Chapter 8
DO YOU EVER STOP ARGUING WITH ME?
Tucker
I had to walk away.
I just needed one minute to catch my breath after hearing her talk and do her first segment for the cameras.
She’s…captivating. The way the light catches her golden blonde hair—bright and soft at the same time.
Just watching her in front of a house that’s standing on its last leg, she somehow manages to bring life back into the property again.
I mean, hell, if anyone can bring this place back to life, maybe it’s her.
Watching from off to the side, I see the crew gathering up their things to make it toward the front porch. Andrea scans the front lawn, finds me, and waves me over. It takes me a minute, but I push off the old work truck and allow my feet to cross the yard to where everyone stands.
With every step I take, my mind can’t help but travel back to that night with Scottie. I know I agreed to do this whole fake dating on screen thing with her, but I’m struggling to stuff down the way my body reacts to her. The need to be near her—to look at her.
“We’re going to start your segment out here,” Andrea tells me. “Let’s get a mic pack on you.”
They waste no time tucking a mic pack into the back pocket of my jeans and snaking it up the front of my shirt to clip onto the neckline of my T-shirt. I can’t help but smirk when I notice Scottie’s eyes trailing to my exposed abdomen when they lift my shirt.
“See something you like?”
Her gaze snaps up to mine, glaring. “Just figuring out how I can grab hold of that cord and strangle you with it.”
I laugh. “You wound me, Scottie.”
She rolls her eyes, and we both face Andrea. “You two act like you’ve been married for years. It’s wild.”
I almost snort. Married? Hell, I don’t even date. I don’t build anything with someone that can fall apart in my hands. I’m much better off keeping my life simple and unattached to anyone, otherwise I risk someone knocking down every wall I’ve ever put up.
This arrangement with Scottie…it’s nothing more than that.
The film crew gives us the signal they’re ready. We both set up, and the camera faces us. “We’re rolling in three…two…” And they point toward us, and a red light flashes on.
“This here is my…contractor, Tucker Daniels,” Scottie says. Andrea rolls a finger in the air, urging her to continue. “But he also happens to be my boyfriend,” Scottie adds hesitantly, and Andrea nods in approval.
I lift a hand to the air in greeting. “Hey there. Guess I’m the lucky guy who gets to turn all this”—I gesture behind us at the house— “into whatever she’s dreamed up.”
Scottie tilts her head to look at me. “You mean whatever we’ve dreamed up.”
“That’s what I said, babe.”
The crew behind the camera chuckles.
Looking down at her, I smile when I see her eyes still on me, so sharp I swear they can shoot daggers right through me. “You didn’t,” she says through gritted teeth.
I wrap an arm around her, pulling her into me, and I laugh. “No, but it sounded better when you said it.”
Scottie clears her throat, and I don’t miss the way her cheeks pink as she looks back to the camera. “For our walk through, let’s start with the porch. It’s supposed to be the most welcoming part of the home, and as you can see,” she says, gesturing around us. “It’s kind of scary to be honest.”
She laughs and just like every other time I’ve heard that sound from her, it settles into me. In an easy and familiar way, doing nothing to help my focus on the cameras in front of me.
“When I picture this porch finished,” she continues, “I can see a hanging loveseat swing off to the side here.” She smiles as she looks from the empty space to the small roof above us and back to the space. “A nice throw blanket over—”
“A swing won’t hold.”
Her eyes widen briefly, as if taken back by the suddenness of my voice. “What do you mean?”
I point to the roof over the porch. “This structure is very old. And I can’t see what’s under those panels yet. But based on what I can see from here, it won’t safely support the weight of a swing and two people.”
Her face falls and her shoulders dip for a second before she catches herself, smoothing it out like it never happened.
“I don’t want to put something here that could hurt someone,” I add.
“Okay,” she says, nodding once.
“But talk to me about the rest of it,” I say, tilting my head toward the porch under our feet. “If the swing’s off the table for now, what’s your plan for the space itself?”
She straightens her posture, relief threading back into her expression. “I’d like to refinish the entire thing: clean white slats and wider posts. I’m going for the classic but polished look.”
I shrug. “Polished often means expensive. It also means impractical.”
“Practicality isn’t the goal for the porch, Tucker.” She says my name with a warning tone. “A welcoming beauty is what I’m going for. You can tell a lot about the inside of the house from the outside.”
I hold up my hands in defense. “I get that. All I’m saying is we should consider using treated lumber.”
She exhales, closing her eyes and pinching the bridge of her nose. “Do you ever stop arguing with me?”
“Nope. It’s part of my charm.” I wink.
“You’re insufferable.”
I lean in close, and the faint smell of coffee and vanilla hits my senses. I let it linger before I cover the mic on my shirt with one hand and let the other rest on the small of her back. “Yeah, but you secretly love it,” I whisper.
She doesn’t step away from where my hand rests on her back, but turns to look directly into the camera.
“Like I was saying, this porch is one of my favorite spots,” she continues, her voice steady.
“I want to create a place that feels cozy yet welcoming. A place where someone can sit, enjoy their coffee, and just breathe in the fresh air.”
The cameras cut out for a moment as Andrea tells us we’re going to head inside now. I don’t register much of anything she’s saying because the only thing I’m thinking about is how I can’t seem to keep my hands off Scottie, and how she’s not pushing me away.
