Heart Improvement: A Brooklyn Heights Bachelor Romance

Chapter 10 - Scott

“And this will be the pantry.”

I study the floor plan. She set up her laptop on the kitchen counter in one of the apartments. I tilt my head back and forth, trying to orient myself, then I look down the hall.

“In the passthrough? That’s where the pantry is?”

The brownstone has the usual connecting rooms—about ten feet by eight—between what was once the front and rear parlors. Usually I open them up to make both rooms bigger.

“Yep,” she says, but I’m confused. I can’t quite wrap my head around what she’s telling me. “Come here.” She grabs my hand and pulls me into the room. “Right here.”

It would be a good-sized pantry. But…

“You walled it off with cabinets.”

I try to say it nicely. It’s still a good idea. But the 3D rendering of the kitchen—which is amazing—didn’t preserve the doorway. Closing it off from the living room is no big deal, there is still the hallway by the stairs. And I love the bathroom, or powder room, off the hallway.

She lets go of my hand. I instantly regret saying anything. But what else could I do? Still, now that her hand is gone, I miss it. It was soft and warm and fit into my palm perfectly. An even bigger smile spreads across her face.

“That’s the best part, come see.”

We go back to her laptop. She points to a spot on the kitchen diagram and then clicks on a link.

It’s a video. I watch a woman walk up to a wall of cabinets and open one. But it isn’t a cabinet, it’s a fake door. It reveals a pantry hidden behind it. Then the woman leaves and there is just a seamless wall of cabinets again.

“That is so cool.”

I cringe as soon as the words leave my mouth.

“I know right?” Chelsea sounds just as excited as I am. “I mean, who doesn’t love a secret door? When I was a kid, I wanted to live in a big old Southern Gothic mansion with secret doors and passageways.”

She sighs and wraps her arms around herself.

“I know exactly what you mean. Like, it would be half hidden by ivy and it has the long hallways—”

“Front to back, for ventilation, you know.”

I didn’t, but I nod.

“Show me more.”

We work our way through the two upper units. Her sleek, modern design is the complete opposite of my plan to restore the house to its original glory. When I say as much, her face falls.

“I actually think the network will like this better,” I say.

“You do?”

“Yes. Restoration shows usually follow the homeowner’s journey. Flips are always about the hottest new ideas.”

“That makes sense,” she says, nodding. “Not everyone wants to live in an antique, even a perfectly restored one.”

“Perfect?”

I’m teasing. You can tell this is her first design job. Nothing is ever perfect. But I love her optimism.

She laces her fingers together. It’s a motion I’ve already become familiar with. I think it means she’s nervous, like she’s worried she said the wrong thing. Which she didn’t. But it’s endearing.

Our eyes meet for a second and then we both look away. I clear my throat awkwardly.

“Can you show me the basement office plan?”

“Okay.”

She looks down at the laptop. Her hair is up, so I watch her profile. The basement is admittedly a little more boring. She scaled the kitchen in this unit down to a kitchenette.

“I figure that way it could maybe still be an apartment too?”

I nod.

“I’ll ask my lawyer about mixed use. Also, we could show it as we get close to installing the finishes. The buyer could decide. Leave the options open.”

“That’s always a good idea.”

We go back up to the middle unit and head out into the backyard.

“These will be rebuilt.” I point to the steps.

“Oh, I didn’t even think about the exterior, sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about.” My stomach rumbles, but Chelsea is wandering around the yard, a look of intense concentration on her face. “Hey, you want some lunch?” I pull out my phone. “We could Door Dash something.”

“Oh, okay.”

“You’re not hungry?”

“I am.”

“But?”

“Are we going to the storage unit?”

Disappointment floods through me. I look at the time. It’s after two. I can’t believe it, we’ve been here several hours already.

“Sorry, the time just flew by.” I really thought she was having as much fun as I was. “So, food? I don’t think we need to go see the materials. Seeing what you did with the layout, well, I really want you to pick everything.”

“You do?”

“Well, I’m going to have to keep an eye on the budget. I still want the project to make money.”

I’m actually willing to just break even, maybe even take a little loss on this one. The point of it is to get the show. But you never tell a subcontractor that the sky’s the limit.

