FIX

Jessica Gadziala

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DEDICATION

For my grandmother. Who, had she not visited

for Easter, and put on the TV, I never would have

gotten this idea.

Also, with the hopes that she doesn't read this.

#NotYourMama's (or grandmama's) romance.

ONE

Brinley

As far as I was concerned, Warren Allen

Reyes was the most obnoxious, bull-headed,
unreasonable, infuriating, intolerable man on the
face of this entire green-and-blue Earth.

I mean, his initials spelled out WAR.
Maybe I should have known, taken it as a

sign from some higher power, turned down the job
to work with him renovating my brother-in-law's
cousin's house.

Me, as the designer, of course.
Him, the contractor.
The world's most inflexible, uncooperative

contractor.

And I'd worked with a lot of them over the

years, so this was saying something since they all
seemed to come with stubbornness encoded in their
DNA.

We'd only been working together for two

weeks, and we were at each other's throats at least
once a day. Because, heaven forbid, I have a little
input on the way he was doing something so it
would fit the owners' taste preferences. Or inform
him that he was deliberately doing the opposite of
what we had agreed to do the day before. Or listen
to him tell me that my plans to reclaim some old
thrift store finds for the wall art in the kitchen
would 'take away' from the architecture.

As if people were ever going to notice what

drill bit he used to round out the edges of the crown
molding under any circumstances anyway.

While they absolutely would make comments

about the accent wall full of old metal artwork that
I had painted in matte bronzes, golds, and wrought
iron.

Don't even get me started on the floor.
Oh, good God, the floor.
But that was a pointed conversation to have

with the owners. Preferably when Warren was not
around.

Which was becoming more and more of a

possibility.

Since I was pretty sure I was about to murder

him.

Yep.
Right there in the concrete-floored, wire-

racked aisles of Home Depot.

Luckily, if I was going to murder someone,

this was just the place for it. Lots of sharp or blunt
or heavy objects to stab, flay, or knock him over
the head with.

"I don't know why you are still looking at the

dividers when we already agreed that we are not
going to do glass-front cabinet doors."

"You decided," he countered, reaching up

above his head to a shelf to drag down one of the
dividers that we were most certainly not going to
need.

"This is a joint effort, Warren," I reminded

him. "We have to agree on these details."

I always tried that route first. Being

reasonable. Calm.

It never lasted long, unfortunately.
Because Warren inevitably said something to

make it impossible to keep my cool.

Like what followed.
"Why don't you stick to the wall art, curtains,

and knick-knacks, and leave the real work to me."

I saw red.
Crimson.
Scarlet.
Ruby.

Freaking clown nose red.
Every shade on the spectrum.
To be fair, I was somewhat easy to rile.

Especially when someone demeaned my work,
made it sound like all I did was shop for throw
pillows and look at paint swatches. It was more
than that. Way more.

Contractors created a house. A structure.

The bones.

I created a home. The blood, the muscle, the

fat, the skin, and hair.

I made it the place you wanted to unwind

after work, kick up your feet, cook dinner, read a
book, watch television, take long, relaxing baths,
make love.

That was what I did.
It was not a small - or easy - task.
And it wasn't about just choosing things off a

shelf that I thought would be appealing. It involved
getting to know the clients, their likes and dislikes,
reconciling the unavoidably different tastes you
found in couples to make them a home they would
both be happy in.

"Look," I snapped, lifting my chin a little.

Not to be haughty, but because the man was a good
foot taller than me, and if I didn't do so, I wouldn't
be able to keep eye-contact. "We're not doing glass-
front cabinets. Case closed."

"Fine, I'll entertain another rant of yours," he

said, sighing out his breath as though I was the
obnoxious one. "Why?"

"Because they are a family of five," I said,

rolling my eyes, amazed I had to remind him of
who the clients were.

"And?"
"And people with a bunch of small children

have a lot on their plates. They also have a lot of
plates. Plastic ones. That don't match. Because
they're for the small children who can't use China.
And they're unsightly. So, why on Earth would they
want to put them on display for everyone to see?
Glass-front cabinets are for perfect people with
perfect dinnerware sets that they are proud to show
off. Our clients are not perfect people with perfect
dinnerware. So they do not want to show it off.
Therefore, we are not doing glass-fronted-freaking-
cabinets."

"Asked a simple question, Brin. No need to

get your panties in a bunch about it."

Oh, holy hell.
"Make another crack about my panties,

Warren. I dare you," I hissed, hand curling around
the handle of one of the poles you could use to
reach things on a higher shelf.

I mean, I wasn't actually going to use it.
Well, I hoped I wouldn't anyway.
Getting an assault charge would probably put

a crimp in my plans for my professional career. But,

really, all they would have to do was put this man
on the stand, and any jury would side with me. He
needed a good, solid whack to the head.

"And you'll what? Bury me in throw

pillows?"

Was there a shade of red deeper than the

ones already mentioned? Because that was what I
was seeing.

I swear, in that moment, I could not be held

accountable for my actions.

"You two are fantastic," a voice broke in,

seeming to sweep back my anger like a fog, making
me turn to find we were not, in fact, alone as I had
thought. Or else I maybe would have tried to keep
my voice lower.

Standing there, I saw a woman maybe in her

forties, clad in black slacks and a matching blazer,
with a bright pop of yellow from her tank beneath
giving the somewhat boring outfit a little
personality. Her dark brown hair was gloriously
streaked in shameless gray - a show of confidence
that I hoped I would have when my hair would
finally decide to revolt on me as well. And because
she owned it, it didn't seem to age her, didn't take
away from the mostly-unlined face and bright blue
eyes.

"I'm sorry?" I asked after glancing around to

make sure there was no one else in the aisle. You
know, like two well-adjusted people who could, in

any situation, be rightly called 'fantastic.'

But there was no one else.
She was speaking to us.
She thought we were fantastic?
Whatever she was on, she needed to dial

back the dosage.

"Let me guess," she went on, putting one

hand to her hip, the other tapping her chin. "You're
the contractor," she guessed, pointing a pale pink
manicured finger at Warren. "And you are the
designer."

"Ah, yeah," I agreed when Warren stayed

silent.

"This is great. I am eating this up. I bet others

would too. What're your names?"

Again, Warren stayed silent, leaving me to

handle the strange woman by myself. "I'm Brinley
Spears. This is Warren."

"Do you have cards?"
"Oh, ah, well. I do," I agreed, going

automatically for my purse, digging for the cute
rose gold business card holder my mom had bought
me when I had graduated design school. Along with
a gift card for an online business card creator.

Warren, as far as I knew, did not have cards.

Or social media. Or an even remotely functioning
website. He'd probably call it 'old school.' I would
be more inclined to call it what it was -
unprofessional in this day and age.

I fished out one of my cards, cute and

minimalistic, a design I found more people were
attracted to after I had tried several different styles.
"Here you go."

"Fantastic. You won't mind if I call you in a

few days, right?"

"Of course not! I try to always answer unless

I am on a job."

"Fantastic," she agreed. "Let me give you

one of mine too," she said, finding her case much
more efficiently, passing it to me in the slick
manner you saw rich men hand off money to
doormen or hotel employees. With that, she went to
walk away, but turned back at the last possible
second, looking both of us over once more,
declaring again, "Just fantastic."

"That was weird as shit," Warren so elegantly

declared when the click of her heels was far enough
in the distance to do so.

Sure, I agreed with him. But, on principle, I

didn't want to do that aloud.

"How can you not have business cards?" I

asked instead as I tucked my case away.

"Get my work through word-of-mouth," he

told me as he put the divider back on the shelf.

I won.
It was maybe a bit immature to think about

business situations as a win or lose competition, but
with Warren Reyes, it absolutely was.

And I had just had a small victory.
"Yes, but that is not the most efficient way to

get business, y'know?" I asked, falling into step
with him - which meant for every one he took, I
needed to hustle to take two - as we moved out of
the aisle, going instead toward the wood which was
where we were supposed to be going anyway. I'd
only tagged along because I needed wood for
frames, and I needed to make sure he got what I
wanted.

"Why do you care?" he shot back, not

bothering to look my way.

Which was maybe a good thing.
His eyes unsettled me.
From the first time we were introduced.
It was odd since I had always been a sucker

for light- colored eyes - blues and greens. And his
were a deep, chocolate-colored brown. I found
them mysterious, I guess. Maybe that had to do
with the fact that he was just an enigma himself.
Him and his short answers and refusal to ever share
any personal details.

But on the rare occasion that he gave me full

eye-contact, I felt a lot like a schoolgirl put on the
spot by a teacher, unsure what to do or say,
forgetting that in this case, we were actually on
equal footing.

He had a good point, though. Why did I

care? What did it matter to me if he didn't make the

best of all opportunities for himself? Heck, it likely
lessened the chance of me having to run into him
again on a job.

I guess I just had a pet peeve about people

who squandered their talents. And he was talented,
as much as I hated to admit that even in my own
head. He didn't cut corners. He didn't go for the
easiest projects. If anything, he seemed to go out of
his way to make sure that every tiny detail was paid
attention to. He took genuine pride in his
craftsmanship.

So why he wouldn't work to expand that, to

get more of a clientele was beyond me.

I mean, I busted ass.
Day, night, weekends, holidays.
I took no days off. Even if I was between

technical jobs, I was up-cycling things, doing DIY
projects for myself or friends or family members,
taking some amazing pictures, and uploading them
to my site and social media, trying to stay relevant,
trying to hashtag the hell out of everything on the
off chance that someone was looking through the
results, found my projects, and wanted to hire me.

Interior design wasn't the steadiest of jobs. If

you didn't hustle, you could easily be spending your
nights stocking shelves in a box store, barely
making the ends meet, let alone paying off what
was left of your student loan debts from school.

But, that being said, contractors - on average

- made twice the salary of an interior designer.
Even if they were a bit of a slacker.

So, I guess he just didn't need to put the

effort in.

"I don't," I said, too late, too defensive, too

everything.

"Yeah, okay," he said, this time looking down

at me with that smirk of his that other women might
call sexy. I mean, not me, of course. But other
women.

Because, to be fair, Warren was a good-

looking guy. From a purely aesthetic perspective,
leaving out the personality.

He had all the markers for panty-melting.

Six-five, soft-brown-haired, deep-brown-eyed with
lashes that would make any woman envious, strong
in the way that came from working with his body,
not spending too many hours in the gym. He had
one of those perfect noses that was somehow
strong, yet not overpowering, a great jaw, and lips
that could be called tempting when he smiled - or
smoldered - your way.

So if you left off his atrocious personality,

yeah, he was an attractive guy.

The smirk would have been effective had I

never heard the man argue with me for an hour
over countertops.

"So," he said a few minutes later, breaking

the silence like he so rarely felt inclined to do,

always making me feel like a babbling child for
having a need to converse while working.

"So?" I asked, nodding when he pointed to

the wood I had asked him to get, ignoring the eye-
roll he gave me that implied I was ridiculous for not
just letting him pick it up himself.

"So, are you going to work for the nutbag

back there?"

"If she has a job and a paycheck, yes," I said

simply.

"Don't fucking get you," he surprised me by

saying. I didn't think he gave me enough of a
thought to consider 'getting' me at all.

"How do you mean?" I asked as he loaded

wood down onto a lumber cart. I would attempt to
help, but that would open me up to comments
about my inappropriate work attire. I'd heard it
more than once about wearing shorts to the work
site. Never mind that it was July and there was no
air-conditioning hooked up yet. I was supposed to
be wearing long sleeves and pants. To be fair, he
and all his men did. How? I wasn't sure. I did make
sure to keep a wide berth around them by the end
of a workday. Let's just say that five burly men in
long sleeves doing manual labor in July got ripe.

"Taking every job that comes your way," he

said, easily lowering down an armful of pre-cut
Brazilian walnut pieces that I knew - because I was
around job sites enough to know - weighed a ton.

"I have bills to pay." A lot of bills to pay.

Even having a roommate to split them wasn't easing
up the burden much. DIY projects were not as
cheap as one might think. Craft supplies added up.
And since they were things I did to try to bring in
business as opposed to projects I made for existing
clients, that money came out of my pocket.

You have to spend money to make money.
I was starting to think that idiom was, well,

idiotic.

"Maybe cut down on the manicures."
Ugh.
Jerk.
"For your information," I started, not sure

why I felt the need to defend myself. Even if I did
get manicures a few times a week like my ever-
changing colors implied, I would have earned that
small luxury. "I do my own nails. I really don't think
cutting out a four-dollar bottle of nail polish is going
to get me out of student loan debt."

To that, he said nothing.
Rightfully so.
Since he was quite clearly wrong.
But he was a guy, so he refused to admit it.
Just like he refused to admit that the floor in

that kitchen was hideous.

Wooden pallet floor.
Ugh.
It hurt my brain even to think of it.

It didn't fit the rest of the plans for the house.
But he had taken it upon himself to do it

when he knew I wouldn't be around for the day.

I mean, to be fair, it was a cool effect. For a

farmhouse. For some boho loft in the city.

Not for a half-a-million-dollar house in a

very nice suburb.

Just... no.
It was clear, though, that Warren had a soft

spot for rustic. Which was fine. We all had our own
personal preferences. But, again, this wasn't about
us; this was about the clients.

"You gonna follow me back to the site to

make sure I don't damage your precious wood?" he
asked after we had the order rung up.

"While you haven't exactly proven yourself

to be trustworthy thus far, I am going to head home.
So I can get up bright and early to make sure you
don't do anything else without consulting me first."

"Yo, Brin," he called when I moved to walk

past him.

I turned back, taking a steadying breath,

reminding myself that whatever he said, it was the
last thing I'd have to hear from him that day. Which
was a comfort of sorts, I guess.

God, how low my expectations for

interactions with him had sunk.

"Yeah?"
"Don't wear the goddamned flip-flops to the

site again."

Oh, the bastard.
The problem was, in this one case - just this

one - he wasn't exactly wrong. I shouldn't have
worn flip-flops. But I also wasn't supposed to be at
the site. Except I had gotten a text from the
landscaper who I had gotten close with, telling me
about the floor situation. So I had rushed over from
a day at the water park with my sister and her kids
to confront him.

With my hot pink bathing suit peeking

through my white tee, my hair a mess, and flip-
flops on my feet.

It was somewhat his fault, if you thought

about it. But I did know better. So it was my fault
too.

With nothing else to do, I raised my chin,

curled my fists, turned, and walked away.

By the next afternoon, I had completely

forgotten about the woman in the aisle of Home
Depot, and the card in my purse.

She hadn't, as it turned out, forgotten about

me though.

TWO

Brinley

"Brin, we talked about the glitter."
That was Brent 'The Bear' Lawson, my

roommate. Well, could I really call him my
roommate when I was living in his house? I didn't
know the semantics for such a situation. I did pay
rent. And though we had gone a few rounds about
it, he eventually agreed to let me pay half the
utilities too.

Brent had been my next-door-neighbor

growing up, the little - though, really, he had never
been little - boy who I built mud pies with, rode
bikes with, told ghost stories with in the woods
behind our houses. As we grew up, everyone had

been so sure we would transition from buddies to
more, convinced there was no way we spent so
much time together simply because we enjoyed
each other's company.

We'd had the same reaction to those

comments too.

Ew.
Double ew.
Brent was like a brother to me. It never even

clicked to think of him as anything else. Not even
in high school when he towered over everyone, was
the kind of solid that made girls swoon. He'd joined
up on the football team, getting a letterman's jacket
that further cemented the cheerleaders' need to
throw themselves at him.

But I could never get the image of him once

eating a worm on a dare out of my head long
enough to see him as anything other than my old
friend.

Out of high school, he got a full ride to

college on a football scholarship. Where he picked
up the nickname 'The Bear,' which was absolutely
fitting.

Everything had seemed on track for him too,

being the best linebacker in a decade, whispers of
pro ball in his future. Until he blew out his knee in
his sophomore year. They'd hoped he would come
back. He threw all his free time into physical
therapy. But in the end, there was no way he could

continue the career.

Unable to pay for college without the

scholarship, he'd dropped out. Then quickly found
his footing, got some training, and became a
corrections officer.

Stories like his never ceased to send a huge

surge of insecurity - and maybe inferiority - through
me. Stories like his and half our old classmates, and
my own siblings. All these people doing so well in
life, who found their niche, who had new cars, who
were buying houses and settling down.

Meanwhile, here I was, still struggling.
No matter how hard I worked - twice the

hours that Brent did, or my siblings did. And I
could just barely pay my bills. I had a budget -
literally, a giant board I kept in my room to nitpick
over every small purchase - and I stuck to it. But to
no avail.

The economy just wasn't good enough for

your average joes to get an interior designer. And if
your average joes weren't buying it, then your
business was hurting. There weren't as many
wealthy potential clients to go around. The ones
that were looking for designers generally already
knew of some big names, had a friend who used
someone, got a recommendation off of Google.

I was a small fish in a very big tank.
Full of sharks.
Alright, maybe that was dramatic.

But it was how it felt at times.
Like no matter what I did, how hard I tried, I

never got anywhere because there were people out
there bigger than me, more visible than me.

It was a thought that made me want to take

to my bed sometimes.

Except, to take to my bed meant in Brent's

spare room.

I was getting too old to have a roommate.
I needed to get a life going for myself.
Which was what had me up late the night

before working on a project on the dining room
table.

I'd cleaned up, of course, knowing Brent

would likely sit there with his coffee and paper in
the morning before work.

I guess I hadn't cleaned up enough, though.
"Sorry, Brent. Just let me grab a roller," I told

him, rummaging in my closet for a dog hair roller I
had for just this reason. Because Brent hated glitter.
I mean the man loathed it. So much so that when I
worked with it, he stayed a full two rooms away,
convinced it would get on him, and then he'd be
picking it off for a week.

He wasn't exactly wrong, either. I often

found glitter in the oddest of places - stuck in my
eyebrow, under my arms, stabbed under my
toenails. It got everywhere. Then put down roots
like it never wanted to leave, like it wanted to meet

a nice glitter partner and make glitter babies all
over you.

