GENRE: Gay Romance
LENGTH: 3,192 words
RATING:

Taran’s a brilliant interior designer. He might be young, but he has talent, success, and celebrity clients. So when famous musician River Fey shows up on his client list, Taran’s thrilled. After all, River is a huge name, and just as gorgeous in person.

Unfortunately, River isn’t the easiest client. He has requests. Opinions. A love of cats and hideous colors. And Taran refuses to let one of his houses be less than perfect.

In the middle of the arguments, sparks just might fly. And Taran and River will find their perfect design for love.

EXCERPT:

Taran ran a hand through his own hair -- dark blond, neat, as carefully precisely trendy as his rose-pink button-down shirt and perfectly paired slacks and shoes -- and repeated, in case that was necessary, “It’s part of the contract. You hire us. You give us some general guidelines. Then we do the work. All the design choices. So everything fits the theme, the aesthetics. Not ... that.”

That glared back at him balefully. It was definitely a cat, no argument there. But it was oversized, oddly proportioned, made of ceramic but painted to suggest patchwork fabric. The patches were eye-watering clashes of violet, lime, scarlet, turquoise. The fake stitches, also painted on, slashed thick and black across the rainbow collisions.

He transferred his own glare to the cat’s owner. River looked unhappy. Rain in those grey-sky eyes, in the music of his voice. “I thought it wouldn’t be too unreasonable ...”

Normally a single small request wouldn’t be. Taran wasn’t that overbearing. But this one was really, truly, awful. He just couldn’t. He said as much.

River flinched. Actually did a tiny step back, one hand pushing up a sweater-sleeve. He was tall versus most people, not just Taran’s medium-shortness; he was a presence on stage, but in person moved with a sort of bewildered elegance, as if not quite sure how to direct long limbs without choreography. “It’s just, my gran made them ... the cats ... all the grandchildren got one. Before she, well. Passed.”

Taran said, because of course he had to say, “I’m sorry.” He did mean it. He knew about having, or rather not having, family.

“We used to joke about it. She knew they were just dreadful -- she tried to make them so. For fun. As thoroughly ugly as possible.”

“Well, she succeeded.”

“So I’d like it on display. If we could.”

“And I’d like it in some sort of landfill. No.”

“Really no?”

“I’m tempted to walk out and quit on you.” Taran was half-joking, but only half. He did not walk out on clients, especially not at a first face-to-face one-on-one meeting. He also hated the idea that someone might think he’d had anything to do with a lumpish kaleidoscope in ceramic cat shape.

“Oh. But ... would you? Over this?”

“I don’t know.” He’d worked so hard for his reputation. He’d built Winterink from the ground up. He did not have family -- they did not speak, given their thoughts on their son and being gay. He did not have friends, not precisely -- he had fellow designers, people he’d employed because they’d impressed him. He had fought for everything he had; he’d made himself be dazzling, daring, an incisive personality, famous for it.

He had not had a grandmother who’d made cat sculptures, who’d given them as presents, who’d had inside jokes with her grandchildren.

He shoved that thought aside. “We explained how this works. And I’d never let that anywhere near one of my rooms. How do you feel about grey and taupe and blue? Lighter beach tones?”

“I do like the ocean. You’re the expert. I’ve never even bought a house before.”

“Then let me be the expert.” He caught the mismatched gaze of the sculpture -- one blue eye, one green -- and grumbled, “I don’t even like cats.”

“I do. I’ve thought about getting one.”

Taran ran a hand through his hair again. Tried, and failed, not to feel the headache coming on.

“I know it’s hideous.” River picked up the figurine, cradled it in pianist’s fingers, touched clashing paint and jagged faux-stitching lines the way a soldier might memorize the feel of a letter from home. “It’s only ... can’t we keep her somewhere out here? Anywhere?”