Chapter 8
Monday morning, Poppy awoke early and with a mission. She was going to prove to her auntie and herself that she didn’t back down when things got tough.
She’d had a good and long talk with Jack who promised her he had no idea that there were problems between Poppy and Steve—had no idea they were estranged. He just figured it would be a fun surprise and a way to bring a family feel to the show.
With a promise that Steve would only be on set when absolutely necessary, and that Poppy would get twenty-four-hour notice, she’d agreed to move forward.
A promise she was starting to regret as she walked onto the set. It felt as if Steve were lurking behind every corner. Or another surprise was about to drop. Her body felt too big for her skin.
But big-girl panties and all, she wasn’t going to turn tail and run.
“You sure about this?” Kiki asked.
“Absolutely.”
“You don’t have to prove anything to anyone.”
Poppy stopped in her tracks. “Yes. I do. I need to prove to myself that I’m bigger than my past and that it won’t define me moving forward. He stole my childhood. I’m not going to let him steal one more thing.”
Kiki smacked Poppy on the shoulder. “That’s my girl. Now where to, boss?”
“Kitchen. I’m a ‘first on the site and last to leave’ kind of girl and today is no different.” She believed the early bird gets the worm, and today was no different. She had something to prove. To her new crew and especially her irritating co-host.
Not to mention, herself.
Being an outsider wasn’t a new concept for Poppy.
She’d spent her childhood being teased for not having the latest clothes or clothes that weren’t hand-me-downs.
Kids thought she was weird, teachers thought she was being neglected—and she was.
CPS even showed up a few times for welfare checks.
But no one seemed to do anything to help. It was all empty gestures.
Her dad wasn’t any help. When he left, he went completely AWOL. Not so deep, though, that Poppy couldn’t find him on social media.
At first she wanted to see what he looked like, if he’d aged or still had the same sideways smile he used to.
But what she found was photos of him with his kids—his new kids.
Heartbroken, she watched from the sidelines while he raised his family—a family that didn’t include her.
Not that she was lacking love—her aunt showered her with the love of a hundred parents.
But no matter how hard Poppy tried to forget about her father’s absence and mother’s inability to parent—rejection still cut deep.
Maybe that’s why she hadn’t been able to let go of the events of last week.
Her usual crew was like family, with inside jokes, their own language, and acceptance.
This crew was terrified of her. Which was ridiculous.
One little tantrum shouldn’t set the direction of their relationship.
Only it had, which was why she was determined to make a good second impression.
Unfortunately, her morning had been hijacked by an insistent makeup artist who was determined to make Poppy camera ready. Which apparently included contouring, mascara, and an outfit that made her look like one of those DIY babes who used pink tools.
Then there was Diana, the director of photography who was determined to capture Poppy’s every move, even though the taping hadn’t officially started. As far as Poppy was concerned, filming began with demo and, according to the call sheet, that was still an hour away. Diana didn’t care.
Then there was her posse, comprised of a boom mic operator and a lighting crew—all of whom were hunting Poppy down like a gazelle to their tiger.
Poppy looked over her shoulder at Diana, who was right on her heels, and whispered to Kiki, “I look like an idiot.”
“Can you say that word anymore?” Kiki asked Poppy and, afraid that her friend was right and she’d already blown her first impression with the audience, whipped her head over her shoulder to look at Diana.
“You’re going to tell me when you start filming,” she clarified.
Diana gave a thumbs-up. “You bet.”
“Thank God.” Poppy tugged at the collar of her too-tight-to-be-functional flannel and sighed.
“I mean, this is ridiculous,” she said to Kiki.
“I don’t need a push-up bra and a full face of makeup.
I’m not a Kardashian.” She grimaced at her choice of words and looked over her shoulder again at Diana.
“Not that looking like a Kardashian is a bad thing. It just isn’t my thing.
” Another thumbs-up. “You aren’t filming, right? ”
“Just keep walking,” Diana said and waved her forward.
Built like a linebacker, Diana was an intimidating figure—who smart people didn’t challenge. Considering herself smart, Poppy followed orders and continued down the walkway toward the entry to the house. In the background a loud banging sounded.
“What’s that?” Poppy asked, a tinge of panic settling between her shoulder blades.
“Just keep walking,” Diana said.
“I mean, what kind of self-respecting contractor wears designer jeans on a construction site?” she whispered.