"Heard you turn in at almost two," he

commented as I rushed past to roll the table and
chairs as he stood in the doorway to the kitchen,
sipping his coffee out of a mug that was meant as a
gag gift it was so huge, but almost looked normal-
sized in his giant paw.

"Yeah, it was a late night."
"Then you got up at six," he went on, and I

could feel his dark eyes watching me as he said it
too. I knew what those eyes would say, too, if I
looked. That he thought I was pushing it too hard.
That he was worried about me.

"I take a nap some afternoons," I insisted.
"You pass out while sketching on the couch,"

he corrected. And I had no argument to make to
that, since it was true. "You're running on four
hours of sleep, and too much coffee. You're gonna
crash, Brinny. And for what?"

"For stability," I told him, going to the

garbage to very carefully dispose of the sticky
sheet, making sure I didn't drop any stray pieces of
glitter around while I did so. "I just need to work
for the right person with the right connections who
can help me make a name for myself. Until then, I
can survive on a few fewer hours of sleep. I have
to."

"Brinny, I told you that if you were struggling

still, to stop paying half the bills. I didn't want you
to pay them anyway. Even if you weren't here, I'd
still be paying them. It's stupid."

I didn't want handouts.
But I couldn't say that to him.
He would get that sad look in his eye like he

was offended I would ever think that was what he
was doing. But, well, it was. I finished school four
years ago. I needed to be an adult who pays all her
own bills.

"If I weren't here, you'd be paying less in all

the bills," I insisted.

"What? For your five-minute showers? And

the one light you use at night? Get real."

"Brent, can we not do this today?" I asked,

hearing a bit of desperation in my voice, and not
really even caring. After all, this was the guy who I
had sobbed on while wearing my prom dress
because the guy I gave my V-card to was making
out with some other chick behind the venue while I
was looking frantically around for him. The guy
who had held back my hair when I got sick off
vodka crans at my first high school party. The guy
who once showed up to the restaurant when I was
on a date and got a surprise visitor with tampons,
so I didn't have to tell the guy I was with that I had
to leave to go buy some.

He'd seen me at all of my inglorious

moments.

He could handle a little desperation.
"Got another meeting with that asshole,

huh?"

That was what Brent called him. Not Warren.

'That asshole.'

Can you see why I love Brent so much?
"And he's pissed at me," I agreed, going for

the coffee, wondering how many cups would be too
many cups. I'd already had four. And there was no
way I was showing up to a meeting with him
without another one to hold. Or throw in his face.

"What for?"
"For 'tattling' on him to the owners about the

floor."

"But they hated it."
"Yep."
"And they would have hated it on reveal day

too."

"Yep," I agreed again, taking what I hoped

was a steadying breath. "He is irrational. Somehow,
this is all my fault."

"What's the meeting about today?"
"The master bath."
"Oh, man," Brent said, shaking his head.
"Don't get me started," I agreed.
We'd already gone a round about it the night

before, him insisting that the walls be shiplap.
Shiplap. Like we were on some TV show. Like it
wasn't the most overdone trend in modern

decoration. Like it wouldn't date the bathroom in a
few short years.

Ugh.
Maybe Brent was right. Maybe I needed

more sleep.

I felt grumpy lately.
And while, sure, I had an Italian mother, and

I was all kinds of fiery, and quick-tempered like she
could be, it always burned hot and bright for short
periods of time, then was gone. This had been
lasting. This almost felt like it was becoming a part
of my personality.

Which I couldn't have.
And the blame, of course, I put squarely on

some very broad shoulders holding up a very big
head. Figuratively.

We weren't even halfway done with dealing

with each other, and I was just not myself lately.
Frantic. Anxious. Insecure. It was really starting to
mess with me.

"Look, remember Carrie?" Brent asked,

meaning one of the popular girls in school who had
always hated me because I won an art contest over
her once. In sixth grade.

"How could I forget? She once told me that

she had the number for a great plastic surgeon to
fix my nose."

"And you wondered aloud - in front of half

the football team - if having his number explained

how she went from an A to a D over one summer,"
he agreed.

"What about her?"
"Remember when Alissa transferred to the

school, and everyone started fawning over her
instead?" he asked, making me give him a nod.
Carrie went extra bitchy that year. "People who are
used to being the best don't like being challenged.
Even if the person challenging them is right. That's
what you do to that asshole. You challenge him.
Because you're just as good as he is. He's not used
to that. You were bound to knock heads a bit. Don't
let it get to you. Take it as a compliment."

"Look at you going all Tony Robbins on me,"

I said with a smile, giving him a one-arm hug as I
walked past. "Thank you. I have to get going. Don't
get shivved, okay?" I asked, making him chuckle. "I
know they'd have to carve through a good ten
layers of BS before they got to any organs, but
still."

"Give him hell," he called as a farewell as I

made sure to step into sturdy combat boots. Sure,
they weren't steel-toed like he wanted, but they
weren't flip-flops either.

And I'd even put on pants.
Which meant I might have a case of dreaded

swamp ass by the time I got there since my AC was
more of a wish than an actuality in my car.

I'd struggled with the choice to wear it too.

Not wanting him to think he could always get his
way, that whenever he criticized me, I would jump
to alter whatever it was he found fault in. But, to be
fair, the shoes and pants thing was a safety
precaution. I'd look unprofessional if I couldn't
abide by basic safety rules.

I stopped to grab a coffee, deciding at the

last possible moment to be the good guy, and
grabbing him one as well. Black, like his soul. Me, I
had a sweet tooth. And an adventurous palate. So
mine was loaded down with some half-and-half,
vanilla syrup, raspberry syrup, and a dash of
cinnamon. Odd, but good. Really more of a winter
drink, but the sweetness was taking away from my
sour mood a bit.

Pulling up to the site, I saw Warren's black

pickup. Not a new one. It had been well-loved -
and well-used - for several years already. Paint
splattered the bed. Gouges were taken out of the
heavy duty plastic from hauling tools and wood into
it over and over. But I knew from experience - i.e.,
having to ask him to drive me to the thrift shop to
pick up a sideboard that I knew I wouldn't be able
to lift or fit into my truck - that he kept it
immaculate inside. You'd have thought it was fresh
off the lot.

There weren't, however, any of the cars and

trucks for his crew.

Horatio, the gardener, wasn't around either.

I'd have to handle him completely alone?
Brent was right. I needed more sleep to deal

with this.

But there was no time for that now.
I grabbed the coffees, and the practical

suitcase I called a purse, figuring it was better just
to get it all over with.

Hearing the low hum of the radio he always

had on, I moved in through the half-finished
kitchen, finding the floor already ripped up.
Following the somewhat crooning sounds of what I
referred to - mostly because it annoyed him -
'stadium country music,' I was suddenly glad I went
with the boots, finding a few wayward nails he had
missed. A trip to the hospital and a tetanus shot
really weren't on my schedule for the day.

"Wah wah, my horse, my dog, my pickup

truck, my love left me..." I sang, loudly, off-key, as
I always did since I couldn't carry a tune with both
hands and a bucket.

"If you'd listen to it," Warren started from

behind me, making my body jolt, not having heard
him walk up, "you'd see how old that thinking is.
That for me?" he asked, jerking his chin toward the
coffee in my hand. "Peace offering?" he asked
when I nodded and handed it over.

"You and me? At peace? Somehow I doubt

that. That is my 'we will tolerate each other better
when we are both fully caffeinated' offering," I

countered, shrugging.

"What kind of disgusting combination you

got today?"

"How do you know about my

combinations?" I asked, surprised, my brows
drawing together.

"Coffee orders," he said, shrugging.
"Mike gets the coffee."
"And then the paper gets left somewhere that

I end up finding," he agreed. "Coconut and
mocha?" he asked, grimacing.

"Enjoy your plain bean juice," I countered,

curling my lip as he took a long swig.

Coffee, for me, was a necessary evil.
I couldn't function without it.
Drinking it plain would likely leave me

retching.

So I dressed it up.
That was what I was good at, after all.
"Alright," he said, moving past the pleasant -

or not-so-pleasant - ries. "So the master bath," he
said, leading me up the stairs that he had already
redone white like we had agreed on, even though
he was pissed at having to paint over 'perfectly
good wood,' and through the master bedroom that
didn't actually have any renovation plans other than
a new splash of paint, and little design touches.

The bathroom, though, was gutted.
All there was left were pieces of metal piping

poking out for where the shower, tub, sink, and
toilet had once been.

"I know you want a double-vanity," he

started, waving at the wall I had mentioned when
we first walked into the space before he ripped
everything out.

"Yes. Non-negotiable. Apparently, Rob

shaves his beard and leaves all the whiskers in the
sink. Monica is sick of it. Wants her own sink, so
she doesn't have to deal with it."

"A double vanity to escape a conversation." I

must have smiled, because Warren gave me an odd
look. "What?"

"It's somewhat amusing that you think a

conversation would be all that is needed to remedy
the situation. Have you met other men - or the one
in the mirror - you're a stubborn bunch."

"Says the woman who still won't admit she

likes the backsplash even though I know that you
do."

"That's different."
"How?"
"Because you've yet to admit that any of my

ideas are good. If you want praise, Warren, maybe
try giving some sometime."

To that, I got an eye roll.
An actual eye roll.
From a grown man.
"Anyway, I'm thinking we need to rethink the

tub and shower placement. If we close in the toilet
into a separate space..."

"When," I corrected. That was another thing

Monica wanted. She was not a fan of her husband
coming in when she was in the tub to use the toilet.
Because, yeah, ew. "Monica already agreed to
giving up three feet of her closet to make it
happen."

"Fine, when. There won't be enough room

for the glass door to swing open. The problem
would be solved if we swapped the two."

"Did you bring a catalog for the tubs?" I

asked, knowing Monica was a huge bath-taker, and
that the tub had to be perfect. So, well, he couldn't
choose it.

"It's in the truck."
"And the tile choices?"
"I'm thinking browns."
"Of course you are." I only meant to say that

in my head, but I sometimes had a tendency to
babble under my breath.

"What?"
"I said of course you are."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"That you seem to think that this Colonial

house is a Craftsman or Chalet."

"The guts of the house don't have to match

the outside."

"Ah, they kind of do actually. If they don't,

then when people come in, they go What the hell is
this. And, in case it wasn't clear, What the hell is
this isn't what you want people to think when they
come into your home. You can't hodgepodge a
bunch of things together, and claim it all works."

"I wasn't hodgepodging anything. If you

hadn't gone over my head about the floor in the
kitchen, my plans for this bathroom would match."

"Okay, but what about the living room, the

study, the formal dining room, the halls, the other
bedrooms..."

"Why the hell did I even invite you here?"
"I believe Monica and Rob wanted to make

sure that every decision from now on, we do
together. No more surprises."

It was kind of sad that they needed to go all

mama-bear and papa-bear on us, that he couldn't
have seen that cooperation would make us both
look much more professional. But, no, he had to be
stubborn. And then forced me to be a tattletale. It
looked bad on both of us. I was clearly resentful of
that.

"The browns would work with the accent

wall."

"The shiplap wall," I qualified.
"Yes, Brin, the shiplap wall. There's a reason

it is popular now."

"It's overdone."
"So are crown moldings. But there's a reason

for that. People like how they look."

"It's too dark," I insisted, shaking my head.

"This bathroom only has the one window. And it is
facing the wrong direction. There isn't enough light
in here to be doing browns. It will bring the walls
in, make it like a tomb in here."

"Wood can be painted, Brin."
That was his condescending tone.
I hated that possibly more than the You're an

idiot smirk he so often gave me.

"You don't like painting wood, Warren," I

shot back in the same tone.

"If it will get you to make a goddamned

decision, I'll paint wood."

"Fine. I was thinking white for the tile. It's

clean. And 'clean' is what you want to think when
you go into a bathroom. And then a light gray on
the walls. White vanity."

"And the wood?"
"One wall. Behind the vanity. Painted

white."

"Fine," he growled, turning away, then

storming out of the room and down the stairs.

"Just a couple more weeks," I told myself,

taking a deep breath before following him down.
Just a couple more weeks, and I would be done
with him, get my final paycheck, and move on.

Thank God.
I didn't find him in the kitchen when I went

down. In fact, he was nowhere to be found.

With a head shake at the seeming temper

tantrum, I made my way back outside, grumbling at
the sun pelting down on me, making my clothes
stick more to my back and arms than they already
were.

"Here," he said, popping out of the side of

his truck, all but shoving a catalog at me. "Pick one
by tomorrow, so I can order this. We need to get
this job done already," he informed me before
hopping back into his truck, turning it over, and
peeling off.

We need to get this job done already.
Truer words had never been spoken.
It wasn't until I got home, stripped out of my

sweaty clothes, took a cool shower, redressed, and
sat down with the catalog to pick out the tub that
my phone rang.

I jumped at phone calls, always having to

remind myself to stop and take a breath, so I didn't
sound too eager before I answered.

"Brinley Spears," I answered in that tone.

You know that tone. Everyone who had ever had a
job, or called to make a doctor's appointment, knew
that tone. The fake version of your own voice -
more confident and chipper than you ever actually
felt.

"Mrs. Spears," the woman's voice said. She

was using her ultra-important voice. I had gotten

good at telling them apart. "This is Rachel Harper.
We met a few evenings back at the home
improvement store."

Oh, yes.
The woman with the gray hair who liked that

f-word so much. And not the fun one.

"Of course," I said, smiling even though she

wasn't there to see me. It was a knee-jerk reaction.
I'd taken a course with a personal development
professional that had us actually practice our
business smiles and body language until we got it
right. It just stuck. "Were you looking for me to
redesign your home - or office - for you?" I asked,
hopping up to go toward my room, wanting to get a
notepad, and bring up my online planner.

"Oh, no," she said, sounding confused. And

giving me a solid gut-punch. My shoulder slumped,
and I'd swear I could feel my feet sinking down
lower. I felt like all this professional defeat of mine
was actually making me shrink. I was short to begin
with, but I felt like I was losing precious
centimeters by the month. At this rate, they would
be able to classify me as a little person by the end
of the year. "I have a much more intriguing offer to
make you. At least I think so."

More intriguing?
What?
An entire office building?
A hotel?

Those were the kinds of jobs that could make

a career!

Don't do that, I reminded myself. Getting

your hopes up never led you to anything good in
the past.

"Really? That's great! What did you have in

mind?"

"Have you ever heard of HITV?"
Had I ever heard of HITV?
Seriously?
Was there a designer anywhere in the world

who hadn't? Was there a working designer in any
corner of this green Earth that didn't binge-watch it
in their spare time, put it on as background noise
when they were sketching?

HITV.
Home Improvement Television.
I was addicted to it.
"Don't you ever get sick of that shit?" Brent

had asked one night when I was on the third
episode of a show that had neighbors swap houses
and redo them for one another. "It'd be like me
coming home and watching prison shows."

I could see the logic there, but I loved it. It

helped keep me up-to-date on trends - as though
the half-dozen magazines I subscribed to weren't
enough - and I found it oddly relaxing. Especially
considering that most of my work left me anxious.
It was nice to see the more fun sides of things at

times.

"Yes, of course. I watch it to wind down at

night," I admitted, getting into my room, dropping
down at the foot of my bed to flip open my laptop.

"Have you ever seen the show Fix It Up?"
"Which one?" I automatically asked,

knowing that there were four of them, each one in a
different state. So far, there was Texas, Vermont,
Washington, and Florida.

To that, Rachel let out a small chuckle. "I

will take that as a yes. Well, as you likely know, we
have recently needed to end the show for
Vermont."

Right.
Because the couple was divorcing.
Viciously, if I recall correctly.
Because of a hooker scandal.
Juicy stuff.
Wait... we?
We?
My hands never flew so fast over a keyboard

in my life. And that counts the decade-long battle
between my sister and me - who shared a birthday,
just three years apart - to try to beat the other one
out to wish them a happy birthday on social media.
I'd won four years running.

Rachel Harper HITV.
And then there it was.
Producer.

Of Fix It Up.
No way was I actually speaking to a

producer on a show for HITV. Just no way. In what
universe could that be happening?

"I think I heard something about that," I

remembered to say into her silence, the words
sounding choked. Likely because I was pretty sure
that my heart had taken up residence in my throat.

"Well, we figured it would be interesting to

do something coastal."

Coastal.
Like in New Jersey?
Where I lived?
Where I worked?
Where I had met her?
"That is a great idea!" I cheered. Too much.

Too cheerleadery. I barely sounded like myself.

"And, well, I want you to come audition."
Just like that, my heart went out of my

throat, shot down my esophagus, and fell right into
my stomach.

"I'm sorry?" I asked, not willing to believe it

unless I clarified it.

That got another laugh from the other end of

the phone. "I liked you. And I went home and
looked into you. You have a great portfolio. Your
social media is on-point. You are young and
adventurous, but careful to understand that many
things are trends, so you don't focus on them too

much. You're fantastic. Just what we're looking for.
I have a great feeling about you. So we want you to
come in to audition. Just to see how you work in
front of a camera and all those little technicalities."

"I..."
"Brinny, can I..." Brent started then trailed

off as he came into my doorway, and my arm shot
up, palm out, in a very 'not now!' gesture that he
immediately understood, nodded at, and walked
away. He knew better than to be offended by that,
even if it was rude. He knew me. He knew that if I
had done it, it was important.

Like, you know, my entire future on the

other end of a phone.

"Oh! Was that your husband?" Rachel asked,

sounding almost giddy.

"My husband?" I asked, brows drawing

together.

"Yes. Your husband. Warren. The two of you,

just fantastic."

And that was when it hit me.
Fix It Up was a show about couples. Married

couples. Married couples who worked as a team to
re-do houses with some light, good-hearted
bickering and lots of fun.

She, of course, didn't just want me.
Little nobody me.
She wanted us.
Me and Warren.

