Dream Home (Bluestone Lakes #3)

Prologue

ALL GREAT LOVE STORIES START WITH A CORNY PICKUP LINE.

Scottie

I feel like I’m two seconds away from hyperventilating into a paper bag from nerves, now that I’m in San Francisco for this interview tomorrow.

But at least I look good.

Swiping through the dozen timed selfies I took a bit ago in front of the view at the Golden Gate lookout, I know my social media followers are going to eat this up.

I’m dressed in a neon yellow blazer, black ankle-length dress pants, statement earrings, and a pair of matching neon yellow heels sharp enough to be registered as weapons.

It’s bold, bright, and unapologetic.

I pick my top three selfies and upload them to social media with the caption: Big things are coming.

After I upload it, I switch to a map app and find I’m only one block from the burger bar I found while doom scrolling at the airport. Apparently, it’s a must-visit when visiting San Francisco. As luck would have it, it’s so close to my hotel, too.

And what I need right now is a drink to take the edge off.

Tomorrow, I have an interview with a panel of producers who could offer me a dream job to be the feature for the next season of my favorite home renovation show called Nailed It or Failed It.

On a whim, I submitted an application when I heard they were looking for someone.

They must have received thousands of submissions from actual professionals and people with real portfolios or larger followings.

Somehow, they still picked me for an in-person interview.

I’ve been sick with nerves ever since because I want—no, I need—this chance to prove I’m more than a face behind bright colors, some brand deals, and a decent editing app.

I want a chance to prove I belong in this industry.

It’s also a shot to finally get out of my parents’ house.

I’ve spent the last few years doing DIY project tutorials with paint-stained nails and plaster dust in my hair before spending late nights video editing, all for this moment.

So, naturally, instead of rehearsing my answers to the interview questions they sent over in my hotel room, I’m headed to drown the nerves with booze.

“You have arrived at your destination,” the GPS says.

I look up at the sign, and it’s…not what I was expecting.

The outside looks weathered, but I pull the door open anyway.

This bar is essentially a hole-in-the-wall establishment.

I’m not one to wander into a bar like this alone, especially one that smells like old wood, spilled beer, and someone’s questionable cologne.

I scan the room and it’s busy. My eyes land on an open bar seat and I take it. My phone rings in my purse, pulling my attention. Looking down, I reluctantly swipe to answer.

“Hello, Mom.”

“Scottlyn? Can you hear me?” she practically yells through the phone, causing me to pull the phone away from my ear while I cringe at the use of my full name—which she knows I hate.

“Yes. Can you hear me?”

“Barely. There’s so much shouting and music around you. Where are you?”

“I’m at a little spot in San Francisco called Between the Buns to grab dinner.”

“Shouldn’t you be preparing for your interview?” my mom asks, full of judgment. “And did you bring the notes I gave you? The ones about how you should explain the remodel we did?”

“I was just grabbing some food. And—”

She scoffs, cutting me off. “Haven’t you heard of room service? You should be in your hotel room preparing and, most importantly, figuring out what to wear. These producers are going to want someone polished and put together.”

And there it is.

The only thing my mother ever worries about is appearances.

But that’s how it’s always been.

If I fail at anything, it reflects back on her.

“You’re right,” I lie to keep things at bay. “I’m going to grab my burger to go and head back to the hotel. Thanks for calling to check on me.”

“Just…try not to get your hopes up, Scottlyn. These shows tend to go with someone more established.”

“I know,” I say, even though I don’t want to. “Love you.”

“Love you too,” she replies flatly before hanging up.

I release a sigh, pocket my phone in my small purse and rest it on my lap. At the same time, the bartender stops in front of me.

“What can I get for you today?”

“I need something that says, I have my life together.”

“Good luck,” a man beside me says, and I snap my head in his direction. “I don’t think any bartender has been able to figure out that drink for years.”

Piercing blue eyes stay fixed on me, leaving me speechless.

I think my mouth is open, so I make a point to close it.

He’s dressed in casual jeans and a deep brown Henley shirt, showing off forearms that are tan and muscular.

His messy brown hair peeks out from the sides of his backward baseball cap.

A freakin’ backward baseball cap.

Christ. He’s good looking.

As if he knows what I’m thinking, a grin spreads across his face. I remind myself to breathe as my eyes trail where he stands. A glass already in his hand, amber liquid catching the bar light. I feel my lips curling into a smile, too.