“A bougie one,” Kiki teased.
“You’re not helping.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a glowing red dot on the top of the camera. Her heart pounded against her chest. “Oh my god, you are taping!”
“We tape everything. Just keep moving forward and pretend we’re not here,” Diana said, her tone leaving no room for argument, negotiation, or even the whisper of a different opinion. It was the verbal equivalent of a door clicking shut—and Poppy knew better than to try the handle.
Poppy wrung her hands while following the command.
She was used to being on camera. After all, that’s how she made her money. But on her show her crew consisted of Kiki. Not to mention, she had complete control over the finished product. She felt like a dead man walking thinking about how they were going to edit that conversation.
“Can we just pretend that never happened and leave that bit on the cutting room floor?” she asked Diana.
“Do I look like someone who sits on my ass all day, sipping on a Big Gulp and watching porn on company time?”
“Um, no.”
“Then keep walking.”
Not wanting to alienate yet another crew member, she hid her frustration behind a bright smile and said, “Yes, ma’am.”
More sounds of demolition echoed down the hallway.
Panic in full effect, she picked up the pace and walked through the house and into the kitchen. She still had twenty minutes before everyone arrived, giving her plenty of time to mark what was staying and what was to be demoed.
Red and green painter’s tape in hand, she entered the kitchen, and every last ounce of hope she’d had that this morning would be different knotted in her stomach—tight, hot, rising like she’d swallowed a fist.
The air felt heavier the moment she crossed the threshold, thick with the kind of tension that made her shoulders curl and her pulse quicken in self-defense. It was the same old choreography: one step inside, and her body already braced for impact.
Not only was she the last to show up, but the entire crew was already swinging their sledgehammers. At the helm of this premature demo was Thor himself, directing traffic.
His construction-site-appropriate shirt stuck to chest, and his hair had speckles of Sheetrock dust. Then he lifted his sledgehammer and, holy moly, Thor indeed. If she wasn’t so pissed off, she might have noticed the way his biceps were on the winning side of a war with his sleeves.
Suddenly, his bicep flexed three times in a row. She looked up and he was watching her watch him. To make matters worse, he wore a cocky grin on his face.
“So nice of you to join us, Angel,” he said.
At the sound of her voice, Taters looked up and, with a two-by-four in his mouth, came rushing over. He dropped the wood at her feet like it was a twig and then looked up at her with puppy dog eyes, begging her to throw it.
She hefted it into the other room and he took off, his nails skidding across the wood floor.
She met Decker’s gaze head on. “This was not the time I was told.”
“That was hair and makeup, but we all skipped it so we could get an early start.”
She glared at Kiki who just grinned. “A girl needs to look the part, remember?”
“I’m not a girl.”
“You don’t need to tell me that,” Decker said, and again he flexed his arms.
“Can someone hand me a sledgehammer so I can hit him?”
Clive winced as if the tale of the Wasim-Gate now included premeditated murder.
Decker held out a Barbie-sized sledgehammer with a pink handle. “We all chipped in and got you this.” In his other hand was a bubblegum pink toolbelt with matching tools inside.
She glared at him and decided murder wasn’t off the table after all.
“It’s pink,” she said with horror.
“It matches your lip gloss.”
Don’t let him get to you.
Reciting that in her head like a mantra, she walked over to him and instead of grabbing the pink one, she snatched his. He laughed and the sound made that knot in her belly flip over and do a somersault.
Stupid somersaults.
“It’s not the size that matters, it’s how you use it,” he said.
“That’s what men with tiny pink tools say.”
He walked close to her and whispered, “If you want to see my tool all you have to do is ask.”
A boom mic–shaped shadow moved across the wall and, praying that she was wrong, she looked up to find the fuzzy black monstrosity dangling above them. He followed her gaze and grinned.
“It’s kind of like mistletoe. Does this mean we should kiss?”
“Are you crazy?” she hissed. “They are filming everything we say.”
He shrugged. “Every show needs a little chemistry.”
“He’s got a point,” Kiki said from behind her.
“Again. Not helping.”
Decker stood there, under the boom mic, as if waiting for a kiss. She jabbed a finger at his chest, only for it to ricochet off the kind of solid muscle that made her immediately regret the attempt.
With a shrug he said, “No need to rush things. We’ve got time.”