I find myself grinning and wishing to know more, but business is calling.
"Besides," he continues as we step into my office, "I'm invading your personal time. The least I could do was bring them goodies." Leaning slightly forward, he says in a low tone, "I and my inappropriate stories are all yours."
He pins me with his gaze, and being the object of his focus messes with my senses. My skin buzzes with awareness as I catch a whiff of his cologne: mint, wood, and something else I don't recognize. I barely restrain myself from leaning in closer and discovering what the mystery ingredient is. What has gotten into me? Last time I got entangled with a client, things went bad fast. It was a mistake, and I've learned my lesson. Business and pleasure don't mix. With my siblings in my care, I can't afford to make mistakes any longer.
Clearing my throat, I step away from him, gesturing toward the couch and pointing at the catalogs on the coffee table. My office is small, with a simple wooden desk and an ergonomic black chair behind it. In the far left corner are a small, light green couch and a miniature coffee table. Behind the couch is a room divider in the shape of a floor-to-ceiling bookcase, filled to the brim with books. It looks like a regular bookcase, and I masked the entrance to my room with a tall plant.
The two-story house seems big on paper, with three bedrooms upstairs and a bedroom on the ground floor. In truth, the house originally had two bedrooms upstairs, which have been remodeled into three tiny ones. My favorite part of the house is definitely the living room. It's spacious, the large window and glass door opening into the backyard allow in plenty of light. Most of our activities, eating included, take place in the living room. Because there was no spare room I could use as my office, I had to split my bedroom, with the result that both the bedroom and the office are a tad on the small side, but I love them.
"Let's look through these catalogs, tell me what you like most. We'll go from there."
Christopher and I comb through the material, and I slowly grasp what he likes. He leans toward warm, traditional designs, which I suspected after our phone conversation.
I write down the pieces of furniture he seems especially interested in, and already have a clear idea which shops I'm going to use in his case. Over the years, I've built a network of suppliers, and I regularly work with them. They are relatively quick, I can pull in favors, and most importantly, they don't overcharge. Even though all of my clients are well off, I don't want them to overpay.
"Okay, this was productive," I exclaim about an hour later, after we finish perusing the material.
"What's the next step?"
"I want us to go to a shop, so you can look firsthand at some of the pieces of furniture you liked."
Christopher grimaces. "But we just looked through magazines."
"I know, but seeing them live is different. You might decide you don't like some of them after all."
"Not really a fan of shopping."
"I can work based on what you've chosen from the catalogs, then."
Christopher scoffs, running his hand through his hair. "Nah, I'll do it. I actually want to like the place I'll live in. Now I'm in a rental that came fully furnished, and it looks like an office. Before this, I lived in Hong Kong for a few years, expanding our business. That apartment also came fully furnished, and I felt like I was living in a hotel the entire time. Hated it, but I didn't want to put in the effort to change it. Now I want home to actually feel like home. I'll look over my schedule tomorrow and let you know when I have time."
"Great."
Christopher focuses on my pen, which has a small figurine of a Disney princess on top of it. I really should stop borrowing pens from Chloe.
"How are you juggling looking after the kids and running your own business?"
"The business side runs rather smoothly. The other one is more challenging," I say honestly. "But mostly, it's a lot of fun. It's as if I'm reliving my childhood all over again. I don't know what it says about me that I remember about the struggle of choosing whether to wear my glitter boots or pink boots to school. That either I have a great memory, or I still have the fashion sense of a four-year-old. I wish I had paid more attention in my P.E. class so I could help Lucas with—"
I swallow the rest of the sentence, embarrassed. I don't dare glance at Christopher, who is suspiciously silent next to me. Staring at the coffee table as if it's the most interesting item in the world, I say, "I'm sorry. I'm not usually a chatterbox. I mean, I am, but not with clients. You just… well, you seem so easy to talk to and so trustworthy."
"So it's my fault. Interesting. What convinced you I'm trustworthy? My offer to strip for you in my office or asking you about swimming lessons?" He laughs, and I can't help joining in.
"Sorry, back to your question. So yeah, in a nutshell, I am handling things all right most of the time. I like to focus on the positive things. And I enjoy working for myself. I'll be honest that striking out on my own wasn't easy. I depend heavily on recommendations, and the chase for new clients can be exhausting, but I'm glad I get the chance to spend more time with the kids, and being my own boss has its perks."
He tilts his head to one side, watching me intently. "Such as?"
"Being able to divide my workload as I need, wearing comfortable clothes when I'm in my office, sometimes nothing more than panties and a sleep shirt."
Nonononono, I did not say that last part out loud. Judging by the way Christopher's eyes instantly darken, I did say it. To hell with my big, traitorous mouth.
Dropping my head in my hands, I draw in a deep breath.
"My fault again, right?" he asks playfully. "Something about my incredibly good looks and inescapable charm makes you talk about your underwear?"
I cross my legs, biting the inside of my cheeks. "I swear this is atypical behavior—"
"No worries. I do believe one doesn't come across good-looking men like me very often. Also, I still owe you some inappropriate childhood stories."