And right now, I’m taking every minute I can.
Because standing next to her, watching her talk about bringing light to something broken, and turning this old house into something worth saving…
It makes me wonder if I could be saved.
She wants this house to represent second chances.
And maybe I do, too.
The camera crew follows us in as we head through the front door. Dust fills the air as we walk through, kicking up everything in the process.
I’ve thought about the inside of this place a dozen or so times whenever I came to this property for quiet and to look at the stars.
I built this image in my head that the inside was perfectly put together, and it was just the outside that was weathered.
But standing here now, I realize there was never anything to preserve.
It’s hollow—like someone packed up the memories of the place and left the shell behind.
I understand that more than I’d like to admit.
I follow Scottie through the house, stepping carefully over the warped floorboards.
Once we enter the open living space, Scottie stops and faces the camera.
“This is the living room. It has great bones, but I want to open up this wall,” she says, tapping the one to the side of her.
“It will create a more open-floor concept, and I’d also like to add custom built-ins around the fireplace with modern lighting,” she says moving around the space.
Then she stops in the middle and points a finger at the ceiling—and I cringe.
“And most definitely investigate the water damage in the ceiling before replacing any drywall.”
The longer I stare at the ceiling, I wonder if any second now will be the moment it decides to give way and fall on top of everyone in this room. It looks dangerous. It looks ready to cave.
She finishes by telling the camera about the type of couch she can see and where she would place a TV before crossing the room and heading toward the archway leading into the next room.
“As you can see, this is the kitchen.”
The tone in her voice pulls my attention away from the mustard yellow scattered around the space and onto her. The last time I saw this exact look on her face was back in San Francisco. It’s one that radiates pure joy.
“If you can’t tell, it’s a total gut job.
It’s wildly outdated with mismatched cabinets and old linoleum flooring.
But even with it looking like this…there’s something about a kitchen that makes me feel alive.
” She pauses, looking around and closing her eyes as if she envisions everything in this one space.
I’m transfixed by the way she looks right now that I can’t tear my eyes away.
“When you think of a family gathering, it’s usually in a space like this.
Everyone surrounding the island and enjoying appetizers over the holidays. ”
And then just like that, something shifts in her features.
A sadness takes the place of the spot where joy just lived. I know what she’s thinking because I’ve gone through the motions a hundred times myself.
A memory just hit her.
One she can’t place, but hits just the same.
She shakes her head, looking at the camera and you can see by the way her eyes suddenly widen that she’s nervous they caught that raw moment of vulnerability.
“I have to agree on the sentiments of the kitchen,” I say, forcing the film crew to swivel the camera on their tripod to where I stand off to the side. “However, we can’t get rid of this wall.”
“Of course we can’t,” she says lightly, but there’s a tight edge under the smile she flashes for the camera. “But every great kitchen renovation starts with the sentence ‘we can’t do that.’ Which basically means, we can.”
A laugh ripples from behind the camera.
“Every great kitchen also starts with the house still standing,” I say, crossing the kitchen. I knock on another wall off to the side. “But this one definitely has to go.”
“We can’t just rip out any wall, Tucker. I want that one gone,” she says, pointing to the first one, then points back to where I stand. “That one gives the room character.”
“Mold is a kind of character?”
She glares at me. “You’re infuriating sometimes.”
“And yet…devastatingly handsome.”
I hear more snickers off from behind the camera and we both turn to face them. Andrea is whispering something to Jade before directing their attention back to us.
“Perfect. Let’s keep that flirty and playful vibe.”
Scottie rolls her shoulders like she’s resetting herself, then turns back to the space around us. She then carefully steps closer to me. “Is there anything we can do to make this work?” she asks quietly.
The cameras are still rolling and the crew is practically breathing down our neck, but suddenly it doesn’t feel like a show anymore. She stops performing for the lens, and starts looking at the room like it might actually matter what happens to it.
“Talk to me, Scottie.”
She faces me, and there’s a sudden sad and pleading look in her eyes.
“I don’t know much about this house, but before I came here, my dad told me how, ever since my grandfather died, a light went out in here.
My grandma tried for years to bring it back, but she was never able to.
I know it sounds silly, but I really think that opening up the space will help make this place feel alive again. ”
Something about the way she says it makes me want to rush out the door, find any tool I can and cut windows everywhere just to bring the light back for her.
I move closer without thinking, stopping at her side and letting my hand settle on her lower back again.
She doesn’t flinch. “How about this,” I start, pointing to the window overlooking the sink and she follows.
“We can widen that window into a farmhouse style that stretches longer than the length of the sink. We can even frame it out higher since we have some overhead room to work with.”
“Yeah?”
She looks up at me and I nod. “And we can definitely talk about the wooden pillars over the beams.”
“You sure?”
“Yep.”
Her mouth curves, subtle but real. “See?” she says to the camera. “This is why you bring in someone who actually knows what they’re doing.”
“Only when it comes to beams.”
“And mold.”
“And mold,” I agree with a laugh.
For the next hour we keep moving through the house, falling into an easy rhythm. We disagree just enough to make it interesting and agree often enough that it feels natural.
Which is exactly what this is supposed to be.
Pretend.
Except standing close to her in every room we stopped in and watching her light up when an idea clicks into place. Or the way her hands move when she’s mapping something invisible in the air—it feels dangerously close to something real.