Heart Improvement: A Brooklyn Heights Bachelor Romance

Chapter 6 - Scott

“Six weeks! Are you kidding me?”

I immediately apologize for exploding. It’s not my foreman George’s fault the tile is delayed.

“I can order—”

“No. Just go to the storage unit. You know the stuff that’s marked for 121?”

“You said to never touch that. Like ever.”

“I know,” I say, sighing. “But there’s a…delay with that project. So just send someone over to get it. It should be more than enough. That kitchen at 121 is like at least double the size.”

“Will do.”

We hang up. Before I can put my phone down it rings again.

“What now?” I say. “Plumbing? Look anything for 121 is up for grabs, okay?”

I take a swig of coffee while I wait for George to respond. What I need to do is call the realtor. With the permits and plans in place, it should sell fast.

Now that the show isn’t going to happen, I want that house finished and off my project list as quickly as possible. In fact, if someone wants to buy it as is, I’d probably dump it. In this market I’d have no trouble breaking even on it. I go to my laptop to look the numbers over. That’s when I realize George hasn’t said anything.

“George, what’s going on?”

“Scott?”

Shit. It’s not George. It’s a lilting female voice that sounds somewhat familiar.

“Oh, sorry.”

Please don’t let this be someone from the network,I think. And I just gave away all the tile.

“Scott Howell here. How can I help you?”

“It’s Chelsea. From downstairs.”

I look down at the floor.

“Are you in your kitchen?”

“Yes, why?”

I stomp my foot hard on the floor. She laughs.

“Was that you?”

“Yes. Are you right under me?”

“Apparently.”

My mind conjures up a vision of her under me, and not downstairs in her apartment. Like, literally under me. It’s a nice picture.

“What’s going on?”

“I…can we talk?”

“We are talking.”

“I mean in person.”

“Well, I probably should get to work.”

“I spent a lot of time thinking about…your offer.”

I set my coffee cup down. I choose my next words very carefully.

“Do you mean you are considering it?”

“Maybe.”

“Let’s talk. I’ll come right down. We can go grab some coffee and bagels, muffins, whatever you want.”

She doesn’t answer right away. Say yes, I chant over and over in my mind.

“Okay. Ten minutes?”

“Deal.”

Ten minutes is really way too long. I’m ready to go. I kill five minutes looking over the plans again, which is pointless. Every detail is deeply etched into my memory. I close the folder and grab my travel mug. I’ll just sit on the stoop and enjoy the nice weather until she shows up.

Thankfully I don’t have to do that. She’s already at the bottom of the stairs when I step outside.

“Good morning.” I wave and instantly feel like an idiot. “Should we get something to eat? We can take it down to the Promenade.”

“Okay,” she says.

I don’t want to jump right into…the proposal, so I extol the virtues of a real New York bagel on the way to the shop. There’s a line. I’ve run out of things to talk about. Chelsea studies the menu silently.

When she orders I can barely hear her.

“What?” the man at the counter barks and she jumps.

“She said a cinnamon raisin with cream cheese.”

“Toasted?”

I look at Chelsea. She shakes her head no. I get my usual onion, cream cheese and lox. I fill up my travel cup with coffee. We have to go back and ask for a cup for her.

“I didn’t know,” she says, indicating my cup when we leave the shop.

“You’ll figure it out.”

We find a bench on the Promenade. She opens her sandwich and takes a tentative bite. I take a big one of my own.

I wait for her to start the conversation. After all, she called this meeting. She just stares at the river. The sun is at our backs, the water is starting to sparkle. From this vantage point it looks almost pretty.

We eat while joggers, dog walkers and one guy on a segue pass by.

“Chelsea?”

“Okay, this is really, really weird for me, but I think I want to do it.”

“That’s great.”

“Not so fast. I mean, I can’t really agree until I know what we are talking about. Exactly what we are talking about.”

“Right,” I say, wrapping up the rest of my bagel. “I see it as a very simple—”

“This is not simple.”

“Okay.” No point arguing about that. “Why don’t I just lay it out as I see it and you can agree, disagree or…add on any other…”

“Stipulations?”

“Stipulations?”

“My best friend’s a paralegal.”

I laugh.

“Well, maybe she can draw up a contract for us.” Chelsea frowns and I immediately correct myself. “Just kidding.”

I lay out the plan as I see it. I tell the network I’m engaged, and my fiancée is actually going to FIT in the fall for interior design. We work on the house and the show together, over the summer.

“I don’t know how much it will pay,” I admit. “But how about five thousand a month? If it doesn’t pay that much, I’ll make up the difference to you.”

“Five…thousand?”

I reach out to pat her knee but stop myself.

“What exactly do you expect for five thousand a month?” Her tone is a little more hostile. She stands up. “I…this is nuts. I can’t…I’m not. Gross.”

Oh lord,I think.

She’s already walking down the Promenade away from me. I chase after her and grab her arm. She shakes me off and, when I see the look in her eyes, I let go.

“Look, I’m not…”

Jesus, fuck, how do I explain this? In New York, a call girl can make five grand a night. Not that I have any personal experience with that. But I’ve heard. That’s just common knowledge.

“Please just listen.”

She stops in her tracks and turns and glares at me. She’s even hotter when she’s…hot under the collar, I think.

“I want the show. That’s all. No strings attached. None.” I hold out my hands to show I’m not hiding anything. Except I’m still holding my bagel and coffee. “And I’ll throw in breakfast every morning.”

She smiles. She tries not to, but she does.

“Can we sit back down?”

I walk over to the closest bench, and she follows me. I open up my folder and pull out a piece of paper. I write ‘Rules’ on the top.

“Let’s just get this straight once and for all.”

I write ‘#1 – NO SEX’ in big letters and show it to her.

“That’s not what I’m paying you for. Just the show. Whatever the show wants. And they won’t want that. It’s primetime TV. Totally G rated. If something breaks maybe they’ll have to bleep out the occasional f-word.”

“Okay,” she says. “Maybe I overreacted. I mean, I just got to New York yesterday.”

I wave it off.

“Completely understandable.” She gives me a little smile. “Now if you decide, down the road, that you want to pay me for sex, I might be open to negotiations on that.”

Why did I just say that? Because she’s sexy as hell that’s why. Stupid, stupid, stupid, I tell myself, with most of my wrath directed below my waist.

She looks startled then starts laughing. Even punches me on the shoulder.

“What else do you want?” I ask her.

“You’d really pay me five thousand a month?”

“I would.”

“But, what would I tell my family?”

“Nothing.”

“They’d see the show.”

“After the show is over you explain it. Everybody knows reality TV is like ninety percent fake anyway.”

I hold my breath as I wait.

“I’m really sorry, Scott, but I just—”

“Don’t say no.”

“I have to.”

“No, I mean, don’t write it off, not yet. Consider it a standing offer. If you change your mind at any point, well, I’m right upstairs.”

“Okay,” she says. “Standing offer.”

She holds out her hand and I shake it. Her hand is so soft and warm in mine. When she pulls it away, a sharp pang of disappointment shoots through me.

“Bye,” she says.

I watch her walk down the Promenade and I am not the only guy checking her out. One guy gets so distracted, he doesn’t notice his dog has stopped to sniff something invisible on the pavement. He ends up tripping over the poor thing.

Chelsea looks back to see what the commotion is. When she sees me, she waves. I wave back. I wait until she turns to go up to the street and I can’t see her anymore. Then I get up and head in the opposite direction.

I decide to walk down to the Atlantic Ave station. It’s another beautiful morning and, best of all, I think this may actually have a chance to work out.