.”