“Of course. Honestly that is going to be the hardest part for me. I don’t have a good…mental database of what things cost.”

I sit down on the step. She comes and sits next to me. She smells fresh and slightly flowery. I sniff my shoulder. I’ve picked up the mustiness of the house. I’m not sure how she didn’t. She’s looking at me and I’m pretty sure she’s thinking ‘What the fuck is he doing?’

“So, in Park Slope I usually get Indian food. Do you like Indian food?”

“I’ve only had it once. I went down to Milwaukee.”

“Do you trust me?” She nods. “Okay, how hot do you like it?”

“Oh, I can handle the heat.”

I bet you can,I think. Oh, man, I have to stop this. It will never work. My goal—I remind myself for the thousandth time—is to get out of New York and back to Hollywood. I can’t screw this up by…screwing around.

I place the order and we go back inside.

“I’ll show you the cabinets I usually use.”

“Can we talk color?” I cover my face with my hands. She tugs at them. “What are you doing?”

“Color scares the hell out of me,” I confess.

“Oh, it’s not that bad. I mean it can be. Once I painted my bedroom purple. I thought it would be dark and mysterious, but it was way too bright. When I walked in there it was like a slap in the face.”

“I did that once, but it was yellow. Taxicab yellow. My dad told me it was a mistake—”

“Well, see, we’ve both learned. We can do this. Now I was thinking…”

She explains her plan for warm colors for one unit and cool colors for the other. Something about compensation for the light since warm is invigorating and cool is calming. We go back inside, and she shows me the color boards she did on her laptop.

“I could only do so much. You really need samples.”

She sounds like she is apologizing, which is ridiculous.

“You did a lot. All of this in just one night.”

“Yes, no, sort of.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve been rolling ideas around in my head since we first talked about it. All day at work—”

“How can you work and think about this stuff?”

I’d have to stare at it, give it my full attention. And I still wouldn’t be able to make any decisions. Hence, white. Lots and lots of white.

“It’s not that hard.” She lifts her hands up and mimes pouring something. “Regular or decaf?”

“You don’t like your job much.”

“I’m not complaining. It’s a good job. Everyone is nice. The tips are amazing.”

“But this is what you love to do.” She nods. “I get it. That’s how I feel about acting. I can’t really get that excited about another renovation. I know there will be setbacks and we will get through them, but it just isn’t…”

“Your passion.”

“No.”

When the food shows up, we head back out to the backyard and eat in the sunshine. Then we spend the afternoon picking out cabinets and bathroom fixtures. I’m actually able to help with that and we even start a spreadsheet for the budget based on Chelsea’s selections. I glance over our totals and nod.

“Should we head back?”

She’s smiling and I smile back, trying not to let on how let down I am that our time together is ending. Should I ask her to dinner? We just spent all day together. We could go home and clean up and go to one of the cozy restaurants on Montague.

Or maybe down to Henry’s End. Shit, I should have made a reservation. We’ll never get in there.

“There’s a wine bar down on Henry,” I tell her as I’m locking up the brownstone. “Would you like to go there tonight?”

It will be crowded but it’s just wine. You don’t need a table.

“Oh, not tonight,” she says. “But thanks.”

When we get in the truck, she checks her phone and starts typing frantically. The BQE is backed up, people heading into the city for Saturday night.

“I can’t believe the traffic.”

I want to ask her if she has to be somewhere. Like a date. But if the answer is yes, I really don’t want to know. Finally, we get to Atlantic Avenue and get off the highway. There is one thing we have to talk about though.

“When do you think we can get the ring?”

“The ring?”

“The network meeting is on Thursday. Can you go Monday to get it?”

“Monday should work,” she says slowly.

“Okay, let me know what time.”

“Scott?”

“What?”

“You’re just borrowing the ring, right? I mean you said the guy was a friend.”

“He’s not exactly a friend, I just know him.”

“But you are borrowing it?”

Doubtful, I think. I don’t really want to lie to her.

“I can cover it, don’t worry,” I say, resisting the urge to pat her leg.

“But after the show you can return it?”

Also doubtful. But there’s only one thing I can say.

“Sure.”