Chapter 14
TONE IT DOWN, ROMEO.
Scottie
The kitchen looks even worse under the studio lighting the producers insisted we use.
Which does nothing to ease the anxiety that’s been building up inside of me.
It has been raining non-stop all week, causing delays and issues with getting the materials we need to complete projects.
I kept insisting there has to be something we can do inside to keep things moving along, but Andrea was adamant that we would be fine and we’re still on track to complete the house on time.
So instead, I filled the time.
I took a trip to the General Store to stock my fridge and spent a lot of hours back in the apartment, spreading the same floor plans I drafted up across the table and making sure they are absolutely perfect for the rest of the episodes.
Even with the dreary weather still lingering today, it’s let up enough that we can move forward.
They needed to brighten up the space with studio lights so the cameras can capture everything.
However, it only makes every stain brighter, every crack louder, and every crooked cabinet door feel like it’s mocking me.
No matter what lighting it’s in, though, this room is a disgrace.
The entire kitchen is painted mustard yellow.
Old, stained linoleum floors and cabinets painted in multiple shades of white with mismatched handles.
Ideally, I’d like to gut the entire thing, install all-new cabinets, and completely reshape this space.
But it’s not feasible. Not for the timeline to get this done on time.
Instead, we’re pulling the doors off the existing cabinets and replacing them. The base of them is sturdy and could use a good cleaning, but it works.
Even though my mom’s voice in my head tells me I can’t fix this, deep down, I know I can.
I plant my hands on my hips, trying to channel my bold confidence for the camera, rather than my rising panic.
The camera starts rolling, and I circle the space to take it all in one more time before announcing my plan to the camera for the start of the episode.
“I’m very excited about this space in the home.
I believe this will be one of our biggest projects to tackle, but once it’s finished, I see it becoming the room everyone wants to be in.
” I extend an arm to showcase what is there now.
“I know we went through this in one of the earlier episodes, but as you can see, these cabinets really need a facelift.” I move to the wall and cringe in front of the camera.
“And this color…needs to go.” I laugh lightly, letting my eyes travel to each corner of the room.
“When I picture this room completed, I see creamy white paint on the walls to make the sage green cabinets I envision really pop.”
“Are you sure about that?” Tucker says, catching the end of my sentence as he walks into the kitchen.
Just seeing him sucks all the air from my lungs.
Because of the rain, I haven’t seen him since the night he drove me home from the bar, which was almost a week ago.
I had to put some space between us before I let my body follow what it wants, versus my head telling me to keep my distance so I don’t get hurt again.
We were so close to doing something neither of us could take back.
I almost let myself fall into him when my desire was loud enough to drown out every warning.
I chose distance over instinct. Staring at the ceiling all night, I don’t know if I saved myself, or walked away from something I wanted.
“What do you mean, am I sure?”
He shrugs, stepping into my space, making the kitchen feel way smaller than it is. “I’m just saying, you should consider something neutral. Something timeless.”
“Sage green is neutral.”
“It’s also going to look like leprechauns threw up on the cabinets.”
I narrow my eyes. “You know you’re only funny when you’re wrong, right?”
“Then I must be hilarious around you, babe.”
The camera guy snorts, and I turn on my heel before Tucker sees the way he so casually calls me babe makes my cheeks heat.
“Let’s just start by removing the doors,” he says, his tone shifting into that infuriating practical contractor mode. “These need to be gone before we figure out anything else. And there’s no sense in doing the flooring until tomorrow if the cabinet debris is going to fall on it.”
“That works, and then we can work on widening the window before we demo this wall that I want to get rid of.” I gesture to the wall behind him.
His eyes narrow. “Window, yes. Wall, no.”
“No?” I cross my arms over my chest. “Last I checked, this was my project. And if I want to open up this room, then I should be able to open up this room.”
Something that resembles annoyance flashes across his face, but it’s gone before I can even blink. He turns around, placing a hand on the wall and running his fingers along the old paint—assessing the entire thing.
“I told you before, this is a weight-bearing wall. It needs to be here,” he says, his back to me. “I double-checked it and it’s not safe to tear it down,” he whispers, more for himself to hear than me.