Because she thought we were married.
Damnit.
Damnit damnit damnit.
I knew better.
Than to get my hopes up. To think my life

could change that dramatically. To believe all my
dreams were coming true. That someone would
offer me the opportunity of a lifetime.

"We will need him to come with you, of

course."

"Of course." Why did I even mumble that?

When that clearly was never going to happen?

"I was hoping you two could come down to

Cape May on Tuesday? I know, that is such short
notice. But we are on a tight schedule." She rattled
off an address that my hand wrote down of its own
volition. "Around ten a.m.," she added as an odd
numbness took over me. "We're so excited to see
you!" she added as a parting. I was pretty sure I
mumbled something to her, but also just as sure that
whatever it was, was not even remotely intelligible.

"What's wrong?" Brent asked as I moved

down the hall into the living room where he was
sitting on the couch, immediately knowing
something was up. Normally, I'd call it his
superpower since when it came to sadness or
disappointment, I tried my very best to keep that to
myself. But just this once, I knew it was all right
there on my face. The crushing, overpowering

disappointment that made my shoulders fold
forward, made my head hang, my eyes sink.

It felt like this was it.
The final straw.
The one that broke me.
"I just got a call from someone from HITV," I

admitted, hearing the hollowness in my voice.
"From the show Fix It Up," I went on. "She wanted
me to come in to audition."

"And you look like someone pissed in your

margarita because..." he asked, looking more
concerned by the second.

"Because she wants me to audition. With my

husband."

"I don't..." Brent started to cut me off.
"Warren. She saw me bickering with Warren

in Home Depot. And now she wants us to audition.
As a couple. For the opportunity of a lifetime."

I dropped down on the accent chair I had

painstakingly reupholstered myself a few months
before, resting my elbows to my knees, and my
head in my hands.

"The opportunity of a lifetime, huh?" he

asked, something in his tone breaking through my
pit of despair enough to make me raise my head.

"Yeah," I agreed, swallowing back the bitter

taste of my own saliva.

"Remember when you had that paper senior

year, with that teacher who wanted you to write

about your single most life-changing, character-
building experience that shaped who you are as an
individual? And you came to me in a panic because
your life had been nothing but tame and
predictable. Remember what I said to you?"

I smiled a bit at that.
"Lie."
"Yep. Lie. And you did. You lied your way to

an A," he reminded me. "And you can do it again.
Lie, Brinny. Lie your way to grab your once-in-a-
lifetime-opportunity by the balls. You deserve it.
No one deserves it better more than you."

Could I do that?
Could I lie about something that big?
I mean, I'd told my teacher in that paper that

my single most life-changing moment had been
when my Uncle Winston clung to my hand on his
deathbed and begged me to travel the world like he
never could. I didn't have an Uncle Winston. In
fact, I had no biological uncles at all. And I really
never had any ambition to get on a plane in my life.

But Brent was right; I got an A.
I even got misty eyes from the teacher.
Did I feel guilty?
Sure. A bit.
But that A was half my grade.
And something I needed to get into college.
Sometimes, you had to do what you had to

do.

Even if you didn't necessarily agree with it

from a moral standpoint.

I could lie again.
If it meant I got what I had always wanted,

what I had worked so damn hard for.

"You're forgetting one thing," I said, my heart

doing the lodging in my throat thing again.

"What?"
"Warren."
"That asshole."
"Yeah, that asshole. Who I'd have to pretend

to be married to, to love. In front of hundreds of
thousands of people watching."

"No one is saying you got to do it forever,

right?" Brent asked.

He wasn't wrong.
Even just one season would completely

change my life.

One season.
One fake marriage.
One year of having to put up with Warren

Allen Reyes.

I could do it.
If it got me everything I wanted in life, I

could do it.

But could he?
Well, I guess there was only one way to find

out, right?

THREE

Warren

I hit ignore on the fifth call from Brin.
Five.
In a twenty-minute period.
All I could think was that I'd managed to piss

her off again.

To be fair, she was easy to piss off. She went

from zero to eighty faster than anyone I had ever
seen. Try to tell her that, though, and all she does is
inform you that, normally, she has a 'pleasant
disposition,' and that you must just bring it out of
her.

Hell, maybe I did.
She hadn't been wrong about some of the

things she ragged on me about. I did seem to have a
tendency to go with choices that I, personally,
enjoyed. Maybe I didn't factor in the clients
enough. Or know how to meld two very different
preferences between a husband and wife.

Brinley, yeah, she was good at that.
I'd give her that.
Albeit somewhat begrudgingly.
Why?
That was a good question.
We didn't start out on a bad foot per se.
The client, Rob, had brought me in, knowing

of me because a friend of his had used me to build
a guest house, so that when his in-laws came to
visit, he didn't have to have them in his house
questioning him on his finances and how many
glasses of scotch he had after dinner.

His wife, however, had found Brinley

through - of all places - her Instagram account
because of some convoluted family connection that
had her stumbling across it. And they had brought
us together to discuss our plans at the house before
I started gutting the rooms that needed to be redone
while the couple stayed at their condo in the city.

I'd been leaning on my truck in the drive,

always someone to get somewhere twenty minutes
early, waiting for her.

She'd shown up five minutes before we were

set to meet, rushing out of a beaten-up red sedan

with the windows open, likely implying the AC was
busted since it was ninety in the shade.

Seeing me, she had reached up to swipe at

her eyebrows and upper lip, likely thinking I
couldn't see as she leaned across to the passenger
seat, hauling up a purse that could hold the luggage
of a family of four for a weekend getaway, and a
large sketchpad.

Then she'd gotten out.
My first thoughts were that I was a lucky

SOB to get to work beside that for the next few
months. She appeared younger than her age, likely
because she had the height of your average fifth-
grader, but rounded out in the right places - gently
curved hips, shapely thighs, and just enough on top
to let you know that she was, in fact, all grown.
Dressed in dark wash jeans and some airy white
shirt, her dark brown hair tucked back, she looked
every bit like a dozen designers I had met over the
years.

Except prettier.
By far.
Gorgeous, really.
With her petite features, strong eyebrows

that didn't look like they were painted on, and these
eyes that jumped back and forth between brown
and green depending on the light - and, I'd swear,
her mood.

"You must be Warren," she'd greeted, all

smiles. It was a weird smile too. Practiced.
Polished. Something you saw on politicians and
high-profile businessmen. It seemed completely out
of place on a young designer coming out of a car
that looked almost as old as she was.

It took all of... twenty minutes for her to

decide she hated me. I didn't exactly do anything to
curb that either. I had been in a shit mood after
getting some news I didn't want to hear.

We'd gotten off on bad foot.
Then stayed there.
Because I was stubborn.
And she was a hothead.
There were times I actually caught myself

goading her, purposely trying to get a rise out of
her. Why? That was a good question. I didn't like
arguing. It wasn't in my DNA. I'd come from a long
line of people who just let things roll off their
backs.

But this woman, she brought something out

of me I didn't know existed. A competitive streak, I
guess you could call it. A need to prove myself.

Maybe it came from her own drive. This

woman was hungry.

I remember those days, back when I was

barely more than a kid, in the woodshop with my
grandfather, learning about different woods, tools,
how to create something lasting, something to be
proud of. I had wanted his approval so badly, to

show him what I was capable. I would get up
earlier than him - which was saying something since
he woke with the sun - and practiced, tried to get
better, tried to impress him with something I had
finally learned to accomplish.

I understood her, what pushed her to be as

big a pain in the ass as she could often be. Because
she believed in herself, and what she knew she
could accomplish if given the chance.

I had a feeling she didn't get a lot of those.
Chances.
Because there was a certain desperation

underneath her drive, something I didn't think
anyone else could see. Maybe because no one else
pushed her like I did, made her defend herself, put
her off her game.

I'd checked her out one night after a

particularly heated battle over - of all things - the
cabinet doors, wanting to know where she was
coming from, if she was a one-trick pony, and that
was why she was coming at me so hard to bend to
her will.

But she wasn't.
Her website and social media were an

assortment of varied talents and tastes. She seemed
to update with a set of three new projects at least
once a week. Good ones too. Ones that took time
and thought and showed skill.

The problem was, her following was small.

I got it then.
The desperation.
As hard as she worked, she felt entitled to

more visibility, more acknowledgment, hell...
maybe just more work. It wasn't a great economy
for either of our jobs. But I got to charge a helluva
lot more than she could. So I did alright. She was
likely struggling.

It said a lot.
I almost felt like a dick for going at her so

hard.

She needed a break.
We just rubbed each other the wrong way.
And she was just in my face all the goddamn

time.

Like tonight.
I'd just seen her a few hours ago, what could

she possibly need from me already? Enough to
pester-call me?

I wasn't going to know.
I would deal with that tomorrow.
After I had gotten a chance to shower, get

some sleep, have a solid meal.

And maybe deal with the pressing issue at

hand, the one I didn't want to deal with, the one
that was keeping me up at night. The one that said
in just eight short months, I was going to lose
something important to me. Something that meant
the world to me. Hell, the only thing that meant

anything to me.

My grandfather's farm.
That my father was about to lose.
That was bound to be turned into some

goddamned townhouse village where everyone
lived like sardines in houses with absolutely no
character, hardly any yard, and clogged the
roadways and schools more than they already were.

I could kill him, my old man.
There wasn't exactly a lot of love there to

begin with since he dropped me off on my
grandfather's doorstep when I was five, then took
off, and didn't show up again for a few years. We'd
never recovered from that betrayal, even if it did
turn out to be the best thing for me, the best place
for me, the best possible upbringing a young boy
could want.

My grandfather was old school, hands-off in

most ways, letting me run around, fall out of trees,
scrape and break and puncture all different parts of
my body over the years, but very hands-on in
others. Like teaching me woodworking, manners,
how to take care of the animals and repair the
house, how to be respectful, speak my mind
carefully, be kind to women.

Admittedly, I had gotten a bit rusty with

some of those things over the years. After losing
him five years back after a prolonged battle with
cancer, I guess I had gotten a bit more brash and

closed-off. If he were still here, I'd get slapped
upside the head for the way I occasionally spoke to
women, maybe especially Brinley, as though she
was an annoyance.

I could hear him in my ear even now.
Your grandmother would be rolling in her

grave if she knew I let you talk to a woman like
that.

I hadn't known her, my grandmother.
She'd died before I was old enough to

remember her. But my grandfather stayed faithful
to her memory until the day he died, swearing out
that God put one woman on this Earth for him, and
that my grandmother was it. There was simply no
reason to try to find someone to come in second
place.

He'd been the kind of husband who pulled

off to the side of the road to pick her wildflowers
just because they'd make her smile. They didn't
have money - just a farm that often took more than
it gave - but they didn't need much. They were
simpler people with simpler tastes. No new cars. No
fancy clothes. Hell, he didn't even have cable. So
there was no reason even to try to watch TV.

I missed that life.
I had thought - when I was young and

foolish, and so sure that I knew everything about
the world - that I needed more, that I needed to go
out and prove myself, make a name for myself.

It took me a few headstrong years to figure

out that this life I had chased, while more
financially stable, was not what I really wanted.

I wanted the twenty acres with the horses,

cows, chickens, goats, and ducks that I had always
had, the stream that you could fish - and swim - in.
I'd once attempted to canoe in it too, the rocks
knocking at the sides, sending me flying over,
whacking my head against one of their jagged
edges. I'd probably have drowned there too, if not
for another thing I missed. Dogs. Like the four of
them I had known all through my childhood and
adolescence. Hounds for hunting, sheepdog for
herding. Everyone had a purpose on that farm.

Me included.
I'd been made to wake up before the sun rose

in the morning, running outside still in my pajamas
to fetch eggs out of the chicken coops, throw some
fresh hay down, refill water and food buckets, then
let them out into the garden to take care of the
pesky bugs.

I'd rush back inside, hand the eggs off to my

grandfather who had already been out to let out the
horses and goats, muck out stalls, and showered. As
he made us breakfast, I got into school clothes, then
had a quick meal. After school, I came home to
change, then helped my grandfather in the garden
or with the animals, or he would teach me about
building if he had the time. If everything was

handled already, the rest of the day was mine to
explore the way young kids often will in the woods.

I missed the simplicity of that, the rightness

of it. Living with the land, not just on it, cocooned
away from it in my house - or in others while I built
or remodeled them.

It was wrong.
The years dragged long and tedious.
I missed the sun and the fresh air and fresh

eggs and a life not burdened by frivolous shit that
meant nothing if you actually got away from your
phone or TV or tablet long enough to see it.

I always figured I had time, though.
To finish up projects here. To sell off what I

could. To take it back over. Start again.

Until my father told me just three weeks ago.
He was in pre-foreclosure.
Why my grandfather willed the farm to him

was something I still didn't quite understand.
Maybe he had had the same upbringing there I had.
Maybe my grandfather had even better memories
of that time because my grandmother had still been
alive, they had been a family there.

I didn't know.
All I knew was it was a blow when I learned

that - of all people - my father who hated the place
and thought it would make a great location for a
new Whole Foods had gotten the farm.

I couldn't say I was overly surprised, either,

when I had gotten the call about the delinquency.
My father could barely keep a place of his own, let
alone the farm going. He'd sold off all the animals
within the first few weeks, then all the equipment
the month after that.

There was nothing left but the building itself

- and a few of the items inside not worth selling.
Last I had seen the place, the dirt was thick on the
windows, the grass was almost knee-high, and half
the wood panels on the barns were eaten through,
suggesting whole hoards of wildlife had likely taken
up inside to escape the weather.

What pissed me off was that he didn't come

to me. Before it got this bad. When I could have
just made a mortgage payment to hold it over.
Though, of course, I knew that if I started that, it
would never stop. It still would have been worth it.

But waiting this long?
This meant that I would need a boatload of

money all at once to buy it out before the bank did.
And sold it off to God-knew who.

Money, quite frankly, I didn't have.
I had what my house was worth. In a better

market, it would sell for close to four-hundred-k. In
the current one, I'd likely get three or three-fifteen.
Then I had my savings. Another hundred-k.

Not enough.
Not nearly enough.
I wasn't sure how I would get there, but I had

to.

I wasn't going to let the bank take it.
I wasn't giving up hope.
I just needed to find some way, some line of

credit, some something.

Which was what I was going to dedicate my

night to.

I showered, changed, got some coffee that I

slipped a nip of whiskey into, then sat down at the
table with my laptop, trying to find a way to pull it
off.

There had to be a way.
There always was.
I didn't care if I had to sell off my truck, my

furniture, my goddamn bonds some great-uncle had
bought me my whole childhood.

Hell, maybe those actually were worth

something.

Definitely had to look into that.
I was just moving to stand, the chair

scratching a bit against the wide-plank hardwood
floors. It was a sound that would make just about
any homeowner cringe, except it didn't matter in
my case because my floors were reclaimed,
scratched and dinged - their history being all their
charm, when the doorbell rang.

I couldn't exactly call it a common

occurrence.

I had a neighbor, though, that was constantly

losing his damn cat, and always - for reasons
unknown to me since it had never happened before
- thinking I might have possibly found it and taken
it in.

"Sam, I haven't seen your cat," I was saying

even as I opened the door.

But not to Sam.
No.
It was maybe the last person I expected to

see at my doorstep.

Why that was, was beyond me. Since, yeah,

she did actually seem like the kind of crazy and
tenacious that would show up at your house when
you didn't answer your phone.

She looked good too.
In those effing cut off shorts that I made

such a big stink about her wearing around the
worksite. Maybe that had less to do with safety, and
a lot more to do with the fact that it was distracting.
She had long legs for someone so short, the skin
slightly tanned that suggested she spent some time
outside, all speculation of course, since her social
media didn't have anything personal on it.

Her hair was supposed to be in one of those

messy bun things on the top of her head, the
velvety brown strands almost iridescent, like they
were lit somehow from within, only barely
contained by the band. But tonight, the bun had
worked itself loose, letting a good third of her hair

fall down to frame her face, somehow drawing
more attention to her eyes.

They were eyes I had gotten to know well

since you could always gauge her mood in them
before she even opened her mouth.

Tonight was no different.
Except I didn't know what this look was,

what had caused it, what would come of it.

My knee-jerk reaction was to brace myself

for impact, but something else told me that she
wasn't - for a change - pissed off about anything.

This was something else, just as animated,

but different. Anger made her eyes squint half-
closed, made her nose crinkle slightly. But her eyes
were wide, almost manic, her lips parted, her breath
seeming to come out faster than normal.

"You didn't answer your phone." It came off

a bit like an accusation, and a defense. As though
she was saying I made her show up.

"Most people would take that as a sign that I

don't want to be disturbed."

"It was urgent," she insisted, shuffling from

foot to foot, drawing my attention down, finding
exactly what I expected. The damn flip-flops.
These ones were a bright yellow. Not to be
confused with the soft yellow I had seen once
before. "What? Do you own stock in the flip-flop
company?" I didn't know why I took that tone with
her, why I picked at her, why I seemed to push her

buttons without even intending to do so.

"For your information, Old Navy has a flip-

flop sale every summer where you can get them for
like $1 a piece. Normally, everything gets sold out
so fast. But, luckily, I have feet like a toddler, and
no one buys the size sixes. I have one in every
color they sell. Twenty dollars well spent, if you ask
me."

"Is that what you're here to inform me?"

There it was again. What was wrong with me?

"What? No," she said, brows knitting for a

minute before the eyes finally did it, they finally
slitted. "Actually, you were the one to distract me
from why I am here tonight.

"Then why are you here?"
"I need to discuss an opportunity with you,"

she surprised me by saying. I had figured she found
out about me installing the butcher block
countertop to the island that she hated. Guess that
would be a fight for another time.

"An opportunity?" I asked, head ducking to

the side slightly.

"Yeah, um, can I come in?" she surprised me

by asking. I figured - since she had pretty much
said as much - that she'd prefer to stay as far as
humanly possible away from me at all times, not get
closer, not get into my personal space.

