Chapter 7 Sexy Reno Guy
SEXY RENO GUY
SKYLAR
The next morning, I walk in early to the podcast studio in the Mission District—because no one ever slays by being late.
My matchmaker friend Isla uses this studio for her wildly successful dating advice show, and I snagged some recording time here for my design podcast. Pretty sure she struck a sure, we’ll let your friend use the space as long as we can have you too kind of deal, but hey, beggars can’t be choosers.
In the break room, I’m pouring another cup of iced coffee when Trevyn walks in with Mabel.
Her caramel-colored hair falls in perfect waves since she has perfect hair, blonde streaks and all.
I’d be jealous if I didn’t love her so much.
She dictates into her phone as she enters: “I’m not going to tell him how to boil an egg because boiled eggs are gross.
” Then she hits send, looks up, and says with zero apology, “My brother. I’m trying to stop him from making an egg salad. ”
“You’re doing the Lord’s work,” I say solemnly.
“She always is,” Trevyn says, “and so is Simon.” He waggles his phone at me then clears his throat and reads, “Waiting for Mom to finally take dance lessons. If she improves, maybe she can make some cash shaking it—gotta fund my posh lifestyle somehow.”
He’s reading straight from my dog’s social feed.
“Simon’s shameless. What can I say? He’s practically begging for a sponsorship,” I reply.
“He deserves one,” Mabel says.
“Well, Simon Side-Eye is more popular than me,” I admit, since my dog absolutely kills it on social media with his sarcastic commentary on our photos—like the one I took last night of us dancing. “Seriously, where does he come up with this stuff?”
“I can’t even imagine,” Mabel says, nodding toward the studio. “Ready? I need to meet a broker later today.”
“Ooh, do you think you’ll get a space finally?” I ask. Mabel’s been trying to find the perfect location for a bakery.
She crosses her fingers. “We’ll see.” She sounds cautious, wary even, but I get it.
She’s been working her butt off to make the leap from selling cookies and other treats at farmers’ markets, pop-up shops, and local cafés to, hopefully, having her own bakery.
A few spaces have fallen through, but I’m seriously proud of her gumption and her skills.
Trevyn too—he refurbishes furniture. It’s a far cry from his former career as a professional pairs figure skater, but he’s nailing this one just like he nailed jumps and lutzes once upon a time.
We head into the small studio and move into our seats like synchronized podcasters.
I flip open my laptop, fire up the software, and hit a few buttons.
After testing our mics, we’re good to go.
The only thing left is the camera. I pop my smartphone into the ring light in the room, hit record, then return to my seat.
“Hey there, we’re back with another episode of Hot Trends, Classic Spends. This is your host—Skylar Haven. I’m joined by two of my favorite sidekicks—”
Trevyn clears his throat. “Sidekick? I like to think of myself as the main attraction.”
“I’m bringing the headliner energy too,” Mabel adds, not to be outdone.
“Fine, fine. We are all superstars here,” I concede. “And I’m going to be a superheroine of eco-design since my new client wants me to do—wait for it—his entire house and make it sustainable.”
They already know this, but Trevyn gives a “whoop, whoop,” and Mabel adds, “That’s awesome.”
“Thank you. I’m, admittedly, a little excited. I live for this kind of blank slate. And I have big plans,” I add, then share some of my general ideas for the home.
“And this is for Sexy Reno Guy?” Trevyn asks with a gotcha smirk.
Of course Trevyn knows the big new client is the hot neighbor I hated for a day. I’d never keep that kind of juicy nugget from friends. Still, I do my best to remain unfazed for the sake of podcasting entertainment, furrowing my brow as I innocently ask, “Did I call him that?”
Mabel smirks. “No, but based on the red in your face, I think the name might be sticking.”
I press a hand to my cheeks. My skin is a little hot. “Please. My cheeks aren’t red,” I say, grabbing my coffee and taking a long sip. It’ll cool me off.
“So he is Sexy Reno Guy?” Trevyn smirks, enjoying himself way too much.
“I would never use such a term,” I say, acting all prim and proper.
“Doesn’t mean we can’t. Right, Trev?” Mabel, the little scamp, flashes a grin at Trevyn.
He leans back in his chair. “I’m all for calling it like it is.”
“As I said, he’s a client.” And he has muscles for days. And hair that I want to rope my fingers through. And a stern expression that I find ludicrously hot.
“Poh-tay-toe, poh-tah-toe. He can be a client and hot. The two aren’t mutually exclusive,” Trevyn points out, always stirring up trouble. “Mabel, level with our followers. Have you ever had a hot…client? Like, the owners of the cafés and places you supply to?”
