[chapter six]
Disclaimer: If you've heard of them, I don't own them. Everything else is mine, so no stealing, pretty please. ;-)
**
~Jeffy's POV~
Man, I really need to do something about this place.
"Man, you really need to do something about this place."
My head snaps up in surprise as Jimmie echoes my exact thoughts as he walks into my family room.
My empty, ugly, wow-a-guy-totally-lives-here family room.
"Yeah, I know." I concede, looking around. Brooke took everything, and what she didn't take, she pretty much trashed. Now that I'm in this new house, with very little of my old furniture, I don't even know where to start. But at least I'm living near my friends, my colleagues, not several states away with only Brooke for company. That has to count for something.
"You should call Jasmine." Jimmie says casually, picking through a pile of old Car and Driver magazines that are thrown on the floor near what used to be my favorite couch, before a huge hole mysteriously got put into the middle of it.
Jasmine?
"Jasmine?" I ask, trying to sound equally as casual.
"Yeah." Jimmie says, distractedly. "She's an interior designer."
Shut up. Seriously?
"Really?" I say, trying to sound indifferent. "Hrm. Is she any good?"
Jimmie looks up at me, smiling like a Cheshire cat and saying nothing.
"Shut up, Jimmie." I say, my face reddening.
"I didn't say anything!" He defends, standing up and facing me. "You like her."
"I don't."
"You like her! You like her!"
What is this, high school?
"She's very nice."
"Nice." Jimmie smirks. "Nice."
"Nice."
"I think she likes you."
"Yeah, I can tell by the way she harasses me, teases me, and treats me like a child."
"Chicks always do that."
"Oh, Womanizer Johnson, the resident expert."
"She's pretty hot, dontcha think?"
"Do you have her work number?" I say, avoiding the temptation to elaborate on that point.
"Sure. Seriously, she's a really good designer. But then, in this house, anything is better than what you have."
"It's minimalist."
"It's crap."
Two hours later, I'm staring at the phone, seemingly unable to dial the number Jimmie scrawled on a scrap of paper.
It's a business call, bonehead. You've made them before. Thousands, probably.
Somehow, I manage to pick up the receiver and dial her number. "Jasmine Jones Design." A voice greets me.
"May I speak to Jasmine Jones, please?"
"One moment, sir."
One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Missis …
"This is Jasmine."
"Jasmine? Hi, this is Jeff Gordon."
"Never heard of ya."
I grin at her voice, and I can practically hear her answering grin. "I'm the one with the smile." I shoot at her, and she laughs in earnest.
"Stalking me at work now, eh? Very impressive. Or scary, depending."
"Actually, this is a business call, smarty pants." I answer, leaning against my countertop, smiling just at the sound of her voice.
"Smarty pants." Jasmine repeats. "Oh yeah, sounds like a business call."
"It is!"
Jasmine clears her throat, her voice suddenly businesslike, the teasing gone. "What can I do for you, Mr. Gordon?" She asks.
"Well, Miss Jones. My house needs some redecorating, and you come very highly recommended."
"By whom?"
"Well, Jimmie, but he says you're really good."
I love her laugh.
"What do you need done?" She asks me.
"Uh … "I look around. "Everything?"
"This could take a while."
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to take up your time, I just … Jimmie said that you were really … that you could help me figure out … my whole house just … "
"Mr. Gordon?"
"Yes, Miss Jones?"
"How about we make an appointment so I can see this 'everything' you need help with."
"Oh. Yeah. Okay."
Ten minutes later, I'm frantically stuffing clothes, magazines, boxes and assorted stuff into closets and under beds, throwing away food that looks like a Ebola test lab, and checking my shirt for any Dupont logos.
She should be here any minute.
I haven't been this nervous in
years.