I arch a brow. “Whiskey guy?”

He shakes his head. “More like a bourbon guy. Whiskey makes me feel old.”

“And how old are you?”

“Twenty-four next week. And you?”

“Twenty-four now.”

“And she’s funny too,” he says, nodding repeatedly in approval as he turns to face the bartender. “I’ll have another bourbon. Whatever you decide to make her, you can put it on my tab.”

The bartender acknowledges him and then moves around behind the bar to make both drinks.

“What are we drinking to this afternoon?”

I lift my chin, straightening my spine. “If I go down in flames tomorrow, I may as well start the journey with this delicious drink, a bacon cheeseburger, and fries loaded with cheese sauce.”

His grin widens, and it almost makes my stomach flutter as he takes the seat next to me. “Then we can go on it together.”

“Together?”

He nods. “We’re ordering drinks together, are we not?

We’ll need a second round for the fun we’re about to have.

Then we can order burgers—two different ones, obviously, to split and try both…

” He pauses, deep in thought before lifting a pointer finger in the air as if a lightbulb just went off. “And the cheese fries to share.”

“Who said I want to share my cheese fries with a stranger?”

He holds up a finger again. “One, I like you already for the fact that you want your own. My kind of girl.” He winks and then narrows his eyes as if he’s thinking.

“Now that I think about it, I might not want to share if they are as good as the internet says they are.” He holds up a second finger.

“Two.” He extends the same hand in front of me. “I’m Tucker.”

I look at his hand and back to his face, realizing I’ve already been smiling this entire time.

Then he grins broadly, with his hand still extended. “See? Now we’re not strangers anymore.”

I reluctantly take his hand in mine. The moment our palms connect I feel a shock to my system. Call it an electrical current or a lightning strike—whatever it is, it almost knocks me off my barstool. There’s a chance he felt it, too, with how his eyes just snapped to my hand in his.

“I’m Scottie,” I tell him, forcing his eyes to meet mine again.

“Scottie.” He pauses, processing it. “I like that. It suits you.”

“How so?”

“You look like a walking ray of sunshine in this dingy bar. I was drawn to you the moment I walked in here.” I look down at my bold outfit choice. “In a good way,” he adds with a laugh.

I shrug. “I figured if I spilled some cheese sauce on it, you wouldn’t be able to tell.”

“Dammit. I wish I had thought to wear a yellow shirt, too,” he says in a serious tone, as if he really was wishing he had.

The bartender stops in front of us, sliding our drinks across the bar. “Bourbon for you,” he says to Tucker. “And a tequila sunrise for you.”

“Ah, good man,” I say, taking the drink between my hands and sipping it. My eyes practically roll behind my head at how good it is. “Tequila is like the duct tape of the soul.”

The bartender laughs. “Can I get you two something to eat?”

I point a finger between the two of us. “Oh, we’re not together.”

“We are,” Tucker says too quickly.

“No…we’re not.”

He shrugs, but that damn smile doesn’t leave his face.

“I’m going to have the barbecue cheeseburger, and then we’ll take a bacon cheeseburger, too.

Best of both worlds,” he says, winking in my direction.

“And two orders of cheese fries.” He snaps his head to face me.

“You’re not allergic to barbecue sauce or bacon, are you? ”

I laugh and shake my head.

“Whew. That would have been a deal breaker.”

I wish I could wrap my head around what is happening right now.

The bartender leaves to plug our order into the register, and I do nothing to stop him or defend that I’m not actually with this stranger.

Tucker is the most unexpected thing to happen, but it’s also come at a time when I need it the most. Like the universe knew I needed this distraction to take my mind off the stress.

“So, Scottie, what brings you to San Francisco?”

“I have a job interview.” That’s not a lie, but I won’t give him more than that. If I start diving deeper into it, it stops being light. And I really need light right now. “You?”

“Leisure. My best friend works for the San Francisco Staghorns, and I tagged along to keep him company.”

“That’s really nice of you.”

“What can I say, I’m a nice guy.”

I roll my eyes playfully, fighting off the laugh.

It’s a foreign feeling for me to be smiling this much when I’m not creating perfectly curated social media content.

I spend so much of my time editing the rougher edges of who I am and polishing myself into a version that will please everyone. Especially my parents.

This feels good with Tucker.

This feels free with him.

And it’s only been a short period of time.