I wasn’t even sure if he was flirting with me, or just amusing himself.
He didn’t look amused.
He looked… annoyed.
So why was I even here?
Was this seriously about wasting my time?
“Is that all?” I asked.
“I write music here sometimes.”
Okay. That was probably the first useful bit of information he’d given me. The first truly personal thing he’d said.
“Anything else?”
“I guess I’d like to be able to have people over. Right now, it doesn’t really feel like a place I want to hang.”
That made sense. Besides the giant black leather couch, which had seen better days, there was only the one awkward chair and a cheap table shoved up against the kitchen bar. And a wooden crate in place of a coffee table.
Didn’t leave much room for his braless guests to hang around.
“Who would you have over if you could?” I asked.
“Friends.”
“You live here alone?”
“Yup.”
“And you’re single?” Purely professional interest on that one, of course.
“Uh-huh.”
“Why the new bed?
“Old one’s worn out.”
It wasn’t worn out. Structurally, it was fine. But I’d definitely had clients who wanted to replace perfectly good beds before, and there was always a reason for it.
Maybe he’d been through a recent breakup? Bad memories…?
“You want to bring women here?” I interpreted.
“Obviously,” he said.
“See, right now,” I informed him, “this space isn’t conducive to that.”
“Huh?”
“It’s not welcoming to a woman.”
He stared at me like I didn’t know what the hell I was talking about. “Sheets are clean,” he informed me. “Got plenty of condoms…”
Right. Because that was all a woman needed to feel welcome.
“You’ve got a single nightstand, no room on the other side of the bed,” I pointed out. “Single bath towel in the bathroom, on the floor. Closet is disorganized. Nowhere for your, um, guests, to put away their bras.”