"I got coffee," I agreed, moving out of the

doorway to invite her in.

She did so slowly, looking around, as an

interior designer - I imagined - was inclined to do,
taking in the details, surmising things about me
from them.

The house had been boring architecturally

when I bought it a few years back, just a basic
ranch-style home built in the sixties with a half-
open, half-closed concept in which the living room
was attached to the dining room, and the kitchen
was open to the family, but the dining was closed
off from the kitchen. Weird, but functional. The
wood paneling had been torn down, replaced with
fresh burnt orange paint and one accent wall behind
the couch that was deep shades of brown shiplap
that she hated so much.

My living room furniture was a basic dark

brown material couch with end tables I had
knocked together from scraps and stained. The
carpet under the coffee table was something I had
found at Home Depot cheap, but with the right
colors.

The dining room table - just big enough for

four, though I never had that much company
anyway - was another self-made thing, matching
the tables in the living space since it was attached.

The walls were mostly bare. I didn't really

have art or anything even resembling knickknacks.

And I knew that her keen eyes were seeing

that, were judging me on it.

"See?" she said, waving a hand to the wall.

"In here, the shiplap works."

It was a compliment.
She wasn't exactly free with them, but she

did make comments here and there about some
work I did that really went well. If I maybe weren't
so busy harping on the things she brought me to
task over, I would have appreciated her praise
more. And maybe returned it instead of nitpicking it
apart.

Oil and water, that was what we were.
Or, maybe we were like two betta fish -

Siamese fighting fish - we had to have our own
separate tanks because if you put us together, we
had a tendency to fight to the death.

"Coffee?" I asked, moving past the dining

space into the kitchen. "I don't have any of the
caramel shit you use, but I have cinnamon or
chocolate syrup."

Was it just my eyes messing with me, or did

her lips curl at the words chocolate syrup? She
pressed them together so fast that I couldn't be
sure.

"Both, please," she said, looking around the

space.

Kitchens were my favorite place to renovate,

to do something new. Between the floors, counters,
backsplashes, and cabinets, there were a lot of
choices to be made. My floor was the same as the

rest of the house, preferring it to flow rather than
cut it off by putting down tile. The cabinets were
dark and wainscoted. The walls, well, I had brought
in penny bricks, liking the warmth they gave a
space. The countertops were simple, clean-lined
and sparkling quartz. My favorite part of the
kitchen, though, was the ceiling. I had brought in
some busted-up railroad ties I had found on a job,
stained them, then hung them up in lines, creating a
bit more dimension.

"I like the ceiling," she surprised me by

saying as I fixed her coffee. "It shouldn't work. I
mean, it should draw the ceiling down, y'know? But
it works here."

"You're full of compliments tonight," I

observed, trying to make sure there was nothing
snippy in my tone this time, just an observation.

"I've never been here before. I find people's

homes fascinating."

"So, why are you here, Brin?" I asked,

leaning back against the sink, watching as she
looked down at her coffee, a sign of uncertainty I
would never have accused her of before.

"Remember that lady from Home Depot?

When we were arguing over dividers?"

"The one who liked to say fantastic a lot?"
"Yeah. She called me tonight."
"Don't do it, Brin," I said, shrugging. That

shit was weird. I swear she had been eye-fucking

us. In a clinical way. It was hard to even describe.

"Actually, she didn't want me to design for

her. She had an opportunity for us."

"If I don't think you should do it, then why

would you think that I would want to do it?"

"Look, okay, here we go," she said, then held

up a hand. "But just let me talk, okay? Don't
interrupt me?"

"Alright," I agreed, figuring she would just

talk over me anyway, so I might as well just let her
get it all out at once.

"That woman, Rachel Harper, she wasn't just

any person. She's actually a producer. On a show.
Have you ever seen HITV?"

"I can speak now?" I asked, smirking a little

when her eyes slitted. She was insanely easy to rile.
"No, I am the only contractor in the world who
hasn't heard of HITV."

"Right, well, she is the producer of Fix It Up.

You know, where there is a contractor and a
designer on a show, and they redo a house?"

"I'm familiar," I agreed, brows drawing low.
"Alright, look. Long story short - she thinks

we're married, and wants us to be on the new
offshoot of the show in New Jersey."

"You're serious?" I asked, not sure if she was

screwing with me. But even as I asked, I knew she
wasn't. First, because she wasn't the type. Second,
because I finally understood the light in her eyes

when she showed up.

This was it for her.
The break she was looking for.
But there was a problem.
Me.
"I'm dead serious," she confirmed with a

hard nod. "And, look, I know, this is kind of crazy.
But this is the opportunity of a lifetime, Warren."

"I recognize that, Brin. But you're forgetting

one little thing; we aren't married. Actually, we can
barely tolerate each other."

"She liked the bickering! We might have to

try to bite our tongues a little bit more in front of a
camera with an audience to think of, but it adds a
little fun. You know, for people who aren't us. And-
-"

"Brin, we aren't married."
"No," she agreed, nodding, looking away,

shifting her feet.

It was right then that I knew her game.
"You want us to lie."
"Just one season. One season, one year, one

chance to completely change our lives. I don't
know what your motivator in life is, Warren, but
there has got to be something in this deal that you
think is worthwhile."

Money.
Money would be in this deal.
And money would be worthwhile.

Money could save the farm.
"How do you think you could pull off a lie

that big?"

"I really doubt they will ask for our marriage

certificate," she said, rolling her eyes. "We'll just
say that I kept my name, so all the paperwork adds
up. And who would say anything? I have my
family, who would never betray me. And that's
about it. I can't imagine you have a giant friend
group who might out us."

She wasn't wrong about that.
I mostly just had my crew.
And even them, I kept at a distance, let

things stay professional.

"What about the guys on the site? Our

current clients? All these people who have seen us
daily for weeks now?" I asked.

"Say it was a whirlwind. Say we fell madly in

love the first day on the job. Moved in together
within a week. Married within two. People love
that cheesy crap."

"And yet we fight so much because..."
"Because we didn't want anyone to find out."
"Why?"
"Ugh, I don't know."
"Well, if you want people to buy the story,

Brin, you'd need to hammer out these details."

"Are you saying you're considering it?"
"I'm saying I'd need to hear a helluva lot

more about it." Namely, what we'd be paid.

"But you'd go to a meeting?" she asked,

trying to hide the hopefulness in her voice, and
failing beautifully. Hell, she almost looked ready to
jump up and down; excited energy was practically
bouncing off of her, electrifying the air around her
body.

"I'd hear what is on the table."
"Seriously?" she asked, watching me like I

might burst into laughter at her naivety at any
moment.

"Yes, seriously."
"Why?"
"Why do you want to do it?"
"Because it would be good for my career."
"Exactly," I agreed, shrugging, hoping she

would take it at that, not want to keep digging
deeper.

"They want to see us in Cape May on

Tuesday," she told me.

"Cape May, huh? Guess that makes sense. A

lot of houses down there need work after Sandy,
just got left abandoned."

"And it's pretty," she agreed. "Great for

promos and stuff, images of the beach. So, we're
gonna do this?"

"We're gonna see about doing this," I

qualified.

"Well, of course. It all comes down to if they

believe us, if things work with our schedules, all
that stuff."

She was silent a moment, something rare for

her, studying her coffee, addressing it when she
spoke again. "A part of me thinks this is a prank,"
she admitted. "That I am going to come here on
Tuesday to find a note telling me I was a dumbass
for thinking you were really going to do this."

"I wouldn't do that," I insisted, even if I

understood her reasons for not believing me. "I
know I haven't done much to make you believe I
mean that, but I do. I wouldn't pull a move like that.
Chew you out over some frilly crap you want to put
in that would ruin my kitchen? Yeah. Screw with
your dream? Not so much. I'm not that big of a
dick, Brin."

"Good. I would hate to be fake-married to a

real dick," she said, giving me a smile, trying to
cover how much this clearly meant to her.

"Think you can keep control over that

temper during a whole meeting?" I teased, watching
as those eyes of hers went toward green as they
often did when she was amused or happy.

"If you can refrain from ticking me off,

sure," she declared, smiling at me. I so rarely saw
that look, let alone directed at me, that I wasn't sure
I had ever felt the full impact before. It was a look
that made a man feel like he suddenly wasn't on
solid footing.

I could do worse for a fake wife.
It wouldn't be a hardship to try to sell it.
"What time do we need to be there?"
"Ten," she supplied. "It's a two-hour drive.

Rachel texted me the address. But I would like to
get on the road before then."

"I get up before five," I told her, watching as

her eyes went round, as her lips parted.

"On purpose?"
"Yeah," I said, smiling. "On purpose."
"Every day?"
"Yep."
"You're a freak. But that works. I can be here

around six-forty-five. With coffee. Then we can get
on the road. I'm assuming your crew can do without
you for a few hours?"

"Yeah, they'll be fine. They'll just be laying

tile." That we'd finally agreed on. "We can take the
day."

"Great," she said, putting her coffee down on

the island. "Well, I will let you get back to your
evening," she declared, turning to leave, making me
follow her through my house. Grabbing the door, I
thought she was going to step out without another
word. But then she turned back, taking a long
moment to make eye-contact. "I really appreciate
this, Warren."

With that, she was gone.
Leaving me to think that I should have told

her. That I wasn't doing this for some kind of favor.
That there was a motivation for me as well.

I didn't know a whole hell of a lot about this

kind of thing, but in general, people on TV made
money. Good money. Life changing money.

There'd be time.
If it came to that.
If, by some divine miracle, we managed to

pull it off.

Which was, admittedly, a long shot.
But it was worth a try.
For my dream.
And for hers.
Hopefully, we both came out alive on the

other end.

FOUR

Brinley

I was half-tempted to ask Brent to pinch me.
None of this felt like it could be real. Not

even when I got another text from Rachel making
sure I had cleared the time with my husband, so she
could know if they were to expect us. Not even
when I got up a five in the morning the morning of
the day. The day when my life had the potential to
completely change.

Potentially, I reminded myself as I fussed

with my hair and makeup and clothes, trying not to
look like I was trying so hard.

In the end, I chose a simple deep navy

sundress with a slight fleur-di-les pattern in gold on

it, slipped into flats, left my hair down, and grabbed
my purse and sketchpad before I could talk myself
into changing for the eighth time.

"Breathe," Brent reminded me as I rushed

through the living room, shoving normal chargers
and car chargers into my purse, grabbing a granola
bar to throw into my bag in case I got hungry, and
mints in case I got the dreaded stale-coffee-breath.

"No time to breathe," I told him as I rushed

out of the door.

The morning was staying blissfully mild after

a week-long heatwave that had my clothes sticking
to me, sweat beading up on my brows and upper
lip, and slowly trickling down my back the moment
I got into my car.

By the time I had stopped for coffee, and

made it to Warren's surprisingly well - if sparsely -
decorated home, my hair wasn't even damp at the
roots yet.

The front door opened, bringing out Warren

who hadn't decided to exactly dress up for the
audition. Jeans and a dark blue tee. But at least this
set didn't have grease or paint stains on them. Even
his boots were clean.

"Ready?" he asked, waving toward his car,

making me let out a sigh of relief. First, because I
didn't like driving on the parkway. Second, because
the no-AC thing would become an issue once the
sun was high in the sky.

"Yep," I agreed, shuffling out with the

coffees, purse, sketchpad, and a little plastic bag of
touch-up makeup.

"You're not breathing," he declared a

moment later after we had buckled in, backed out,
and started down the road.

"I'm nervous," I admitted. "I don't lie much,"

I added. "I don't know how well I do it."

"Well, you're gonna have to get good at it in

under two hours if you want this. If it helps, your
future could depend on it."

"That does help," I told him, nodding.
Success, that was my motivator. Not having

to worry about bills. Not having to buy exclusively
off the clearance rack. Not having to take
advantage of a buddy's charity. Not having to
endure those looks from my family. The ones that
said they were praying for me, that they were
maybe a little disappointed that I hadn't gone into
project management or law or something else that
they wouldn't have to worry about me doing.

"Here, you need to put one of these on," he

told me a while later, tossing a small box at me.
Opening it, I found two simple white gold bands.
Wedding rings. Right. Because we were married. It
felt wrong sliding it on, but there was no way
around it. He slipped his up his finger with a lot less
hesitation than me. "We need to discuss details," he
added as he took the turn onto the parkway. "The

little shit that might help us sell this. When, where,
what it is about each other."

"You're very good at your job," I offered,

making a snort rush out of him. "What?"

"Being good at my job wouldn't make you

want to fuck me, let alone marry me in secret."

He wasn't exactly wrong.
And, normally, I didn't find it hard to list

positive qualities in a person. Most people had
some of them. Brent was loyal, steadfast,
supportive, protective, occasionally - mainly after
he had too many drinks - funny.

Objectively, I was a hard worker, dedicated,

and open-minded.

But I was having some kind of mental block

when it came to Warren.

"I don't know you that well," I admitted,

shaking my head. "What's your story?"

"My story. Alright," he started, sounding

guarded, but as though that wasn't going to stop him
- a combination I didn't understand. "Had a
deadbeat dad who dropped me on my grandfather's
doorstep. He had a farm right over the border of
PA. That was where I grew up. Being a typical boy.
And learning everything I know about
workmanship from him."

"Was he a carpenter?"
"Farmer," Warren corrected. "But of an older

generation. They built things. They fixed things

when they broke. Aside from appliances and the
like, I don't think a single piece of furniture he had
came from a store. The house itself was built by his
two hands. So were the barns. His workshop.
Everything. He didn't have formal training."

"But he didn't need it," I finished for him,

nodding. "Because he had real-life experience."

"Exactly."
"Why'd you get training then?" I asked,

maybe peeping a look at his profile while his eyes
were on the road, maybe finally seeing a bit more
of his appeal, the things that made some of the
women at the home improvement stores go a little
gaga when he spoke to them. I guess because, for
the first time, we weren't arguing, butting heads,
disliking the very existence of each other.

"Because while hands-on experience is

admirable still in our society, no one recognizes it as
valid. If I wanted a career in this, I needed the
education. My experience didn't count for shit."

"You didn't want to be a farmer? Like your

grandfather?"

"When I was at the age where I was deciding

what I wanted to do with my life, I had begun to
want things. Superficial, nothing things. Like nice
clothes. A nice house. A new car."

"There's nothing wrong with wanting those

things," I told him, knowing it was a huge motivator
for me as well.

"No. Nothing wrong, per se. But shallow," he

went on. "By the time I realized that this," he said,
waving a hand toward the windshield of his car, "is
really nothing in the grand scheme of things, my
grandfather was gone. And the farm fell into my
father's hands."

"Couldn't you maybe convince him to give it

back to you? If you want it so much."

"Maybe could have," he agreed, more of a

guardedness slipping into his tone. But still, he went
on. "If he hadn't gone delinquent on it. It's in pre-
foreclosure."

"That sucks," I told him from somewhere

deep, hearing a bit of emotion leak into my words.
Because I finally understood him a little. I knew his
dream. And when you knew someone's dream, you
knew almost all there was to know about them. He
wanted to go back, to farm, to live the life he had
foolishly left behind to chase things he found never
fulfilled him. "Is that why you agreed to do this?" I
asked a few minutes later after the gears had a
chance to turn. It seemed like the only explanation.
"For the money? To try to buy back the farm?"

"Yeah," he agreed, chancing a look my way,

his dark eyes almost oddly blank. "It's a pretty
shitty motivator - money. But it's all I got."

"It's not like I have some noble reason for

wanting to do it either," I admitted. "To get some
notice. To get some more clients. To get a more

steady income."

"That's your dream, though, isn't it?" he

asked, shrugging. "This business. This is what you
want most. To make a name for yourself. Doesn't
make it a shitty motivator. If this is what you really
want."

"I like making things pretty," I admitted,

feeling silly the second the words were out of my
mouth. Even if they were true. I did like making
things pretty. I liked beautiful things, things that
made you feel good inside when you saw them. I
wanted everyone to have that feeling as they
walked around their homes, as they looked at the
items I had picked out specifically to give them
those sensations. It made me feel good, I guess, to
make them feel good. In the way that I was able to
do.

"You do that," he surprised me by saying,

making my gaze seek his face again, still finding it
facing forward, unreadable. But I still thought there
was sincerity there. It was in his tone, in the depth
of it, in the way he wasn't - for a change - smirking
at my expense. "So, you think you can find
something convincing to say about me now?" he
asked a few moments later.

"Yeah, I think I have something to work with

now," I agreed.

"Wanna tell me?"
"No. I think it's better if it comes off the cuff.

That way our reactions to what the other person
says are real, y'know? Not practiced. It will come
off more genuine."

"Because it will be."
"Exactly."
"You really think we can pull this shit off?

It's a big lie."

"I don't know," I admitted. "I'm hoping for

the best. And I will read over the fine print of any
documents to make sure we aren't screwing
ourselves over. Though I very much doubt that
there will be a clause about pretending to be
married in there anywhere, no matter how thorough
it is otherwise."

"Fair enough," he agreed, reaching over to

turn the radio on. A smile tugged at his lips when I
let out a grumble that could never be confused for
quiet when his usual country station came filtering
from the speakers. It was a smile too, a genuine
one. Not a smirk. No. This one made little creases
form beside his eyes that suddenly seemed much
brighter than I had seen them before. "Have you
ever been to Cape May before?" he asked a while
later, surprising me. Usually, I was the one who
couldn't keep silent.

"Every summer when I was in elementary

school. My parents - and aunts and uncles and
grandparents - would all pitch in to rent a too-small
house for a week. With an outside shower," I

recalled, that always having been my favorite thing
about the house. Such a foreign, but welcome
concept to my young brain. "We would get there,
and all the women would scrub the place even
though it was supposed to be cleaned between
clients, then we'd all go food shopping for the
week. Then come home, and the men would cook
out. The next morning, we would get up before
sunrise to walk the pier to see the sunrise. Spend
the day at the beach. Then maybe the arcade. They
have this amazing arcade. And we'd save up all our
tickets to cash in at the end of the week for big
stuff. Then at night, we would walk to town. My
siblings and I got spending money to buy things like
trolls and shell necklaces and jumping beans. And
we would all agree to meet at this ice cream place
at nine. I wonder if it is still there," I thought aloud.

