Page 6 of Mister Cowboy
He smiled back and shrugged. “You have terrible taste in wine.”
“Do you always blurt out exactly what you’re thinking?”
“Depends. When I know I’m right, I don’t hold back.”
Was he still talking about the wine?
“Are you sure I can’t take you to get checked out? I may not have actually hit you, but you almost collapsed.”
She sat straight in the booth and carefully forced any emotion out of her voice. “A trip to the emergency room is expensive. Besides, I’m fine now.”
A flash of sympathy crossed his features, but it disappeared quickly behind his smile. “I have a friend over at Presbyterian/St. Luke’s if—”
“I’m fine. That won’t be necessary.”
He nodded, and they stared across the table. His face gave nothing away. It was as perfectly unreadable as she knew her own was. “What is it you do for work?” he asked after a moment.
“I’m a professional organizer.”
“Seriously?” His eyebrows shot up, but it was more a look of intrigue than of condescension.
She shot him a look, daring him to mock her career. Even if it was flailing along at the moment, she was proud of what she did.
“I’ve just never met anyone that was a professional organizer before. How’d you get into it?”
Her defensiveness eased at the sincerity of his second question. “It sorta found me, I suppose. I bounced around from job to job after college, miserable with a typical nine-to-five schedule, reporting tosuits.” She laughed as he cocked an eyebrow. “Then, one day, I was at a friend’s house, looking through her closet, and wow, you should have seen it.” She smiled at the memory. “It was a mess. She had about a million little storage containers and those tacky hanging closet dividers shoved into this tiny little space. So, I convinced her to let me try to organize it. Several hours later, I had transformed her closet into a beautiful and functional space. She loved it, and I was hooked.”
“Is it mostly closets or do you get requests for entire homes?”
“It is a lot of closets or garages, but kitchen pantries are popular, too. I do it all,” she said with an air of pride.
“And what are you working on now?”
Her confidence faltered. “I’m between projects at the moment,” she said, fidgeting with her glass.
“Perfect.” He cleared his throat and pulled his wallet out of his jacket pocket. “I think I might have the perfect project for you…since you’re available.”
Again with the double entendre. Again with her cheeks heating, this time with a little spark of anger mixed in. Whatever he had in mind, she couldn’t be bought. Maybe he was cut more like the men her father worked with than she’d thought previously. “That isn’t necessary. I’m sure something will come along soon.”
He opened his wallet on the table and pulled out a card. “This isn’t a pity job, if that’s what you’re concerned about. I really do need some help.”
“What kind of job?” Fine, she decided, if the man who said what he meant said it wasn’t a pity job, she would at least hear him out.
He scribbled on the back of his business card and slid it across the table. Their fingertips touched, and they both froze, locking eyes. Did he feel it too—the energy and heat flowing between them? She pulled her hand away, taking the card with her.
“It might be easier to explain in person. If you’re interested, meet me here on Monday morning. It’s a short project, six to eight weeks max.”
“I don’t know,” she said, not wanting to tell him that his idea of a short project and hers were very different. Her longest running project to date had taken her a week to finish.
What in the world he could need help with? A stock room of computer parts?
“No pressure, but I hope you’ll consider it. I like you, January Lyle.”
She looked from him to his card, running her long fingernails over the raised imprint of his name. Then the soft chime of her phone had her reaching for her purse.
Dad.
Figures he’d wait to call when I’m sitting across from a beautiful man who is offering me a job.
