Page 5 of Bulletproof
“Mr. Harcourt, you—”
“I’m just taking pictures so the design team can know what they’re up against.”
“Up against?”
“Well, yeah.”
“In what way?”
I gestured around so he’d realize I meant everything.
“You have a problem with my home?”
Michelle chuckled hollowly. “No, he—”
“Yes,” I apprised him, enunciating the word, “I have a problem. It looks like a frat house in here, except it’s clean. No empty beer bottles in sight.”
“Pardon me?”
“It’s incredible what you haven’t done.”
“What?”
“What?” I was confused. I was speaking English—I was just sure of it.
With a dark scowl, brows furrowing, he looked at me.
“Take that, for instance,” I said, pointing.
“It’s a beanbag chair,” he said defensively, rubbing the top of his head. “My friend’s kids love it.”
“Do they?”
“Yes.”
“Well, good. Can you give it to them?”
“What?”
“Jory,” Michelle began, “perhaps Mr. Fisher would like us to create a rec room for the—”
“Just tell us where to send it. I’ll have a courier over here to pick it up today.”
“Mr. Harcourt, you—”
“Christ”—I was in awe, surveying the nightmare—“it’s a mess in here.”
“Could you—”
“Can I ask you a personal question?”
Caught off guard, he gulped air and just nodded.
“Do you bring dates here?”
“I—what? Yes.” His voice dropped off as he cleared his throat. “Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
