Page 3 of Bulletproof
“It’s fine, I promise,” I said, leading her back to the front door.
“J, event coordinating is not my favorite part of the gig either, but it’s a job, right? I mean, I don’t know about you, but I need the money.”
But she didn’t, not really. Her husband was a way scary attorney who made, like, five hundred dollars an hour or something. I was the one who needed the job.
“Okay?”
“Okay,” I assured her. “Now, c’mon. Let’s go in and see the travesty that is the man and the house.”
“Oh, I know,” she said, awe infusing her voice. “I can’t wait to get in there.”
“Really?”
“Jory, are you kidding? Are you seeing this house? It must be amazing inside.”
I thought the outside looked a little run-down and crappy.
“Look at the stained glass and all the natural woodwork and—”
But she had to stop when the door opened and we were faced with a blond-haired, blue-eyed man looking at us quizzically, if not downright annoyed.
He was taller than me, but most men were. At five-nine, I was nowhere near big. But the stranger at the door was lean and muscular—not big muscular like Sam was, but few men were. The stranger’s frame was carved and strong, obvious since the T-shirt he was wearing was hugging his toned chest and torso like a second skin. It occurred to me that he looked like he belonged on skis in the Alps, wearing a parka, his first name Siegfried. I had the urge to yodel, but stifled it, instead turning my head to Michelle, always deferring to the counselor, as well as the woman, in our midst.
“Good morning.” Michelle smiled huge, giving the man the benefit of gleaming eyes, rows of perfect and even white teeth, and lips that curved in the corner into a gorgeous smile. She was adorable.
“Good morning.” He smiled back, taking hold of the hand she offered him.
“I’m Michelle Cooper from Synergy, and this is my team, beginning with Jory Harcourt here on my right, then Lily Chow, Greg Eldridge, and Ellie Whitcomb.”
“Pleasure to meet you all,” he said affably, nodding at the rest of us after releasing Michelle’s hand.
“And you,” Michelle replied, sounding over-the-top cheerful, like one of those late-night life coaches, but I knew this was simply her in hyped-up mode. “Are you ready to have us take over your life?”
“If I say sort of, will you hold it against me?”
“Never,” she apprised him, tipping her head, being comforting, forcing a smile.
It was horrible.
He, of course, invited everyone in, moving out of the way so we could enter.
Inside, Michelle immediately started talking about the positives Mr. Fisher would experience from his partnership with us. We could assure him that … blah, blah, blah …
I ducked around the corner before I fell asleep on my feet. The sales spiels killed me, as did our boss, Blake Southerlyns, morning kick-off meetings, which was why I made sure to miss them on a regular basis. I sent others in my place instead, and Blake had told me on a number of occasions, when he found me in the halls later, that I was missed. I asked him if he wanted me snoring in front of everyone. He glowered at me, but as of yet, he had not insisted on my presence.
Inside the house, I was astounded at the complete and utter waste of space that it was. Mr. Fisher could have done anything with his home and had instead chosen to do, as far as I could tell, absolutely nothing. It could be a refuge, a palace, a sanctuary … but he had gone with frat house. It was so much more heinous than I could have ever imagined, down to the choice of music that was playing.
Thankful that I had my iPod, I put in my earbuds and got out my digital camera to record the horror that was the man’s home. I was singing silently along with Eric Clapton, sunglasses up on top of my head, where I had shoved them when we walked in the house, when Michelle and our client joined me half an hour later.
Hayes Fisher was smiling wide.
“What?” I asked, removing the left earbud.
“You’ve got a rock-’n’-roll heart?”
I grinned big. “Yep. How’dya know?”
He nodded. “You were singing along and I love Eric Clapton. Why don’t I have that album?”