“I don’t think of my clients that way,” Mabel answers diplomatically, and who’s the prim and proper one now?
“Oh, the tables have turned,” I say to her.
“When you’re hauling boxes of baked goods at four in the morning, you’re not usually thinking of someone’s hotness since your own hotness is in the swamp,” she explains.
Trevyn snorts. “Liar. One, you’re always hot, Mabel. And two, your hotness detector does not turn off even if you’re a swamp.”
“He’s right. The radar is twenty-four-seven,” I say.
Trevyn levels me with a sharp stare. “My point exactly. So the sooner you admit your new client is a hot tamale, the better off we’ll be.”
“And why’s that?” I counter.
He sets his chin in his hand. “Because it’s more fun for me.”
I laugh, then relent slightly. “Fine, I’ll admit Sexy Reno Guy is easy on the eyes. But that’s not the point—”
“That’s the whole point,” Mabel says, and we spend the rest of the show arguing about design and the client hotness scale.
Trevyn tries to goad me into ranking everyone I’ve ever worked with on a one-to-ten scale. And, like a perfect sidekick, Mabel encourages him.
But I stay strong. I refuse.
I’ve already called him Sexy Reno Guy, and that’s plenty for now.
No need to indulge any more wildly inappropriate thoughts about my tightly wound, hard-ass, hot-as-hell client.
Some people dream of relaxing on the beach. But my happy place is a two-block section of the Dogpatch District that’s home to design business after design business. From lighting shops to furniture stores to a place that specializes in bio-glass, I could spend all day here. Sometimes I do.
I say goodbye to Trevyn as he drops me off at the corner, then I dive straight in.
While Ford and I are going to a consignment shop tomorrow, I want to do some preliminary work today on materials for countertops or bathroom sinks—I have a feeling we might need to redo a few of those in his parents’ new home.
I rap on the door of the appointment-only Reflective Showroom, and Amika hustles over to let me in.
“Come in, come in. I read that Simon is demanding a steady supply of dog bones and biscuits,” she says, her British accent carrying a soft lilt from her years in India.
“I work for my pets,” I say.
“And why isn’t he here today? I love my little Simon hugs.”
“He needed to catch up on his beauty sleep. Apparently, there’s a Doxie law that they must sleep twenty-one hours a day.”
“Reasonable. Totally reasonable.”
“I also had to do my podcast. And Simon’s a little too chatty in the studio.”
“He has a lot on his mind,” she says.
“And you have a lot of new stuff here,” I say, my eyes widening as I scan the showroom.
“We do. Let me show you around,” she says, and just like that, I’m a kid in a candy store—running my fingers over smooth marble and snapping pics of shimmering glass, already picturing the perfect countertop.
I thank Amika and pop into the bamboo furniture showroom a few doors down, snapping pictures of some fantastic new chairs and stools with neat, clean lines. Next, I dart into the lighting shop, making notes on my tablet of new recessed ceiling lights and a plethora of LED options.
I can find all this online too, but nothing beats actually seeing the products you might recommend to a client—touching them too. Making sure the Internet doesn’t—gasp—lie.
I also check out some vintage desk lamps for Sofia Ximena, a civil rights attorney who hired me to make some updates in her new office.
It’s only slightly intimidating outfitting a high-profile law practice where they all do good work in crisp navy suits as they fight the system, but hey, if I’ve been tasked to help them see their documents better, I’m up to the challenge. I snap some pics to send to Sofia.
When I’m done there, I pop outside and check the time.
Mom should be here any minute for our weekly lunch, so I tuck my tablet into my tote bag and check my reflection in the window of a tile showroom, spotting Mom several feet away as I do.
I spin around. She’s sporting big sunglasses, a slouchy bag she’s had forever (because, as she puts it, who needs more than one handbag?), and a warm grin.
When she reaches me, she pushes her shades into her thick mane of auburn hair, clutches my shoulder, and declares, like it’s a battle cry, “I want you to know I’m going to boycott Games People Play when it opens later this month.”
My brow furrows as I try to put two and two together. When it hits me, I wince. “Wait. Is that the name of Landon’s shop?”
“Yes,” she says, aggrieved, as she links arms with me and we head to Happy Cow, a few blocks away. “I’m on his newsletter list. I subscribe so you don’t have to.”
“Thanks, Mom. You’re the best,” I say, and really, she is.
“And even though I need a new stash of party games for game night, I will find another board game shop. I refuse to go to his store.”
“They do sell them online,” I say.