I want to protest more.
I want to offer a solution like a pillar or something.
But I can’t find the words.
The way he says it, tells me that the wall is a trigger for him. I know it in my bones. I may not know what or why it is, but my gut tells me he’s carrying the weight of something far greater than he wants anyone to see.
“Okay,” I say, clapping my hands together to snap him out of wherever his head just went. He turns to face me, almost startled by my clap. “We keep the wall. Let’s get these doors off and tackle the plan for the day. Minus your misguided thoughts on cabinet color.”
He laughs, shaking his head as he moves toward one of the cabinet doors.
I exhale a sigh of relief that whatever that was moments ago has vanished, as if it never happened.
I stare at him—muscles exposed in his white tank top, tool belt hung low on his hips over his dark wash jeans.
As much as it pains me to admit it, Tucker is hot, and I can’t even deny that.
My attention drifts before I can stop it. I watch his forearms flex and something warm curls low in my stomach, shooting right between my legs. I shift my weight, suddenly thinking about how small the kitchen feels with him in it.
I hate that my body remembers him even when my mind is trying to forget.
He works effortlessly to remove one of the upper cabinets and then another. Still, I haven’t moved from where I stand in the middle of the kitchen as I watch him work. I know I need to move, I need to do something, but he has me in a trance right now.
“I like it when you watch me work, Scottie,” he says with his back to me. Slowly, he faces me, dusting his hands off with a grin on his face. “But we’d get closer to the leprechauns moving in today if you help me out here.”
“Right,” I say quickly, hurrying to the lower cabinets on the island in the center of the room. “But for the record, I wasn’t watching you.”
“If that’s what you need to tell yourself.”
Reaching down, I grab hold of one of the doors, ignoring the tremor in my hands. I can’t keep letting him throw me off balance like this because everything needs to go perfectly—the show, the house…me.
If everything comes together perfectly, I’m safe.
If I succeed in this project, people will trust me and see me as a professional.
If I do this right, my parents will—
The cabinet door slips from my grip, and the pointed corner slams down right on top of my foot. “Shit,” I hiss, hopping back.
Tucker is behind me instantly. “Are you okay? Let me see.”
“No, it’s fine,” I protest, sitting down on the ground and waving him off even though the tears sting the edges of my eyes.
Not from pain, but from humiliation.
“Scottie,” he says, his voice so low that even the cameras won’t be able to pick it up. He places his palm on my thigh, and my body burns, in a good way, from the contact. “I’m here. Let me help.”
The softness—God, the softness in his voice disarms me more than the pain.
When I no longer protest, he crouches low, lifting my foot gently into his hand and removing my sneaker with his other hand.
His thumb sweeps over the top of my foot.
The contact sends a sharp pulse through me that has nothing to do with pain.
My breath catches and I clamp my jaw shut, because if I don’t and allow myself to react, I’m not sure I’ll ask him to stop.
My eyes track the way his fingers assess the red mark, then up to his face, where I see worry etched in every feature.
“I don’t think it’s broken, but you’re going to get a pretty nasty bruise.”
“Great,” I mutter. “Maybe the bruise will distract me from my embarrassment.”
He laughs under his breath. A warm, rumbling sound that pulls something buried deep inside of me. He reaches a hand down, and I look from his face to his hand, and then back to him before I accept his help to get off the floor. He lifts me effortlessly, using one hand on my upper arm to brace me.
We stand inches apart. His gaze drops to my mouth, and I feel it like a pull.
I tilt my chin up without thinking, drawn forward by something stronger than reason.
He inhales sharply and stills, like he’s hit an invisible wall that I’m glad is there.
Instead, with his free hand, he reaches up, brushing his fingers through my hair to get it out of my face before his fingers trail down my neck over the pounding pulse.
“You have to stop looking at me like that,” I whisper, letting my eyes flutter closed.
He leans in, lips hovering over the shell of my ear as his voice drops low. “Like what?”
I swallow, before I pull back as our gazes lock again. “Like I’m yours.”
The corner of his mouth ticks up, and that look—fuck, that look. It sends my pulse into overdrive. I want to take back the words, and I feel myself bracing for whatever his next words will be.