"The ice cream place?"
"Yeah. They had the best French vanilla I

have ever had in my life. My sister used to say the
same thing about the coffee ice cream."

"Why'd you stop going?"
"I don't know really. Everyone always talked

about wanting to come back. But I guess life gets
busy or complicated. It is hard to bring everyone
together for a holiday, let alone a whole week,
anymore. I guess everyone thought it wouldn't be
the same if we didn't do it exactly how we did it in
the past."

"We can go check."
"Check what?"
"See if the ice cream place is still there," he

offered, chancing a look over at me. "For old time's
sake."

There was an odd, warm, floating sensation

in my belly at that, something that was foreign in
general - let alone in relation to Warren - that I
didn't even know how to interpret it.

"Okay," I agreed, smiling a little tentatively.

"That'd be nice."

Nice.
And Warren Allen Reyes.
I never thought I'd see the day when I put

those words together.

Wonders would never cease, it seemed.
"You ready for this?" he asked as we parked

outside the hotel in question, having needed to
drive the lot for five minutes waiting for someone
else to pull out, so we could take the spot.

It was prime vacation time.
The entire area was packed.
Endless streams of people could be seen

walking down the streets, flip-flops slapping on the
concrete, bright beach towels stuffed into canvas
totes, metal and plastic lawn chairs in hands, wide-
brimmed hats on heads, coolers trailing behind with
bags attached, teaming with sun-friendly snacks,
everyone smelling of sunblock, wearing sunglasses,

and already boasting their swimsuits.

Nostalgia was a live thing through my system

as I watched them, mind going back to being no
more than five or six, holding my aunt's hands as
we jumped waist-deep waves. Occasionally I'd lose
her grip when a strong one would hit, sending us
both surging away from each other, my heart
thudding, belly dropping, as I remembered at the
last possible second to squeeze my nose as the
wave dragged me under, tossing and turning me for
what felt like ages before I surfaced on the wet
sand, laughing up at the sun.

Simpler times.
Happier, too, if I were perfectly honest.
But that kind of came with the territory of

innocence - ignorance to all the stuff in life that
isn't light and happy, when your entire life was
sunshine and chasing butterflies and building mud
pies and making massive hopscotch boards on the
driveway to play on with your friends.

No bills.
No familial expectations.
Or societal ones.
Just living deep, sucking up every moment of

joy available to you.

One day, I told myself, one day I would

know that kind of lightness again.

"Breathe," Warren reminded me as he eyed

my bag with a grimace before he grabbed it,

grabbed my wallet, then threw the rest of it on the
backseat.

"What are you doing? I need that!"
"No one needs that much crap," he

countered, holding out my wallet to me. "You need
your ID and your sketchbook. That's it."

"You didn't bring any sketches," I realized as

he just stood there, arms down at his sides, casual
as could be. Like this wasn't the thing we were both
pinning all our hopes on.

"No," he agreed, not even bothering to shrug.
"And your website is sparse," I added, head

starting to spin, body starting to sweat. Which
would be great. Just great. Showing up an anxious,
sweaty mess when I needed to be calm and
collected and convincing.

"What is this?" he asked callously, waving a

hand at my obvious distress.

"This?" I hissed. "This is a professional who

came to a business meeting prepared to talk
business. And for us - in case no one has explained
this to you, Mr. High-and-Mightly, that means we
come prepared with examples of our work for the
clients to see."

"If they looked into me, they could find my

work out there."

"Out where?" I shot back. "I couldn't find

your work when I looked."

"Stalking me, huh?" he asked, letting that

damn smirk of his pull at his lips.

I'd never really been the type of person who

felt moved to physical violence much, as hot as my
temper often ran. But, good God, the urge to reach
up and slap him was overwhelming. So much so
that I needed to curl my fingers into my wallet and
sketchbook to make sure I didn't do anything that
might undermine our chances here.

Chances.
Which were getting slimmer by the moment

thanks to his blasé attitude toward something that
should have meant the world to us.

And, I reminded myself, even if - by some

miracle at this point - we did get it, I would have to
pretend to love this careless, arrogant man for a
year.

As much as I wanted this, I didn't know how

I would pull that off.

Forget all the designs I had worked on in my

life, pretending to love and be married to this man?
That would be my opus. My goddamned
masterpiece.

"I Googled you. Being the professional I am,

I researched the person I was about to work with.
And since I could scarcely find anything, I doubt
that anyone else..."

"Oh, there you two are!" a newly familiar

voice called, happy, excited. "Fantastic." Yep.
Rachel. The woman who held our future in her

hands. Hearing us bitching. Again. I half-turned to
find her walking up behind me from her car, a tray
of sweating iced coffee drinks in her hand. "My
assistant is enjoying some well-deserved time in the
sun," she explained, waving the tray of drinks. "You
two are right on time."

I shared a look with Warren, one that seemed

to say I don't think she heard us.

"Were those some agitated voices I heard?"

she asked, putting a pin in the balloon of hope in
my chest.

"Someone didn't bring a sketchpad," I said,

sending her an eye-roll, hoping she would take it as
a typical lover's spat.

"Oh, that's not a problem. We did our due

diligence. Found some amazing homes he has
worked on."

Without thinking, I shot Warren a scowl to

the smirk he was giving me.

Recovering faster than I could, he sent

Rachel one of those mega-watt smiles of his that he
was capable of here and there. "Brin here was just
lecturing me about how she couldn't find any of my
work online when she first met me."

"Online? No. But we did find you featured in

a few magazines," Rachel said, giving him a smile
that said that she wasn't exactly unaffected by
Warren's charms.

Magazines.

Right.
Of course.
I don't know why it hadn't occurred to me to

look there, as important as I knew they still were,
even in this digital age. I guess I had figured that if
he hadn't put the money or effort into getting a
proper website designed, that he would never take
the time to get himself featured in magazines.

I had a lot to learn about the man, it would

seem.

"And you, Brinley, you can just relieve

yourself of that sketchpad too. We have looked at
your website and all your social media extensively.
We know everything you have to offer as well."

Taking a deep breath, trying to tamp down

my pride at being proven wrong yet again around
Warren, I put my sketchpad in the back to cover
my purse, and gave her a nod. "Okay, great!" I said,
smile so fake it made my cheeks hurt. But I knew
because I had been trained to be hyper-aware of
such things, that it came across genuine.

"Ready, baby?" Warren asked, arm dropping

down across my shoulder, making my whole body
jolt unexpectedly.

Baby?
I mean, I knew we were supposed to be in

love, but... baby? Was that supposed to be a crack?
About how small I was? Or how badly I took
defeat?

I wiggled instinctively against the touch,

trying to dislodge it. "I'm sweating," I objected,
suddenly aware of our audience, knowing I was
supposed to crave his touch and other disgusting
things like that.

"Yeah, you are," he agreed, not doing the

gentlemanly thing, and ignoring the truth of my
statement.

"Love this," Rachel sighed, holding up a

hand like she was swearing to a higher power.
"Come on, you two. Let's get the formalities over
with."

Formalities.
That wasn't lost on me as Warren - and

therefore me, since he was still one-armed-hugging
me like a couple of lovesick teenagers at the mall -
fell into step with Rachel as she gushed about the
area, about how perfect it was for the show, about
the amazing, sweeping drone views they could get
for opening credits of the beach, the pier, shots of
the destruction.

"That is part of the point of this season, of

course. After the hiccups recently, we decided we
could revamp the interest in the show if we focus
on redoing some of these homes brought to
devastation by Sandy all those years back. There
are so many that have still been sitting vacant, you
know," she added as we moved into the lobby of
the hotel.

It was beachy.
Of course.
The design, the decor, it was meant to

complement a beach town - all white-painted ever-
loving shiplap, blue and seafoam green accents,
shell designs. Actually, while it was done well
enough - and expensively, I was sure - it was just a
tad overboard. It looked like a beach-themed
birthday party just threw up all over it.

But, I reminded myself, that was likely what

the people who came to stay wanted.

"Right through here," Rachel guided us away

from the elevators and down a hall where the
conference rooms were likely situated. "We are
going to talk to Mica Vich, she's the creator of the
show. And Andy Walling. He's, well, he's the
money," she told us, giving us a shrug. "Just be
yourselves. Don't put on a show. They will
appreciate the real you. The one I keep happening
upon."

In we went into a somewhat sterile room

with none of the accents found in the lobby or halls
where we found a long fold-up table where two
people were situated. Mica was around Rachel's
age with fire-engine red hair that she had chopped
so short it was barely hair at all, putting all the
focus on her sharp, cat-like features and keen gray
eyes. Long shell earrings dangled, dragging your
attention to the spindle-thin column to her neck and

the off-shoulder hem of her white shirt that showed
off the sharp juts of her collarbones.

Andy was older, somewhere in his sixties

wearing an appropriate tan-colored summer suit,
impeccably neat from his black hair that grayed
only at the temples to the brown leather shoes that I
bet cost more than my car did. Though, admittedly,
I probably couldn't give that damn car away at this
point.

"Mica, Andy, this is who I was telling you

about. Warren and Brinley."

Warren remembered his manners before I

did, reaching an arm out to shake each of the
interviewer's hands, his arm falling a bit down my
back as he did, making the front of my shirt slide
up, the collar cutting into my throat.

I yanked instinctively out from under his

arm, grabbing the material to drag it back down.
"You were choking me," I informed him when his
head swiveled in my direction.

I couldn't be sure, but I could have sworn he

mumbled Dramatic under his breath.

I took a deep breath, shrugging it off,

introducing myself with a smile.

"Have a seat," Andy invited not a second

before I felt Warren's hand snag me at the small of
my back, strong fingers curling into the waistband
of my pants - and panties! - then dragging
backward, making me fall with a grunt onto his lap.

"A little warning," I said, giving him a hard

look since I was turned away from them to do so.

"Where's the fun in that?" he shot back,

shooting that smile of his at me. Even though I
knew it was just for show, just for our audience,
yeah, I got it. I got why girls forgot how to keep
their saliva in their mouths when he flashed it at
them.

"So," Mica started, giving us a smile as I

shifted slightly to be able to look at them better,
pretending to ignore the way Warren's arm was
around my back, his hand situated on my thigh,
heavy and possessive. For show, I reminded
myself. For them. "Why don't you guys tell us how
you met? What your first impressions were of each
other."

"We met..." we both started in unison.
"We met on a job," I started when he didn't

continue. "Warren was brought on as the
contractor. I was the designer. We knew about
working with each other, but hadn't met before
then."

"And your first impressions?" Mica pressed.
"Well, it took about, I don't know, five

minutes for me to decide he was the most
impossible man on the face of the Earth," I told
them truthfully, smiling when they all chuckled.

"And you, Warren?" Mica asked as I tried to

make myself relax a little, look comfortable in my

position.

"I thought she was beautiful," he started

easily, making me jump, my head swiveling in his
direction, looking for insincerity. "That I was a
lucky man to get to work with her for a few
weeks." He was telling the truth! I didn't just get
taught to school my own body language, but how to
read it, interpret it. He was being honest. He
thought I was beautiful? "Of course, then she
opened her mouth," he went on, making me snort
hard, as the others laughed as well.

"So not exactly love at first sight?" Mica

asked.

"We couldn't even have a civil

conversation," I admitted, smiling a bit because it
was true. "Everything was an argument. From what
I wore to the actual design plans. Every day was a
battle."

"Until..." Rachel piped in, reminding us about

the inevitable. The love story part. The part we
really hadn't come up with.

"Until she started really talking about her

work, how much she loves it, how she enjoys
making people's lives fuller with pretty things. You
don't see that kind of passion much these days,"
Warren said easily. As though it was true.

"And you, Brinley?" Mica asked.
"One day, he was talking about his

grandfather, about the farm he grew up on, about

how he learned to build things at his side. I guess it
kind of helped me see him as a human instead of,
excuse my language, a thorn in my ass."

There was more laughter at that, and I could

feel Warren's fingers give my thigh a squeeze,
silently telling me we had them.

I had the same feeling.
"It was a whirlwind, huh?" Andy asked, tone

skeptical.

"I know what you're thinking," I agreed,

nodding. "I'm a skeptic by nature too. I've certainly
never believed in love at first sight. But it was a lot
of early mornings and late nights. We spent most
waking hours together. It sounds fast, but it felt
natural to us. I think... when you find something -
or someone - who makes you happy, you have to
hang onto them. We don't get a lot of that as
adults, y'know? The kind of joy that makes you feel
like it is going to burst through your fingertips and
toes, like you can't contain it all. We decided it was
silly to wait just because that was what society
expects of us."

"So sweet," Mica mumbled to Rachel, and I

knew that was it. Even if Andy wasn't a romantic,
we had them. If we had them, they'd get him on
board.

They spent the next half an hour explaining

how the process would work - them buying most of
the houses and footing he redesign bills, except for

in two cases where there were owners and their
budgets to work with. Telling us the time expected
for each project, the teams we would have, the
expectations for us to do promotional photoshoots
and press tours if necessary. When shooting would
start. What a day of shooting would entail.

By the time we had the documents in our

hands, my head was spinning.

"I think I need to get some food in her,"

Warren explained for me. "We got on the road early
this morning. Can we bring these back to you after
lunch?"

"It's kinda ridiculous that I have to keep

reminding you to breathe," he informed me as we
stepped into the hall.

"That was a lot to take in," I told him, pulling

away from the hand that was around my hips after
the door closed, giving me the space I needed.

"I'm sure we will get it all on paper once we

look over and sign the documents," he told me
casually. Everything seemed to roll right off his
back. Nothing was worth getting worked up over.

They would like that, the producers and

creators.

He was the yin to my very anxious, prone to

obsessive overthinking, aggressive yang.

"Are we eating here?"
"Where they can eavesdrop on us?" he

asked, steering us toward the doors. "No. Do you

know any restaurants here?"

"No. But if we just walk, I'm sure we'll

happen upon some."

That was what we did, both silent as we did

so, lost in our own thoughts until we finally settled
on a seafood - of course - place, got a table, and
placed our orders.

"Alright, here," I said, handing him one of

the folders as I flipped mine open. "Tell me if you
find any red flags."

But there weren't any.
Not a single one.
Nothing that said we had to be married.
Nothing that said we would be fined - or

worse - if some scandal broke out. Which was
surprising given the history of the show.

It was just all about what was expected of us,

our obligations to filming and promotion, what the
length of the contract was for.

"Wow," I said, exhaling my breath as I got to

the part about money.

"What?"
"Twenty-thousand," I said, looking up at him,

finding him still a page behind me.

"What?" he asked again, brows knitting.
"Twenty-thousand to us per episode. The

season is sixteen episodes."

"Shit," he said, something I could only call

hope completely overtaking his face.

"I know you need it," I said, surprising even

myself. "The money. More than I do really. I'll take
fifty."

"I don't think you mean what it sounds like

you mean."

"I do. I'll take fifty of that. The other..."
"Two-hundred-Seventy," he supplied for me.
"Yeah, that can be yours."
"That's ridiculous."
"It's a lot of money," I countered. "I don't

even make that a normal year," I added, trying not
to let that hurt my pride too much. It wasn't like it
was my fault, or that forty-two-thousand was
chump change or anything. "And we're already
halfway into this year. It will be like making two
years' salary this year."

"It won't be enough to get you a house."
"No. But I could get an apartment of my

own. No more roommates. Besides, this wasn't
about the money for me per se. I just needed the
visibility. I can make my own money from this. I
know I can."

"That's really generous, Brin," he said in a

careful way, a way that said he thought I was going
to snatch it back.

"So, when we get back... we can just say to

put the two-seventy in your name, since we... share
that account. And then the fifty in mine because..."

"Because you want to start a brick-and-

mortar office when all this is finished. It will ring
true enough."

"Okay," I agreed, giving him a nod as the

food was served.

"You're sure about this?" he asked, still

unwilling to accept the deal I offered at face-value.

"Yes, I'm positive. Now, we just need to find

a way to tolerate each other for a year."

"For three-hundred-twenty grand, I think we

will be fine."

We weren't, of course.
We learned that the very next week when we

had to start the promo work.

It was going to be the longest year of our

lives.

We never did get the ice cream he promised

me either.

FIVE

Brinley

He had a death wish.
That was the only actual explanation for his

behavior.

It had been two weeks since we signed the

papers, since we informed our families and
coworkers of the situation. In my family's case, the
truth about the sham, making them swear on my
life to keep it under wraps. In his workers' case, we
told them the story, fed them the lies about our
whirlwind romance, listened to them tell us about
how they knew something was up between us, that
no two people could argue as much as we did
without there being some serious chemistry behind

it.

The clients were elated.
First, because they thought they brought us

together.

Which, well, was true.
Second, because they could brag to their

friends when the show aired that we had fallen in
love while redoing their home.

Those were some serious bragging rights in

the correct circles which they did circulate in.

We didn't see each other that much on the

job site, mostly because we were focused on
different rooms. He was finishing up the guts of the
bathroom while I put the final touches on the
kitchen area. Then by the time he was done with
the bathroom, there was nothing else for him to do
there.

"It's the only way," I insisted while he just

kept right on polishing the countertops, ignoring the
hell out of me. "You know it," I added, even if I
was about as enthused about the idea as he was.
Meaning, not at all.

"We already agreed that we are going to stay

at the rental house while we film."

Since the drive would be two hours for us,

they had offered - without us even having to hint at
it - to rent us a house for filming.

"Yes. On filming days. But we will have

weekends and odd days off here and there. We

need to appear like a happy couple then too."

"You seriously think they are going to follow

us?"

