Butterflies.
Because I’d impressed him by bringing him pennies?
Jesus.
Get it together, Danica.
“It will probably take a few days to change out the furniture and add the finishing touches,” I went on, ignoring the world’s stupidest butterflies. “Depending on how extensive a change you want. I can give you a more firm estimate on the timeline next week as well, when we meet again.”
“Meet again?”
“Yes. I can come by with my proposal. But in general… the good news is your home is pretty much a blank slate. I already have some ideas, and I can pull things together pretty quick. Does that sound good to you?”
He took a long, long moment—staring at me the entire time—to answer that. “Sure.” Then he returned his attention to his phone. “Do whatever you want.”
Uh… okay?
Was I being dismissed?
“Great.” I got up and collected my purse. “So lavender walls and lots of flowers are good for you, then?”
“Do whatever you want,” he repeated. “You’ve got experience and beautiful eyes, that’s all I need.”
“Uh, an eye for beauty, you mean?”
“Sure.” He looked up at me, meeting my eyes again. “That’s what I meant.”
Clearly, that wasn’t what he meant. He meant my literal beautiful eyes.
I just stood in his entryway, feeling increasingly awkward as he held my gaze. I was blushing again, definitely, and this time he was here to witness it. I clutched my purse to my chest, like some schoolgirl hugging her textbooks to keep a boy from looking at her boobs.
His eyes dragged down my body anyway, as if the purse wasn’t there—and my clothes weren’t, either. Like he could see every last inch of me.
And I wondered if he’d gotten my sister naked.
Shit.
Not something I wanted to wonder about. At all.
His eyes returned lazily to mine. “We almost done here?” he said. “I’ve got a thing.”
“Oh. Yes. Of course.” I stuffed my phone in my purse and stepped into my shoes, trying to look like I was about to leave anyway—instead of getting lost in his crazy-blue eyes and totally forgetting what the hell I was doing.
“Assume you can let yourself out,” he muttered, as he looked down at his phone again. I barely even heard him over the music.
“For sure. I’ll be in touch to schedule another appointment next week. Um, thank you.” I turned and got the hell out of his apartment.
Actually, I banged my forehead on the door, just a bit, when I opened it. Then I dashed out into the hallway so quick, hoping he wouldn’t notice, that I tripped on the door jam and stumbled. I caught myself just as the door closed behind me.
Holy crap.
I straightened, slipping my purse onto my shoulder and pressing my hand to my forehead.Ouch.
What the shit was wrong with me? I’d never been so nervous at a consultation before. And I’d once had an ex-pro football player answer the door in his underwear and remain that way throughout the entire consultation—which I cut short. Of course, that dude was a total letch, and Madeleine was so pissed when I told her, we didn’t accept him as a client.
But this? Ashley Player wasn’t sexually harassing me. He wasn’t even flirting with me—probably? All he did was lie there on his couch and barely look at me.
He’d definitely been trying to make me uncomfortable, though. I was sure of that.
