Chapter 4 - Scott
“I need a fiancée,” I say. “And I was wondering if you would consider it.”
It sounded bad in my head. Out loud it sounds even worse. And Chelsea is looking at me like she thinks I’m nuts. I’m not sure she’s wrong.
“Just…hear me out, okay?” I say quickly. I hold my hands up in a gesture I hope shows I mean her no harm. “Believe it or not this is an interior design opportunity.”
That was the right thing to say. Her face lights up. When she opened the door earlier, I was kind of taken aback. I hadn’t given much thought to what Myles’s cousin would look like. She’s a knockout.
Then I found out she was a fan too. The residuals from the movie rise and fall. A new installment means I can expect a bigger check, not that I need the money now. These days if I want a fun night with some woman who is on the fence, I can usually seal the deal talking about the movie. Generally, I kind of hate to bring it up. But I can’t deny my brief brush with stardom has always been dependable for that.
But a one-night stand with my new tenant would probably end up being more trouble than it is worth. Plus, she is Myles’s cousin and we’re pretty friendly. He’s a good guy. I kind of agreed to look out for her. I’m pretty sure banging her the first night she’s in New York wasn’t what he had in mind.
“Okay, I’m listening,” she says.
She’s still giving me the evil eye, but I figure I have to explain it now. Either way we’re going to spend the next two years avoiding each other.
“I had a pitch meeting today.”
“I…don’t know what that is.”
I can tell she feels bad about that.
“Nobody does,” I reassure her. “I went to a meeting with some network executives.” I don’t think a damn one of them was an executive—fucking Ollie, man. “I have an idea for a TV show, and they agreed to hear it.”
“Oh,” she says. I’ve got her attention. “That’s cool.”
“It didn’t go well,” I admit. “They liked my idea, sort of.”
“What was your idea?”
“Why don’t I show you?” I say. “Come inside.”
She makes a face.
“Oh, sorry,” I say. “Look, wait here, I’ll get the stuff.”
I get up and she does too.
“I’ll come inside,” she says. “I’m just being silly. My mom…anyway, I did text my best friend that I was going out to dinner with you.”
“Great,” I say. “I promise you’re safe with me.” I pause. “That’s probably what a serial killer would say, isn’t it?”
“Probably,” she says.
I lead her through the first floor. I added extra space to this level so it’s even bigger than her apartment and it’s only the first floor. There are two more floors above us, plus a walk up finished attic space.
She looks around and I can almost see the wheels turning in her designer head. My style, if you want to call it that, is minimalistic. Mostly because I’m afraid of getting it wrong.
I gesture for her to sit at the kitchen counter.
“Water or something?” I ask. She nods. “Plain, sparkling?”
“Sparkling.”
I have plenty of alcohol, but this isn’t a date. This is more of a business proposition. Heck, I’m not even sure what this is.
I pour us each a glass of plain seltzer and open up the folder. She isn’t shy and reaches for the designs I’ve printed out.
“So, my pitch was a renovation show,” I say. “I’m sure you’ve seen them.”
“Loads,” she says, studying the printouts.
She puts it down and starts flipping through the photographs.
“I didn’t get the show,” I say.
At that she looks up at me. I decide to lay it all out there. Maybe she’ll take pity on me.
“I have a good life,” I say. “A great one, even. But when I was in the movie, I thought I was going to be a big star. I know it’s shallow. I am grateful for what I have.”
“I don’t think it’s shallow necessarily,” she says. “Everyone has a dream, right?”
“I thought if I got this show, Hollywood would notice me again. I’d get my foot in the door, you know? That was my plan anyway,” I conclude miserably.
She taps the photos into a neat stack and replaces them in the folder.
“I don’t see what that has to do with me.”
“Right,” I say. “They liked the idea, but they said they wanted a couple. Contractor and interior designer who are in a relationship.”
“So, you think.” She pauses and I watch her put the pieces together. “Oh,” she says. “Well, for starters I’m not a designer. Not yet anyway.”
“I don’t believe in coincidences,” I say. “I believe things happen for a reason.”
I really do. Passionately. I don’t bother to tell her I’ve never felt that way until today.
She starts to stand up. I want to reach out and put my hand on her arm, but I don’t. She can leave if she wants.
“Just hear me out, okay?” I plead. “There’s a lot of positives in this, for both of us.”
“Really,” she says, folding her arms and staring at me.
“You said at dinner you needed to find a job. This is a job, in interior design. You have to admit that is a pretty big plus.”
“Oh yeah,” she says. “How much does it pay?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “We didn’t get that far. But I’ll give you whatever they pay me too. And if that still isn’t enough, I’ll throw in some more money.”
“Is this even legal?”
“I could hire you as a designer in my company if I needed to,” I say. “You’d just be an employee. I mean, you’d actually be doing the interior design work, right?”
“I don’t know, this seems crazy.”
“It does, but it also makes perfect sense in a way.” I get up and head over to the refrigerator. “You want some ice cream?”
“What?”
I take a couple of pints out of the freezer and put them on the counter.
“Rocky road or chocolate chip?” I offer. “Or a little of both?”
“Rocky road,” she says. “But I don’t know how you can be thinking about ice cream when we’re talking about getting engaged.”
“It’s not a real engagement,” I say. “Just something that we do to help each other out.”
“You get the show—”
“And you get a great, well-paying job that’s in the field you want to be in. Think about it, you’ll be an interior design star while you’re still in school.”
“Yes, but pretending to be engaged?”
I hand her a bowl and a spoon. She opens the ice cream and attempts to scoop some. It’s rock hard.
“I’ll put it in the microwave for a couple of seconds,” I say and grab the container.
When I hand it back to her, it’s perfect. She serves herself a small portion and takes a bite. I’ve run out of things to say, so I just serve myself, a little of both. Well, serve myself and watch her. She makes eating ice cream off a spoon look very sexy. I’m sure she’s not trying to.
“We’d be lying,” she says. “To everyone.”
“We don’t have to tell people,” I say. “Then once the show wraps, we break up. No hard feelings.”
She flips the folder open and starts studying the plans again. She doesn’t say a word, just keeps eating her ice cream. I put the pints away and tackle my own bowl. I figure she needs time to think so I just let her.
“Why don’t I just help you with the project?” she says. “You know, as an employee, or a friend?”
“They were very specific,” I explain. “No couple, no show.”
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I don’t think I can do this. It’s too…crazy.”
“Okay,” I say.
There’s nothing else to say.
“Why don’t you sleep on it?” I say. “Take my number, you can text me tomorrow.”
“I really can’t—”
“Just promise me you’ll sleep on it.”
She promises, but I can tell she doesn’t mean it. She does put my number in her phone though. I walk her out the front door. She says she doesn’t need me to see her to her door, but I insist.
“Whatever you decide, we can still be friends,” I say, and she nods. “If you need anything for the apartment, let me know.”
“Thanks, Scott,” she says. “It was really nice to meet you.”
She shuts the door in my face. I listen to her locking up. Then I trudge back up the stairs. I’ll be okay, I know I will. But right now, I just want to wallow in my disappointment.