"I seriously think there are a lot of eyes

around here - your crew included - who might pay
too close of attention to us now. And, I don't know,
I saw some of the HITV couples hit the tabloids
over the past few years, grainy pictures from the
paparazzi supposedly showing something
scandalous. That could be us. And while - for the
most part - there was never actually anything
scandalous going on with these other guys, there
will be for us. If they look. Watch. We can't take
that chance. Your farm is riding on this. My career
is too."

"Fine," he growled, shoving the rag into his

back pocket.

Surly in general, he was taking it to a whole

other level the past few days. In response, I had
been going out of my way to try to be calm and
even - the unthinkable - accommodating. Just trying
to keep the peace. Just trying to keep up
appearances.

"It's not that big of a deal. I promise to stay

out of your way."

"Somehow, I doubt that," he shot back as he

picked up his toolbox, and made his way toward
the door, locking up after me.

We were done.

It should have been a happy night for both of

us.

But he had to go and be a pain in the ass.
I guess he figured there was no reason to

break his track record now.

"You have a guest room. I will stay in it

except if I have to shower or make food. And I
clean up after myself. I've had a roommate for
years. I know how to do this without stepping on
anyone's toes. I know you aren't used to this type of
thing, but it will work out. And, I mean, we'd have
to get used to it anyway since we'd be living
together in the rental house."

"That's different."
Because it wasn't his space. I got that. I

really did. But he was acting like I had active
leprosy, and was going to rub my sores all over his
possessions or something.

"You won't even know I'm there," I assured

him, hating the slight hint of desperation I heard in
my voice.

"I said fine, Brin. What else do you want

from me? You're not getting a Welcome Home
sign."

"You're an ass," I told him, throwing my

purse through the open door to my car. "But
regardless, I will be over around ten with some
stuff. An unlocked door would be nice."

With that, I jumped in my car and peeled off

before I could say anything that would make the
situation worse. I was good at that - saying the
things that rubbed him the wrong way. Better to
keep my mouth shut as much as possible.

"You're serious?" Brent asked as he watched

me walk around my room, throwing things into
pieces of luggage I had stored in my closet from
college.

"It's really not that big of a deal."
"Except that you hate the guy. You're going

to spend enough of time with him on the jobs and
staying at that rental. Why bother doing more of
it?"

"Because it needs to be convincing. If

someone caught me here, what possible excuse
could I have for not being with him?"

"Got a point," he agreed, though hesitantly.

"It's gonna be weird here without you," he
admitted.

"You'll have a blissful year with no glitter

stuck to you anywhere. But if you'll miss me that
much, I can stop by and sprinkle some around
while you're asleep at night."

"Think I'll be just as fine without it. But call,

okay? I'm used to talking to you. And you'll have a
lot to say, I'm sure."

"A lot to rant about, most likely," I told him

with a grimace as I sealed up my bags. "It's going to
be interesting," I said as I let him help bring my

bags to the car. "I'll text you before bed with a list
of his grievances," I promised, giving him a hug,
and going off to my new life.

It wouldn't be a hardship, staying in his

house. It was nicer than anything I would ever be
able to afford. It would be much more favorable, of
course, if he just wasn't there too.

This was a decision I made when he came

out to help with my bags - something I think he did
out of embedded good manners more so than actual
civility toward me - and informed me that needing
this many for a few nights at his place was Fucking
ridiculous.

"They're not just for a few nights here," I

shot back, trying to wrestle one of the bags away
from him to no avail. "This is everything I am going
to need for the next few months. It would make no
sense to have to go back to my old place to pack
again when I could just store it here in the closet."

Knowing he was wrong - and, as usual,

unwilling to admit it - he stayed silent as he trudged
up the path and through the house, taking me down
the hallway where there were three doors. One, I
imagined, the hall bath. The other two, bedrooms.

"This is the bathroom," he informed me,

pushing open the first door somehow even with his
arms and hands loaded down with my bags.

"Wait... where is the tub?" I asked as I

looked inside, finding new-looking life-proof

wooden tiles on the floor, unpainted walls, a toilet,
and the guts part of a sink with no vanity. And... no
tub.

"I've been remodeling for a few months.

Work keeps getting in the way."

"So... I'm sharing your bathroom?" I asked,

looking into the open master bedroom door, finding
it too dark to make anything out, but seeing an
open door to a bathroom within. At least it was just
the shower. That was a small blessing.

"Yeah," he agreed, moving past his room to

the only other one at the end of the hall. "I haven't
gotten to this one yet," he told me as he pushed
open the door, and reached to flick on the light.
"This is how it was when I moved in."

It was, too.
Meaning pretty hideous.
There was old wood paneling on the walls

straight out of the fifties that had been painted a
cream-color which did nothing to draw attention
away from it. The floor was an old gray carpet, the
kind your feet almost sank into.

Which would be great.
If I didn't hate carpets.
They could never get clean, not really. I had

been on far too many work sites, and seen carpets
getting ripped up, watching all the filth come out of
them, even when I knew that the owners of said
house were meticulous housekeepers. There was

just no avoiding the ick-factor there for me
anymore. Unless explicitly told otherwise, I never
included wall-to-wall carpets in my designs
anymore.

And, I guess, the slippers I packed were a

good thing, because my feet weren't touching this
carpet.

The bed, dresser, and nightstand were newer,

obviously, and matching - all thick cherry with
clean lines and not too much to take away from the
natural beauty of the wood.

I didn't realize I had been running my hand

over the footboard until Warren caught the motion.
"Took me two weeks to get that bed right," he
informed me.

"You made it?" I asked, not sure why I was

shocked after the story he had told me about how
his grandfather had made all his own furniture as
well.

"Yeah."
"If you want, one of the weekends, I can

help you finish the bathroom and in here too. I
mean, I know we will be working all week long on
the show and stuff, but if we find we have extra
energy. It's the least I can do for letting me stay."

There.
That was nice, right?
"I'm not making you work for your keep,

Brin," he scoffed, dropping the last of my bags on

the bed, then stalking out.

"Ooookay then," I sighed out, doing a bit of a

spin, taking in the room.

That night, I stayed in my room, deciding to

be as little an inconvenience as possible since he
was clearly in a sour mood about me invading his
space. Which was even understandable.

At promptly five-fifteen the next morning,

his blender went off. And, no, not one of the ones
toted for being quiet and good for a home
environment. No. This was one that sounded like it
was grinding up freaking rebar and cement and
diamonds.

I lay there, staring up at my ceiling, consoling

my thudding heart that hadn't quite gotten the
memo that there was no real threat yet, knowing it
would pass. Whatever he was making, it would
grind up, and he would be quiet again.

It felt like it went on forever. But silence

came, letting my eyes drift closed again.

But only for two or three minutes.
Before it started up again.
"Argh," I grumbled, throwing off the

blankets, curling up, tossing my legs over the edge
of the bed, and sliding my feet into the slippers
before jumping up and stomping out into the
kitchen. I'd say walking, but it was truly a stomp. A
half-asleep, groggy, slightly agitated stomp. "Are
you blending nuts and bolts?" my voice croaked in

between the churns of the blasted machine he was
standing behind, back to me, hair still wet, dripping
a bit onto his white tee, darkening it, yet making it
transparent somehow at the same time.

My gaze was oddly transfixed on that spot

when he turned, head ducked to the side, dark eyes
roving over me, seeming to take me all in at once
from my pink and purple striped shorts that might
have been called booty by some -making me
suddenly glad I was facing forward - to my black
tank top that exposed my arms and a good part of
my chest where the girls were held in by a blessed
shelf bra, then finally up to my face that was
completely devoid of makeup and my hair that was
a loose - and likely tangled - mass around my
shoulders.

"Thought you were an early riser," he said,

almost as an apology, making me feel like a jerk for
thinking murderous thoughts and growling.

"Oh, ah, to me... six-ish is early," I explained,

rubbing at the goosebumps on my arms, not having
adjusted yet to the temperature he kept his house
at, evidenced by the three blankets on my bed that
I had found in the closet.

"Good to know," he said, turning away,

flicking the blender on yet again.

I don't know why I stood there until he

finished; I guess I was just thrown off by his
morning greeting even if I had told him to go on as

though I wasn't there at all.

"Here," he said, making me jump, finding

him turned toward me, two large glasses in his
hands full of smoothies - one bright green, the other
a strange pinkish yellow-green combination.

"You... you made me a smoothie?" I asked,

confusion plain in my voice.

"Yeah. Didn't know how you felt on the

green part, so I choked your spinach out with
strawberry and banana," he told me, holding out the
not-so-green one.

"Wow, ah, this is... thank you," I mumbled,

reaching out to take the drink from his hands,
shivering a little when the cold of it moved from my
palm up my already cold arm.

"Why didn't you turn the air down?" he

asked, making me aware that the shiver I had felt
hadn't just been the inside kind.

"It's your house," I said, shrugging it off.
"And you're staying here," he shot back,

watching me as though I made no sense. "If you're
cold or hot, fix the thermostat."

"But you're not cold."
"Christ, woman, just go turn the air down,"

he said, rolling his eyes at me as he turned away.

So the pleasant part of the morning was

over.

I took my smoothie back toward my room,

stopping to turn down the AC once on the way.

And, having no job to work on, sat down to do
sketches for his guest room.

"Yo," Warren's voice made me jolt many

hours later from where I was half-bent forward
over his handmade dresser. I had it draped with my
robe, wanting to make sure I didn't get so much as a
smudge of pencil on the flawless surface as I
worked on a small art project for my social media -
something to use to announce the upcoming show
with. Rachel had okayed it so long as I waited for
them to premiere their promo first.

"Crap," I hissed as my paints flew off the

dresser, tumbling to the ground. "Sorry," I rushed to
say, grabbing a bit frantically at the bottles, praying
they were all sealed. "They're all closed," I told him
when I realized myself.

"Don't worry about the carpet. It's garbage

anyway. What are you doing? I've got a whole
workshop in the basement for projects. You could
spread out there."

"I was careful," I rushed to explain. "I didn't

get anything on the dresser."

"I wasn't worried about the dresser," he told

me, making some of the tension leave my body.
"Your neck must be sore as hell," he went on.

One moment harsh, the next sweet, I was

getting whiplash from the constant push and pull of
his emotions.

"I'm used to improvising for workspace," I

told him as I cleaned up my mess. "But thanks for
telling me. That will make life easier. What time is
it?"

"Five," he told me, the words making my

belly let out a loud grumble. "Figured I would ask
before I start cooking."

"I can cook!" I rushed to say, turning back.

"You don't need to cook for me."

"I'd be cooking regardless of you being

here," he said gruffly, then was off, making me rush
after him.

"What were you going to ask me?" I asked

his back.

"If there's anything you don't eat," he

answered, only turning his head over his shoulder
to wait for my answer.

"Um, mayo. And lamb," I added. "I think

that's it."

"Got it," he said, leaving yet again.
"One year," I reminded myself as I went

back to my room.

Just one year.
I could learn to live with his weird up and

down and back and forth.

Hopefully.
The next few days were much the same - me

walking on eggshells, trying not to get too in his
way, getting annoyed when he was a jerk, and
confused when he was nice.

When it was finally time to leave and head to

our new - but temporary - life, I was almost at peak
stress level, feeling oddly unsure of myself, on-
edge, and not at all mentally ready to take on the lie
again.

"Tell us the story about your summers here,"

Rachel demanded after I sat in makeup and
wardrobe for half an hour then met with Warren
who - hilariously, in my humble opinion - had some
makeup on too, and ran through promo lines for the
show, doing voiceovers for the opening credits.

"I'm sorry?" I asked, trying to shake the

weird electric feeling on my skin that was thanks to
almost nonstop worry that every word, motion,
look was possibly wrong, could give us away.

"Warren was telling us while he was getting

those under-eye circles covered up about how you
used to come here every summer. I think that
would make a good little bit in the first episode,
about how Cape May has a special place in your
heart, and how the devastation the storm brought
here really impacted you because of your history
here."

That was really stretching it, but when these

people were offering you the world, you did
whatever they wanted.

So I told the story.
And then we agreed to be back the next day

to do a photoshoot, and made our way down the

block toward the townhouse that would be ours for
the next year.

"How the hell do you chicks wear this crap

day in and day out?" he grumbled as he tried to rub
off the concealer under his eyes with a napkin he
found in his glovebox.

"Cultural expectations help," I told him as I

stuck my head half out the window to check out the
row of obviously new townhouses. I didn't
remember the area well enough to know, but I
would bet these were just about as old as the storm,
the old houses likely wiped out, the land snatched
up by developers, and these beautiful eyesores got
erected.

That was how I described townhouses,

almost without fail.

Beautiful eyesores.
Because they were - almost without fail -

beautiful things, especially modern ones. And the
designs were typically clean and well thought out.

But there was just something about a row of

mostly-similar homes with no land between them
that was just not as pleasing to look at as
standalone homes.

These ones were undeniably beachy-

looking.

The row of ten homes were all raised, as was

the law after the storm, made of sand-colored
stucco. You saw first the garages at ground level

along with staircases leading up to the main floor.
There were two of them, each with a wrought iron
balcony that, I would imagine, showed a view of
the beach. There were a few ornate accents, as was
more typical of the older, Victorian homes of the
area, trying to help them fit in more.

"Copy and paste," Warren mumbled, drawing

my attention over to him.

"What?"
"They're all copy and paste. No character."
"They're likely just summer rentals," I found

myself defending them even though my thoughts
were pretty similar. "I bet they're very pretty
inside."

To that, he just grumbled as he climbed out,

going for the bags in the backseat as well as the
cab.

"Give that to me," I insisted, grabbing a giant

bag that he was trying to grab. "You don't have to
get all the bags at once. And I do have two arms as
well."

"My grandfather would belt my ass if he

knew I was letting a woman carry her luggage," he
surprised me by admitting.

"Well..." I said, putting the one bag down to

grab two others. "Fine. Here. You aren't letting me
carry my own baggage," I told him with a smile as I
held up his bags.

"Guess that works," he allowed with a small

smile as we made our way up the steps with small
outdoor carpets running along the center. "They
probably get wet and slippery from the seawater,"
he told me when I had definitely been grimacing at
them.

"You ready?" I asked, fishing the keys out of

my pocket, wiggling them in his face.

"Bags aren't getting any lighter," he told me,

but his voice was light for a change.

With that, I put in the key, and pushed the

door open to our house.

We walked right into a somewhat narrow and

long living room and kitchen combo. Open and airy,
everything was white from the walls to the white-
wash-gray hardwood floors, the countertops in the
kitchen, the carpet, and the curtains.

The living room was small and sunlit thanks

to the windows and door that led out onto the
balcony. The couch itself was a bright aqua blue as
were the imprints of a starfish and a conch shell in
frames on the wall above it.

The kitchen was behind the living room,

separated only by the counter with aqua blue stools
where, it seemed, we would be dining as there was
no dining space. There was nothing to mark there,
just white cabinets and the same hardwood floors
as well as modern stainless steel appliances and a
small back deck.

The stairs were toward the left of the

kitchen, and we both wordlessly traveled up them,
cursing and hissing a bit with the bags in our hands.

And what did we walk into at the top

landing, you might be wondering.

A bedroom.
The master bedroom.
The only bedroom.
"Of course," Warren grumbled from behind

me a second before I heard all the bags hitting the
floor.

It was a beautiful room with a giant king-

sized bed dominating it with a wide closet and a
door to the master bath. The floor was more of the
same from below but with a white carpet beneath.
The bedding and curtains were also white, but the
walls had a very slight blue color.

The windows and door to the deck lined the

whole front wall to the side of the bed, making the
whole room as bright as the one below.

"Pillow barrier," Warren suggested as I stood

there silently.

"What?"
"Bed is huge. Pillow barrier. I don't think

either of us wants to deal with a year of backaches
from sleeping on that hard as hell couch
downstairs."

He wasn't wrong.
It was one of those couches.
The kind you got from a box store cheap,

stuffed to the point where it was barely comfortable
to sit on, let alone sleep.

I had been sleeping on a twin-sized bed since

childhood. I was sure I could stay on my own side.
And while Warren was a giant - at least to me - he
wasn't all that wide. It could work.

"Sounds like a plan," I agreed as I moved

past him to check out the bathroom, finding it
surprisingly modern with an all-glass shower
enclosure, a simple white soaking tub, toilet, and
pedestal sink.

"It's well made," Warren said from behind

me, making me start. "Soulless, but well made."

"Yeah," I agreed, nodding.
After that, we hopped back into the truck to

hit the foodstore before coming home to cook, then
shower, then get ready for bed, only occasionally
speaking, mostly about little nothing things like the
house, the area, what the next day would be like.

As I walked out of the bathroom, showered,

changed into shorts and a tank, there was an odd,
but distinct swirling feeling in my stomach that I
couldn't call anything other than nervousness.

I was nervous.
About slipping into a bed with Warren.
Even though he had already built a border

with the pillows we had picked up for just this
purpose.

It felt weird and childish as I looked at it, as

strangely necessary as it felt. Like something
terrible might happen if our bodies accidentally
touched in our sleep.

"Light off?" he asked from the side of the

bed as I got to the other, climbing in, and pulling
the blankets up over my body.

"Yeah," I agreed, lowering myself down as

he flicked off the light.

The windows had curtains, sure, but no

blinds - an odd choice likely meant to let the light in
first thing in the morning, but to me, had a slight
voyeuristic vibe to it. And right then, the moon was
nearly full and high in the sky, casting beams of
moonlight across the space, making it lightly
illuminated even if the world was dark.

Which made it hard to miss when my eye

caught motion to my side to find that Warren was
still standing beside the bed. And had reached up to
discard his shirt.

I was tired.
That was the only logical explanation really.
For what happened.
Chemicals, too.
Purely a chemical reaction.
Misfirings of the parts of my brain that

controlled such things.

