Page 43 of Something Borrowed

She didn’t know what else to say or add and felt uncomfortable that their conversation had come to rest on sort of serious grounds again, so she joked, “And also, if the flake-shoe fits, right?”

Cal shook his head again, but his eyes—such nice eyes—were laughing.

“So,” Vic said after a moment, rubbing her hands together, then giving an efficient little clap—she was working, after all. “I’m assuming you didn’t come in just to rave about smoked oyster and onion food-for-the-gods. What can I help you with?”

“Well,” Cal looked around, as if somehow, suddenly mystified by his presence in the prettily decorated, arguably feminine-feeling, vintage, artisan, and upcycled goods shop. “I don’t know exactly. My sister Carrie has made her house something special, and I guess I was, I mean I am, hoping to do something similar with mine. Right now, it’s, well, very clean, but that’s all it’s got going for it. I’d like it to be . . .” He cleared his throat self-consciously. “More homey, or ‘me,’ or something?”

Vic desperately wished for Madeline. She’d whisk in and know from one look at Cal and a couple of gentle, expertly phrased questions, exactly what types of furnishings or décor to show him. Meanwhile, all Vic could think was her own bare walls in her childhood bedroom in her mother’s house.

“Do you, well, um . . . Is there anything specific you know that you want, but don’t have?”

Cal smiled, but it wasn’t a happy look per se. “Should I write a categorized list?”

Empathy hit Vic hard. She knew that feeling intimately too.

“Actually, wait—this might help. I took pictures.”

Except for his well-stocked bookshelves in almost every room, Vic had seen Cal’s house in every single furniture store she’d ever been in.

The living room had the big wall-mounted TV, the leather sectional with recliners on either end, plus a coordinating coffee table. A dark wood table set with matching chairs, featuring charcoal gray suede seats, made up the dining room. The bedroom was filled with a king-sized platform bed, covered in a nondescript—gray again—duvet cover with matching shams, framed by two highboy dressers. If there was a décor style called “No frills bachelor man,” Cal had nailed it.

She nodded at each photo thoughtfully.

“Yeah,” Cal said dismally, as if she’d spoken out loud. “If you think it looks like I just went to some big box store furniture joint and pointed at display rooms, that’s exactly what I did.”

“It’s not bad,” she defended. “It’s a classic, pretty common masculine vibe.”

“A vibe. Have you been talking to my sister?”

“Wouldn’t know her if she walked in the door right now.”

“You would. She looks exactly like me sans beard.”

Vic half laughed, half gasped. “You should never, ever tell her that!”

“Too late.” Cal’s eyes crinkled. “And yeah, she liked it about as much as you suspected.”

Vic shook her head and had to hold back more laughter than the comment probably warranted. She was feeling a little . . . hysterical or giddy or something with Cal so close.

“Anyway . . . my place. Pretty bad, right?”

“I already said it wasn’t bad. It’s actually quite nice. Very clean, as you said.”

They exchanged a look and Vic bit her lip to keep from grinning too big.

Cal raised his eyebrows and lifted his chin in a C’mon, you can tell me gesture.

Vic nodded. “Okay, so maybe it’s a little—”

“Void of personality, dull, boring—sterile to the point of suggesting a psychopath might live there?”

Vic tried to hold back again but failed this time. She laughed loudly—then flinched. Why couldn’t she just have a normal woman’s small laugh?

“Spare. I was going to say spare. Like you moved in recently-ish after a big life change or something and had other things on your mind besides decorating.”

Cal studied her for a moment. “Well, that is a very kind take. Thank you.”

Vic bobbed her head and said cornily, “My pleasure, sir, I’m sure.”