[chapter seven]
Disclaimer: If you've heard of them, I don't own them. Everything else is mine, so no stealing, pretty please. ;-)
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~Jasmine's POV~
Now, this is what I call a blank canvas.
I walk from room to room of this huge house, marveling at the beautiful construction and the utter lack of personalization in any of the rooms.
I checked the bathroom for a toothbrush just to make sure someone actually does lives here.
Hardly any furniture, no pictures up, no bills or papers or keys or clothes or anything.
Either Jeff is a total neat freak, hid everything before I got here, or seriously hasn't done a damn thing to the house since the day he moved in.
I bet everything is right where the movers dropped it.
I walk back into the family room, jotting down notes, measurements and ideas in my notebook as Jeff hangs up the phone.
"Sorry, that was the shop calling for me. Did you find your way around alright?" Jeff asks, walking towards me.
"Yeah. I used a compass to find my way back here. This is a helluva house."
"Thanks." He says shyly, ducking his head. "I just sort of picked it out, after … "
After you finally kicked that bitch wife of yours to the curb?
God, did I just think that?
"Well, I see a lot of potential here." I say instead, sitting down on the arm of his battered sofa. "What sort of things do you like?"
"Snorkeling, Italian food, long walks on the beach, driving fast, bowling, and I've recently discovered a love of that CSI show on TV." He says evenly.
The hell?
While I find this information interesting, and totally unsolicited, I'm trying to figure out if he's pulling my leg, or truly misunderstood my question.
When I look up, he's looking at me, totally serious. But with a glint in those blue eyes of his.
Jackass.
"Mr. Gordon?"
"Yes, Miss Jones?"
"What sort of decorating style do you like? Colours, types of furniture, things like that."
Jeff looks vaguely lost. Most guys do when I ask that. Television dimensions or foosball tables, and they are right with me. Colour palettes or Venetian blinds, and they go blank.
"I don't … okay, don't laugh."
I nod, encouraging him. I won't laugh, Jeff. I promise.
Not when you look so whipped, so embarrassed.
"I don't know. I mean, when I lived alone, I was never there and pretty just had a mattress on the floor and a beat up couch. And then, um, Brooke pretty much decided everything after that. We just went with what she liked - she picked out everything always. She decided everything. I don't know what I like."
I have to wonder if he's only talking about interior decorating.
"Okay." I say quietly. "How about I put a few things together, and bring them over for you to pick out what sort of things you like. Would that be okay?"
He looks so grateful, so thankful that I didn't laugh at him.
I would never laugh at him. Not over this. Not over what she did to him. Whatever it was.
"That would be great. Thank you, Jasmine." He says, looking down at the floor.
"Sure."
"Do you … uh, want something to drink?" He ventures, finally looking up again.
What I really want is to know what thoughts are running through his head right now.
And what she did.
Not that I care.
I mean, this is Jeff Gordon.
Man of a thousand 'awesome's. Man of the always tucked in, always neat and tidy shirt and pant combo. Man of the I'm-so-stuffy-I-need-to-be-dry-cleaned attitude.
Granted, also man of the tight leather pants from Monday morning.
The man who laughed so hard he snorted during poker night.
The man who is looking at me with more than a professional interest.
Uh-oh.
"Thanks, but I gotta go." I say, standing up and brushing off my skirt. "Should I give you a call when I have a few things together?"
"Sure. Or just stop by. I have almost the same schedule as Jimmie, so … "
I nod as I walk to the door, Jeff trailing me.
"What?" He asks, surprised.
"What?" I ask, turning around, confused.
"No strange requests? No mean questions?" He teases, and I laugh slightly.
Don't tempt me, Gordon. Just don't tempt me.
Instead, I settle for a more subtle line.
Subtle being a subjective term, of course.
"Next time I come over, there better be boxers on the floor and food growing penicillin in the fridge." I say. "Some guy you are."
"Smiley face, or glow in the dark?"
Okay, so maybe he's not as stuffy
as I thought.