Because there was no other reason for the

unexpected - and, of course, unwanted - pre-
orgasm fluttering I felt between my legs at seeing

the long, lean, but muscular column of his chest and
abs, the muscles etching deep enough to run a
finger through.

My fingers actually twitched at that idea.
"This gonna be a problem?" he asked.
The only thing worse than having an odd

surge of attraction to this man was him catching me
ogling him.

Ogling.
Oh, holy hell.
"Is what going to be a problem?" I asked,

hoping for unaffected, pretty sure I had pulled it
off. I was getting good at something that hadn't ever
been my forte before. Lying. Pretending. Putting on
a show. Whichever phrase felt more comfortable on
any given day.

"Guess not," he said, shrugging as he pulled

up the blanket, making the cool air wash over me.

I turned right at that moment, rolling onto my

side to face the window, praying he didn't see the
shiver and - God forbid - misinterpret it.

Just a year, I reminded myself.
It was just a year.
Oddly, as I drifted off, I had the strangest,

most impossible thought.

Maybe he would grow on me.

"Just cock your hip a little more to the left,"

the photographer barked out his orders in the
somewhat brisk, though not unfriendly way he'd
been doing for ages already.

I couldn't imagine that my hip cocked to the

left instead of the right like it was right now would
make all that much of a difference. But seeing as
he was the professional, I was going to ignore the
ache in my feet and the little trickle of sweat sliding
down my spine because the studio was way too
damn hot considering they totally had working air
conditioning.

I was just grumpy.
I had fitful sleep, tossing and turning in a

way that generally wasn't my habit. I whacked into
the pillow barrier several times, waking up in
almost a panic, heart thudding, stomach sinking, at
the idea of crossing that border.

When I had finally fully passed out, I had

woken up just three hours later completely cuddling
the damn barrier wall like a lover, leg and arm
cocked up over it, head dead to the center. The
blankets were tangled around my calves, leaving
my legs bare up to the very short hem of my
shorts.

The only good thing about it was Warren

seemed long gone already, likely out taking an early

morning stroll down the pier or something.

I had showered again, gotten dressed, but left

my hair and face alone, knowing someone else
would only have to wash off whatever I put on or
undo what I did once we got to the studio.

By the time I went downstairs, Warren was

back with coffee made and some sliced fruit
waiting.

Sliced fruit.
That was all I had eaten all day.
And it was nearing four in the afternoon.
So on top of the heat of the room, and my

lack of sleep, I was starving as well.

I just wanted to be done.
But every time the photographer would take

a break to scroll through the pictures, he would
declare Not quite yet.

For almost six hours.
Six hours.
Of posing.
One moment, I was on a ladder, waving out a

ruler like I was dictating what Warren did. The
next, he was on the ladder, and I was pretending to
try to knock him off. Then when he thought those
were too campy, he had us actually pretend to be
looking over plans or doing pretend fixing of the
half-painted room he had us in with debris scattered
around to attempt to make it look like an actual
work site.

Too stock image looking.
That was the last feedback we had gotten.
I was in the middle of trying to work a knot

out of my right shoulder with my left hand when
Vander - the photographer - declared a little loudly,
"There. Hold still, Brin. Warren, give her a kiss. On
the temple."

A kiss?
No.
No kisses.
But, really, I couldn't say that.
It was a miracle he hadn't demanded a full-

on makeout session yet.

So I stood still.
And Warren's lips pressed into my temple.
That was when another weird thing

happened.

A tingle.
A freaking tingle.
But, no.
It couldn't have been a tingle.
I mean unless it was the start of an allergic

reaction.

That would totally make sense.
"Seems too staged," Vander sighed. "How

about we bring in that doorframe thing again," he
suggested to his assistant as she moved to jump up
and push the thing back, making Warren - ever the
gentleman thanks to his grandfather, even if he

hated having to be so toward me - rush to help her
put the door we had pretended to paint earlier back
into the space. "What about... I don't know... open
the door from behind, lean out with smiles. Like
you are welcoming someone into the work site."

Warren and I moved behind me, as I took a

deep breath, so I could force out another smile I
didn't feel.

Then we leaned out, Warren towering over

me, smiles plastered on our faces.

He clicked.
"That's the one," he declared, nodding. "Let

me just double-check," he said, flipping through.
"Yeah, that's it. I've worked with Rachel and Mica
before, they will love this. They can even put the
show title on the door. It's perfect. Thank you, you
two. You were good sports."

"Do you need anything else from us?"

Warren asked, those being the first words I had
heard from him since he asked if I was ready to hit
the road that morning. "If I don't get something in
her stomach soon, I think she's gonna go ahead and
chew my head off. And, for a change, I don't think
figuratively."

To that, Vander chuckled, clearly charmed.

"No. I think we are all set for now. Sometimes they
will call me back in mid-season or something if they
need something specific from you two, but that is
rare."

We said our thank yous and goodbyes before

heading back outside.

"I never thought a model's job was hard

before," I said as soon as we were in the truck.
"But I am sore everywhere. And I wasn't in heels or
anything," I added as he cranked up the air, blasting
us with disgusting heat for a long moment before
the AC kicked in.

To that, he made some grunting noise. "Want

to go eat somewhere, or make something at home?"

At home.
My body stiffened at those words.
They sounded odd.
They implied things.
Like our home.
But the thing was... it was our home. For the

time being. For a year. We lived there. Together.
Our and we were words I would have to get used to
hearing. And saying. Because they were accurate.
Even if they made me feel weird inside at hearing
them, let alone attempting to say them myself.

"Home," I said without having to give it

much thought. Six hours was long enough to
pretend, to be pleasant, to be all smiles. I wanted
some privacy so I could grumble and stuff my face
and relax in a tub without anyone maybe seeing
and interpreting a look I sent Warren the wrong
way.

"You think you're ready to work together

again?" he asked much later that night as we both
stood on the balcony, watching the street below as
people made their way toward the town to do all
the fun things that came along with a beach town
vacation - eating, drinking, dancing, shopping. Ice
cream eating.

I turned my head, giving him a long look.
"Yeah, I think we've got this."
I was wrong.
I was so, so wrong.

SIX

Warren

You learn a lot by living with someone.
It wasn't a situation I had been in the position

to know about. At least not since I was a child. And
then it didn't count.

Things had simply never progressed that far

when I was with a woman. Hell, who was I
kidding? It never even got far enough to clear out a
dresser drawer, let alone think about cohabitation.

It wasn't something Brin was unfamiliar with

though. She never spoke of her roommate, but I
knew she had lived with him since she got out of
school, had been friends with him since they were
kids. But that was about it.

So she was used to it, the ebbs and flows of

someone else's cycles, moving around someone
without getting in their way - or on their nerves.

Having no such experience myself, I found I

got in her way, in her hair, and on her nerves.

To be fair, her nerves were like rayon or

velcro - everything got on it.

She recognized it a lot of the time, though.

Whereas it definitely felt amplified in a home
environment as opposed to simply a few hours a
week on a job site, she was also more likely to point
out that she was grumpy, tired, frustrated, or
hangry, and apologize for being so short-tempered.

It's my mother's blood in me, I swear, she

told me one night after dinner when she'd snapped
at me for suggesting she take a walk before bed
since she was clearly having trouble sleeping at
night. And, well, it was making her grumpy. Yes, I
said grumpy when we all know what she was really
being.

She'd assured me back at my house that she

was an early riser, that she was used to getting by
with very little sleep. So I wasn't quiet at first when
I got up, moved around making food or smoothies.
Until I noticed her getting up bleary-eyed and
moody.

I don't know if it was because everything was

unfamiliar - new bedding, new mattress, new sights
and sounds - or because of me, but her sleep

schedule wasn't what it used to be.

Rings formed under her eyes after two days.
She started to mainline coffee on the third,

even skipping the sweet shit she usually put in it out
of necessity and desperation while we toured the
first home with cameras watching our every move,
catching every nuance of facial expression or tone
of voice as we made general observations about the
extent of damage there, what could and could not
be fixed, what architectural bits we could save.

To her credit, she stayed on-point when we

were on the job, mustering up energy and
enthusiasm I knew she didn't feel, so I did my best
to try to be more talkative, take the weight of
conversation off of her even though it wasn't
exactly my nature. If she was trying, the least I
could do was put some effort in as well. I needed
this just as much as she did. More, really. If you
thought about it, much more was riding on this for
me.

She would find her way. Whether we got this

show or not, she'd have found her way, gotten her
name out there. She was good. She hustled. It was
inevitable.

But me?
Had I not found this opportunity that would

give me what I needed to be able to put an offer in
on the farm, I would have lost it. I knew that. There
was simply no other way. No bank would loan me

the full amount I would need to buy it off. But a
couple hundred k after a hefty downpayment
thanks to the sale of my current house and the
money from the show? That wouldn't be a
problem.

And that farm meant everything.
So when she put shit down, I had to pick it

up.

That was how this had to work.
That was how every partnership worked.
And that was exactly what this was.
A partnership.
A business arrangement.
An odd one? Sure. One built on a giant lie

that we had to protect? Yeah.

But we would make it happen.
We both had reasons to.
Even when she couldn't seem to bite her

tongue.

I tried to bite mine.
Or say nothing.
Never let it escalate.
That way, it wouldn't seep into the work

aspect of things.

That was, of course, until the arguments -

inevitably, it would seem - started to be about
work.

"No," she said, tone clipped, arms crossed,

jaw tense.

That was her serious stance.
"Yes," I countered, waving a hand out

toward the space that had been a perfectly nice
kitchen at some point. But since the roof caved,
was a space that needed to be completely gutted
and rebuilt. We'd actually found a family of
opossum there the day before, much to the delight
of the filming crew who thought audiences would
get a kick out of the little babies.

They're so ugly they're cute, they'd insisted

as they called animal control to have them
relocated.

"Absolutely not. It won't fit the house."
"What house, Brin?" I countered,

remembering to smile, remembering we were
supposed to not just tolerate each other. "There's
barely anything left. We can go a different way if
we want to."

"Modern doesn't fit," she shot back, waving

toward the windows where we were surrounded
with coastal houses, all blues and whites and tans,
melting into the landscape beautifully.

"Neither does a Victorian when we are going

to have to lift it anyway."

She knew I was right.
A lifted Victorian would look laughable at

this point.

"What's the point of restoring something if

all we are doing is rebuilding it?" she asked, shaking

her head. "Why not call a spade a spade? We aren't
bringing this back to its old glory. We are creating
something completely new."

"You need some coffee? One of the

sandwiches in the break room?"

"Oh, my God. Not everything I say is

because I'm hungry," she told me, the words tight
and airless, like she was barely holding onto her
tongue. "This is about the plans. And the fact that I
don't like them."

We were being filmed, of course. We were

always being filmed. Even when we were standing
around sketching, the cameras were rolling, looking
for some hidden gem of a moment they could catch
and use in promos or something.

They had us on camera talking about the

damn weather this morning and how it had made
Brin's hair 'wild,' though to me it didn't look any
different than usual. I swear if one hair was out of
place on her head, she thought it was unruly.

"If I moved this," I said, pointing down at the

plans, "would you like it better?"

"I think I would like it better if you burned it

and started again," she suggested with a saccharine
smile that had the lighting guys in the corner
smirking.

"Someone get this woman a sandwich," I

called to the crew. "And a valium," I added, smiling
when she slammed her palm into my shoulder.

"Maybe a couple shots," I went on, watching as
some of the tension finally left her face, her lips
curving ever so slightly.

"Alright. Fine. We can talk about it over

some food," she agreed, taking the first deep breath
I had seen all day.

"What's going on with you?" I asked, not

realizing it was too blunt until her head swiveled,
eyes piercing into me. "You're tense, Brin. You've
got to feel it too."

"We fought all the time when we worked on

the last job," she insisted as we climbed in the car.

"Yeah, but this is different. You were light

with everyone else, joking, smiling. You're wound
like a clock now. Every minute of the day."

"It's nerve-racking," she admitted, sinking

back into her seat.

The tension left her like a wave, washing

through her from the tip of her head down to her
feet, every inch of her body softening.

"What is?"
"Lying," she admitted, shaking her head as

she looked at me. "I can fake pleasantries. I have
trained for that. But I am not, by nature, a liar. I am
terrified every moment of every day of slipping up,
of doing or saying the wrong thing, of not seeming
into you."

Because she wasn't.
Oddly, there was an unexpected gut-punch

sensation at that realization.

Which was insane, of course.
That was how it was.
She wasn't into me.
I wasn't into her.
It was all a sham.
"We could stop lying."
"And lose the job and money and respect?

Our careers would never recover."

"Not what I meant. I meant... we can make it

a not-fake marriage."

Brin wasn't one for speechlessness, but she

was in that moment, frozen after the words came
out of me, lips parted, brows drawn together, eyes
unblinking, but avid, whipping around from one
thought to another.

"You can't be serious."
"Why not? Who cares? It's just a piece of

paper."

"It is not just a piece of paper," she shot

back, surprising me.

I didn't know a whole hell of a lot of people

my age who idealized marriage anymore. It was a
contract. It made things like mortgages and bank
accounts and having children and visiting at the
hospital easier. That was all.

I guess I didn't realize that some people did

still see it as something to aspire to, something to
cherish and hope for.

"It's a smart solution, Brin," I tried again,

keeping my tone reasonable. "We will have the
papers, so you can relax a little because it isn't a lie
anymore. Not legally anyway. And then we can just
annul it as soon as the show is done."

Her head turned away from me at that,

watching the shoreline as we passed, the flawless
sand that was combed every night after dark doted
with endless bits of color - towels, umbrellas,
coolers, blow-up pools for babies, tents, and
bathing suits. With my window cracked, I could
hear the distant shrill sound of a lifeguard whistle as
someone went out of bounds.

"It's still a lie," she said a long minute later,

voice as airy as the wind blowing through her hair,
making it dance wildly around her head.

"But there would be no legal issues. That has

to be a big part of it for you."

I felt it too, and I wasn't quite as prone to

worry as she seemed to be. There was this small
hollow spot in my gut that I became acutely aware
of when I felt eyes pinning us too hard while we
were talking, working side-by-side, analyzing every
move we made, every voice inflection.

We could be found out.
And all would be lost.
This could help that.
"No," she said as we stopped at a light, still

watching out the window, eyes taking in the smiling

kids coming out of the arcade, hands clutching new
goodies they got, or the ones more inclined toward
delayed gratification holding cups almost
overflowing with tickets.

"Why not?" I asked, exhaling, feeling tense

suddenly myself.

Her head turned, those eyes of hers more

green with some emotion I didn't know well enough
to recognize. "Because marriage means something
to me. If it happens for me, I want it to be real. I
want a love story and a man on his knee and a ring
on my finger that says he wants me forever. I don't
want to cheapen that, to cheat myself out of that.
Not even for this."

The light turned, but I paused, giving her a

second of eye-contact. "I get that," I agreed,
nodding, before focusing on driving again.

"I know it is the easiest solution," she went

on to add as I turned down our street. "And we
would both breathe a little easier because of it. I am
willing to pretend, but I can't sign my name on a
marriage certificate without meaning it."

"Alright," I agreed, parking the car, cutting

the engine. "I get it."

And I did.
But it didn't mean I liked it.
It meant more tension. For me, sure, but

more so for her. Which was only going to make the
bickering escalate.

But we had to do what we had to do.
For her future.
For mine.
It was almost three weeks later, three weeks

of some grating arguments over the plans until we
both finally agreed on something that was a mix of
modern and the Victorian bones she loved.

A crew had been brought in, bigger than the

ones that actually got to be on camera. I guess that
was something most people didn't get to see. It
looked like it was just us and a team of four or five
people doing all the work. But it was dozens of
people. Electricians and plumbers, bricklayers,
window installers, guys to deal with the lifting of
the house off its foundation, roofers.

It was a revolving door of people whenever

the cameras cut for the day, having gotten just
enough footage of each step of the process, and the
occasional shot of me and Brin fucking around. It
wasn't easy. To get her to lighten up enough. I was
half-worried when I tried that she would just snap
at me, but she seemed to pick up on the need for
levity as well, occasionally instigating herself,
hiding my tool belt, hand painting my hard hat with
cheesy as hell lovey-dovey words and hearts and
flowers... then making me wear it.

That afternoon, she had walked back on set

after doing a small filming session at a local flea
market to find buried treasures to upcycle for the

house to hear Britney Spears blasting like her own
personal theme music, making her full-stop mid-
stride, looking over at me, shaking her head, then
lowering her gaze to the floor when a fit of giggles
seemed to overtake her.

Normally, she wasn't a giggling kind of chick.
"You have no idea how that has haunted

me," she admitted as she walked into the kitchen
that was mostly done save for the installation of the
appliances.

"What?" I asked, watching as she reached up

to push some of her wayward hair behind her ear.

"The Britney Spears/Brinley Spears thing.

The kids at school were relentless. In my parents'
defense, she was not a thing until I was like... eight
or something like that."

"How'd the hunt go?" I asked, watching as

she ran her hand along the countertop she had
initially railed against, but clearly changed her mind
about.

"Ugh. Flea markets used to be full of gems.

The past few I have been to have been like garage
sales full of the stuff everyone has clogging up their
basements that they - and no one else - wanted. I
did find a nice vintage piece of oval glass. I was
wondering if you could make a frame for it. It's not
perfect. Has some age to it. But it would be cool
aesthetically."

"Yeah, I can manage that," I agreed, nodding.

"They are pretty much done filming today. They
just want some shots of me moving in the
appliances. We can take a break after that if you
want. You still haven't even been to the beach yet."

"Yes, I was."
"Walking there to pick up a jar of sand for a

craft project doesn't count," I shot back, shaking
my head.

"The show isn't out yet. I need to keep my

Instagram relevant."

Work.
That was all this woman thought about.
I wondered - not for the first time - when she

last just... was a person. Did things she enjoyed.
Bummed around. Let her mind leave work where it
belonged.

I probably wouldn't be wrong to imagine it

hadn't been since she started her own business.

