1
Brooke
“Where do you want it?” the masculine voice calls from the bedroom doorway. My hands continue their work, smoothing out the white duvet cover on the king-size bed in front of me before turning to see him standing there.
He’s tall and lean, with muscle probably made from manual labor not from working out at the gym. I continue my perusal and notice his sandy brown hair is tousled, and I can see the beads of sweat forming on his forehead and temple, evidence from his efforts of hauling a seventy-pound nightstand up a full flight of stairs. The white t-shirt he is wearing is sweaty and clings to his chest, revealing the treasures underneath. And I can’t help but notice the dirt smudges on his shirt match those on his ripped jeans as they hug his strong thighs. He’s the perfect image for every woman’s hard-working, furniture delivery man fantasy. I’m pretty sure that’s a thing. Right up there with shirtless firefighters cuddling puppies.
When my eyes return to his face, I’m met with a sexy grin.Oh, my. He looks like a good time. Which I’m usually up for, when I’m not on a job. I return my focus to the room around me, because I’m a professional who does not get distracted by hot guys at work. Then, I glance at the walnut bedside table in his hands.
Where do I want it? That was the question, wasn’t it?
“On this side, please.” I point to the space by the bed, closest to the door.
As he moves past me, I watch the bead of sweat roll down the side of his face and am immediately thankful for the air conditioning in this townhome. And also, for visually-pleasing men who carry heavy furniture. Steve, one of the usual delivery men, hurt his back. He’s in his fifties, overweight and balding. His sweat is not sexy. This personnel change is making my day. Sorry, Steve.
I’m a design assistant at Sue Allen Designs, and I love my job. Originally, Sue’s business had been strictly interior design, but with the increase in new-build condo complexes and townhomes in the Northwest Denver area over the past two years, she branched out to staging models for builders. I’ve recently been put in charge of the home staging portion of her business, which is a huge deal, considering my degree is in communications, and I didn’t have an ounce of design experience when she hired me three years ago.
“That’s the last thing.” He moves closer to me and I can smell his manly scent. I tamp down my reaction because, different time, different place, I’d be very interested.
“Great. Thank you.”
“Do you need me to do anything else?” He’s standing next to me now and his eyes lock on mine.
While he waits for my response, he lifts the hem of his shirt up to his forehead to wipe the sweat away and I get a glimpse of his six-pack. Jesus. That’s a lot of muscle.
Hmm. I could think of a couple things. My brain suddenly has the most vivid vision of him throwing me on the bed. Down stuffing flying everywhere as he rips off my clothes and takes me hard. Then I envision the dirt and sweat-stained white duvet, and Sue walking in with the realtor while the delivery guy is mid-thrust.
“Um, no. I think I’m good.”
He smirks as he pulls out his wallet and opens it to grab out a business card. He hands it to me with a wink.
“In case you’re in need of any other services.”
“Okay. Thanks,” I drop my eyes down to the card, “Jake.” I know he introduced himself earlier, but I was too busy staring at his butt for name retention. I tuck the card in my back pocket, smiling at him as we say our goodbyes.
Wow. Did I mention I love my job?
Okay, where was I—the table.
I pull a lamp with a glass base from the large bin at the foot of the bed, place it on top, then add a light gray lampshade and plug it in the outlet behind the table. Nice.
Next, I add a collection of throw pillows on the bed, then arrange a gray faux fur blanket diagonally across a bottom corner of the bed. One more glance around the room, and I smile at the transformation.
That’s the best part of my job, watching an empty space become a furnished home that people can envision themselves living in. That, and hot delivery guys that make my vagina tingle.
It’s almost three o’clock. The realtor will be here any minute, their open house is scheduled from three-thirty to six, likely to take advantage of the young professionals who call it quits early on Fridays and will be flocking to the neighborhood’s trendy bars and restaurants for happy hour. A glass of wine is exactly what I need after a hectic week. I’m envisioning a glass of rosé, my couch and Netflix.
I move quickly to pack up my tools and carry the bin with all my stuff down the stairs to the main level.
I never imagined I would be staging homes for an interior designer. Tidy and organized are not words you would use to describe my apartment, but there’s something exciting about arranging a space. I’ve always been into decorating, even when I was a kid, I liked to move the furniture around in my room. It wasn’t a big room, and I always had to get Ellie, my identical twin sister, to approve the rearrangement. It was her room, too. But she always humored me. Not much has changed. There were only a handful of configurations, but I loved the feeling of having a completely different room. It was also the only motivation I had to actually clean our room, which was more Ellie’s strong suit. We balance each other out that way.
“Brooke?” Sue’s voice calls out to me just as I enter the living room. Her eyes register my presence. “Oh, there you are.”
“Hi, I was just finishing upstairs.” I take in Sue’s outfit of the day. She is her job personified; an effortlessly appealing exterior without a lot of fuss. Her printed blouse and stilettos are perfectly coordinated, without being too matchy, her manicure and lipstick the perfect pops of color, and a chiffon neck tie around her neck, her signature piece, that like drapes to windows always makes her look flawlessly complete.
“It’s gorgeous!” she exclaims, looking around the living room. “You were right about that art piece. The lighting in here really makes it pop.”
I beam at Sue’s praise. It never gets old. She looks around, examining my work.