"We've been here over a month, Brin. You

are going night and day. You need a break before
you burn out. It's not like you'll get a break between
jobs."

We were actually on a ridiculously tight

schedule. That was why the crew was so crazy.
They wanted us to get half of the houses - and
therefore episodes - done within four months, so
they could start airing in the early winter when the
ratings were apparently better.

Rachel told us just this morning that we

would be doing the tour of the next house just two
days from now, whether this house was done or
not.

Once they know the plans, you can leave the

work to the crew.

It was logical to think that, of course. But it

also wasn't how I worked. I was always right there
alongside my men, sweating, cursing, getting cuts
and bruises, putting some pride into my work.

It chafed that she thought I could sign my

name on something that I didn't have a hand in
creating.

"I'll be fine," she assured me, but even she

didn't sound quite as certain as she usually did.

"Take the night off, Brin. Go see the town.

Or watch the sun go down on the pier. Or just hang
out and watch mindless TV. But you need to give
yourself a break now and then."

"Okay," she mumbled, not making eye-

contact.

"Did you actually just agree to take the night

off?" I asked, sure I had misheard her.

"I have a heat headache," she told me,

turning back, making me see it for the first time, the
smallness to her eyes, the way her brows were low
and drawn together like the sounds upstairs were
wearing on her, making me wonder how I had
missed it before. "I could use some Excedrin and a
lukewarm bath."

"Here," I said, fishing out my keys, pressing

them into her palm, letting my hand linger there for
a second, aware that Andy was on the set today,
and his eagle eyes always seemed to be looking for
something to be amiss. "It's not that far. I can walk
back later."

"You're going to let me drive your truck?"

she asked, a mix of surprised, suspicious, and
excited. "You never let me drive your truck."

"Don't make me regret it," I suggested,

smiling a bit when she rolled her eyes at me.

"I'm a good driver."
"Of that little clown car of yours. I don't

know if you can even see over the wheel of my
truck."

"I'm not that short!"
"Babe, you are," I shot back, chuckling as

she slitted her eyes at me before walking off.

I didn't expect to see her again as I stayed

behind, wanting to put some extra hours in, wanting
to put my mark on this place. The crew actually left
before I did. I put up the crown molding in the
master bedroom, installed the bathroom vanity.

It was well after dark when I heard a voice

from a floor below.

And not just any voice.
Brinley's voice.
And she was pissed.
Not just agitated as she often was with me

and the fact that we so rarely saw eye-to-eye.

But pissed.
"Shit," I sighed, wiping a hand across my

forehead, and taking a deep breath before moving
down the beautifully restored stairs that I was sad
to say I had no hand at all in.

I didn't intend as I went down there for

things to take the turn they suddenly did.

And maybe a part of me knew that there

would be no going back.

SEVEN

Brinley

Warren was right.
Those were not words I liked thinking.
But in this case, they were fitting.
I needed a break.
I was running on empty.
Had been for weeks.
The headache had come up on me as I

walked down the flea market, pretending to be
excited, trying to play it up for the camera that
followed me, all the while a jackhammer had
decided to take up residence behind my eyes,
slamming away until the sun made it hurt worse,
until even just the low hum of the car radio on the

way back set my teeth on edge. The pain had
moved down my jaw and neck until my entire head
felt it, until it was all I could really focus on.

And it was just proof that I was pushing it

too hard.

I didn't like admitting I had limits, that I

wasn't some automaton that could just keep going
no matter what.

But if I couldn't take the sounds of the work

site without them bringing on a wave of nausea
from the pain, then it was time to take up Warren
on his offer, take the truck, head home, and relax
for a change.

That was what I did, downing some

headache medicine with coffee for an added boost,
drinking some water, then climbing into the tub in a
darkened room until the pain finally, finally started
to ease away.

I called home, talking to my mom and dad,

realizing I hadn't heard their voices in weeks, that I
had been so wrapped up in myself that I had
forgotten to check in on them. The stab of guilt was
immediate as I hung up with them and called all my
siblings. Then, finally, Brent.

"How's that asshole?" he asked as soon as we

exchanged greetings.

"Maybe he's not as big an asshole as I

originally thought," I admitted. "We bump heads a
lot about plans for the house still..."

"But?" he prompted.
"But we have... I don't know, managed to

separate work and home life."

"Home life," he said in a gruff grumble.

"That sounds... cozy."

"Ew. No," I immediately scoffed. "It's not

like that. At all."

"You're sharing a bed."
"With a pillow barrier!"
"Mhmm."
"Stop," I demanded, looking inside the fridge

for something to cook.

We had been doing a lot of eating out, or just

grabbing sandwiches on the set. On the rare
occasion that we did eat at home, Warren was the
one cooking.

I oddly felt like I owed him dinner.
For recognizing I needed a break.
For insisting I take one.
For being nice.
Plus, he seemed to be working late.
And if the crew was gone, there would be no

one to bring in more food. He had to be hungry. I
figured I would make him something, then bring it
to him. If he was ready to call it a day, he could
come back with me. Or I could leave the truck with
him, and do the walk myself.

"Come on. You're trying to convince me that

you're sharing a job, a house, and a bed, and there

hasn't been even a hint of something more."

"I don't have to convince you of anything

since that is exactly how it is. Just coworkers and
roomies. We have sort of gotten used to each other
now. It's just easier. Hence the lack of bitching. We
get home pretty late. We usually just eat, shower,
and head to bed."

"The same bed."
"Yes, Brent. The same bed," I said, rolling

my eyes even though he couldn't see me as I tossed
some chopped meat into a skillet to cook through.
Tacos, it seemed, was what we had the ingredients
for. I didn't care that it was one-hundred degrees
out. There was never a bad time for tacos.

"Don't roll your eyes at me," he said,

knowing me far too well.

"Then don't be ridiculous. We're

professionals."

"Even professionals need to fuck sometimes,

Brin," he said in his annoyingly superior voice.
"And it's been, what, for you? A year? I don't even
remember the last time you had a date with a guy."

"That doesn't mean I plan to jump him," I

countered, stirring in taco seasoning and water
before chopping up lettuce and tomatoes.

"Even late at night. In bed. When he..."
"Not even then," I cut him off, mostly

because the words were actually conjuring up the
image of him in bed, without his shirt as he always

was.

Usually, he was up before me, but one

morning last week, I had gotten woken up by a
stress dream in the early hours of the morning, the
sun just casting soft yellow hues across the room,
making it all dreamy and almost romantic as I lifted
my head from the barrier that - no matter how I
tried to prevent it - I always ended up sprawled all
over, to see him still beside me.

Asleep, his features were softer. There was

no cocky set to his brows, no condescending
smirks, no eyes that were silently telling me I was
being a pain in the ass.

He was five days late for a shave, the scruff

adding to his good looks, as it almost always did.

Which was incredibly unfair if you asked me.
My eyes had trailed down his neck to his

chest, finding it bare as it always was, the muscles
firm even at rest. Then, lower, taking in the deep
indents of his abdominal muscles, noticing for the
first time the delicious sharp V shape of his Adonis
belt, disappearing down into the waistband of his
lightweight black pajama pants. There was a light,
wispy trail of hair disappearing there as well.
Happy trail. That was an apt name if you asked
me.

And the strangest ideas moved through me at

that moment.

I want to see more.

I want to run my tongue down those lines.
Absurd, of course.
I didn't actually want that. Not when I was

awake and aware. When he was as well. Nope.

So it wasn't a lie, what I told Brent.
Somehow, though, it felt like one. Or maybe

even a half-lie. But a half-lie amongst the oldest of
friends was just as bad as a full one in my book.

Lying.
I was getting too used to it.
Too good at it.
I didn't like that about myself.
It's just for a year, I reminded myself, as I

found myself doing many times a day when I felt
like I hit my wall, like I couldn't take it anymore,
like I couldn't fake another smile.

As soon as the year was up, I could go back

to being fully myself. Only faking smiles for clients.
Only lying when it would hurt you to tell the truth -
like when my sister with a somewhat oblong face
decided to get a severe pixie cut that just didn't
work on all levels.

Hell, we were already pretty much done with

our part on one house.

They were actually bringing in two people to

work on decorating the house how I wanted it.

Which felt weird.
But we had to follow the rules they set.
Like it or not.

So we had one house down, fifteen to go.
Apparently, the next one wasn't quite as

damaged, would be quicker. We'd see about that in
the morning, I guess.

"It wouldn't be a bad thing, y'know," Brent

said, snapping me out of my swirling thoughts as I
laid down several tortillas, and started layering
them with ingredients.

"What wouldn't be a bad thing?"
"If you were into him."
"What? Ew. Yes, it would be."
"Why though?"
"This? Coming from the man who refers to

him as That asshole?"

"Just 'cause he's an asshole doesn't mean you

can't be into him. Besides, it sounds like he's
softened up a bit since you started cohabitating. I
guess you haven't broken out the glitter yet."

"You totally miss the glitter," I told him. "I

need to send you a glitter bomb."

"No."
"A penis glitter bomb," I specified, having

once looked into it as a prank when he got me good
on April Fools Day a few years back. I never got up
the nerve to do it to him though. "Little tiny glitter
penises all over you."

"You suck," he declared, but I could hear a

smile in his voice. "But I miss having you around.
The place is so quiet."

"Is that some crack about how I can never

shut up?"

"Maybe."
I smiled at that, rolling the tacos that

somehow became burritos since I wasn't paying
attention in tinfoil. "I miss you too," I told him,
smiling. "But I have to go have dinner. I promise I
will check in more often. I've been a sucky friend."

"You've been a busy friend," he corrected.
"I've always been a busy friend. But I always

have time for you," I told him as I stuffed the food
in a paper bag, grabbed drinks, and moved outside.
"Love you. Talk to you later."

"Love you too. Try not to fuck that asshole.

Or do it. Whatever."

That was his parting.
I was still smiling as I opened the door to the

truck, having to haul myself up even with the step
rail that would be enough for normal-sized people.

On the drive, I opened the windows, the air

thick, heavy, damp with sea water, a lifetime of
knowing that sensation telling me that a storm was
brewing. We'd be in for some epic rain and the kind
of thunder that shook the house's foundations
sometime later tonight. Summer storms, they were
my favorite. Always angry, refusing not to be seen
and heard. But over just as quickly, leaving behind
steaming roadways and that amazing smell that I
knew came from the dirt, but always thought of as

a rain scent.

The driveway to the site was empty, the

inside lit only by the newly installed lights in the
kitchen and the spotlights Warren clearly had on
upstairs.

I closed the door quietly, for some reason not

wanting him to hear me coming, to genuinely
surprise him. I tried not to analyze the impulse as I
moved inside, feeling oddly light, my heart
thrumming a bit, my belly jumping.

Excitement.
There was no other way to describe those

sensations.

I was excited.
Until I walked through the entry, my head

immediately swiveling to the doorway to the living
space where there was a massive, ornately carved
slice of wood over the top, something that had
clearly come with the house, which had somehow
managed to survive the storm.

Except... it wasn't there.
It wasn't there.
After I expressly told Warren that it was

vital, that there was no choice, that it had to stay.

He had gone and ripped it off.
All that was left was a freshly spackled wall.
Just when I thought we had found a rhythm,

had learned to work together, to be upfront with
our concerns, to stop being petty and backhanded.

He had to go and do this.
He had to undo what respect and trust we

had learned to show each other.

"Warren!" my voice broke out of me without

thinking, without considering how I should
approach the situation, without me even knowing
what was going to come out of my mouth next.
"Get down here now!"

Red.
It had been a while since I had seen it.
Maybe some light pinks here and there, when

he was being stubborn about the project, but it
hadn't deepened to red since the last job we had
done together.

I could have sworn I heard a sigh from above

before the footsteps sounded, walls and ceilings in
this place as thin as leaves that barely survived the
winter, I could hear every stomp of his boots across
the master bath, then bedroom, then finally, the
hall, before they started clomping down the steps
which groaned with the effort of holding his weight
- something I found charming, but Warren had been
annoyed about keeping.

What if whoever buys this place has a kid?
It was even a valid argument.
But he had been overridden by Andy who

thought it was an unnecessary expense and Rachel
who thought it would simply take too long for
something so unnecessary.

It wasn't really a victory for me since they

had pulled the boss cards on him, but I almost
wanted to smile as I heard them.

Almost.
If I wasn't so mad.
"Where is it?" I demanded, actually feeling a

hip jut out, having to fight the urge to cross my
arms and glare at him.

"Where's what?" he asked as though

anything else was out of place.

Wait.
Maybe it was.
It wouldn't be unlike him, after all. He went

behind my back more than once on our last job,
then acted like I was irrational for being upset by it.

Maybe he had just been placating me,

yessing me to death to my face while he did
whatever he wanted behind my back.

"The wood, Warren, obviously," I said,

waving a hand toward the doorway.

"Did you make me dinner?" he asked instead

of answering me, gaze fixed on my arm that I had
aloft, the bag swinging, filling the air with
seasoning, an unmistakable scent everyone knew.

My gaze shot back to him, finding him

watching me with a look I didn't quite know how to
interpret. Brows low, lips parted ever so slightly,
eyes almost a little lost, heavy-lidded.

I knew that look.

I'd seen it before.
But not on him.
And, if I were being honest, not on anyone in

longer than I cared to admit.

So long, in fact, that I was struggling in

placing it, in putting it into context.

But my body seemed to understand it, wasn't

the least bit confused by it.

Because it responded in kind.
My breathing felt more shallow and rapid,

my pulse pounding in odd places - throat, wrists,
temples. A heaviness settled in my lower belly,
aching and oppressive, begging for things I hadn't
wanted in far too long.

"How dare you?" I asked, voice almost a

little frantic, needing to use it as a smokescreen to
hide any possible signs on my face or in my body
that might give away what was going on within it.

"What?" he asked, shaking his head, but it

seemed to oddly go in slow motion, like his body
and brain were wading through something thick,
making it hard to think and act as quickly as usual.

"Go behind my back. Again. I mean I guess I

shouldn't be surprised that you would do it. You've
done it before. But I thought we had come to a sort
of agreement, a comradery or something. That we
were done being childish and backhanded. But no,
you had to take it down. You asshole. After I
decided to come here to surprise you with dinner

because I thought you were just being nice to me
for a change. But no, you were just trying to shoo
me away so you could..."

"Shut up," he cut me off, tone almost a little

soft? But that couldn't be right. This wasn't the
moment for soft. Those weren't the words for soft.

"Excuse me?" I snapped, dropping my arm to

my side, shaking my head at him. "Did you actually
just tell me to shut up? Who do you think..."

I didn't get to finish my sentence.
He moved impossibly fast then, so fast that

my eyes had trouble registering the motion before I
suddenly felt a strong, calloused hand grip the back
of my neck, the contact sending a shiver through
my system, making the pressure on my belly
increase, making my nipples harden, my breath
catch.

My body moved suddenly backward,

Warren's hand shoving into my hip, sending me
slamming back into wall, head protected from
impact by his hand at my neck, but my back hit
with force, knocking out what was left of my air -
which was admittedly little - just a second before
his body was pressing into me, pinning me, as his
lips crashed down onto mine.

They did that.
Crashed.
There was nothing soft or sweet or tentative

about it as his lips claimed mine, hard and

demanding.

Rough.
Primal.
Something within me responded to that, to

the animalistic pull of sensations, softening into it,
surrendering to it, offering anything he wanted to
take.

My hands curled involuntarily for a moment

before they moved upward, the bag dropping
carelessly as my fingers traced up the corded
muscles of his arms - one behind my neck still,
holding me where he wanted me, the other pinned
to the wall beside my head, blocking any escape, as
though I was even seeking it, then curling into his
shoulders as my hips moved off the wall, pressing
into his, wanting more, wanting to feel his hard
lines pressed to my softer ones.

A low, throaty, whimpering noise rose up and

out of me as his tongue traced the seam of my lips,
entreating entrance. Getting it, his body curled
forward, forcing mine back as far as the wall would
allow.

His hand slid down the wall, the sound a

familiar one, callouses catching the wall with the
same noise produced by sanding. It slid low, gliding
under my behind, bracing, almost, for a moment
before pulling upward.

Upward.
Forcing me up on my tiptoes.

Then higher.
Until my feet left the ground completely,

hands frantically curling around his neck for
stability as he rose up again, keeping me against the
wall and his body while his tongue ravaged mine,
dragged sounds and sensations out of me that - had
you asked me just a moment ago - I would have
claimed were impossible.

But there was no denying the heaviness of

my breasts, the way my skin felt alive, electric,
ultra sensitive to every small sensation - the brush
of his tee against my bare arm, the button of his
jeans just under my hipbone - finding something
erotic in every little brush, breath, rush of air.

Everything heightened, as his head slanted to

deepen the kiss, his chest brushed to mine, making
an aching pain/pleasure mix move across my
nipples then downward, causing a loud moan to rip
from somewhere deep inside.

A low, deep, rumbling growl moved through

Warren's chest and into mine, reverberating through
my insides until every bit of me was humming with
it as well.

My leg had just started to lift, to seek the

stability of his lower back, to allow my core to
press to his, to feel his hardness stroke where I
needed it most, when it happened.

The storm I had predicted earlier came

roaring to life.

The thunder cracked viciously, moving up

through the floor and into our bodies, the sound
making us jerk almost violently apart.

Where I had been aloft just a second before,

my feet were suddenly slammed back down as we
both struggled for air, for calm in our systems, for
some sanity to return to our brains.

My legs felt wobbly forced to hold me again,

making my butt press back to lean into the wall as I
sucked in a slow, deep breath, trying not to focus
on the way my lips felt swollen and tingly, how my
body was screaming for more, how the unfulfilled
desire was an aching pain that was impossible to
ignore even as reality came hurtling back.

Warren had just kissed me.
And not just the little peck he would - or I

would - give for the cameras. On the cheeks or
forehead or close enough to the lips to look
convincing, but not actually make that forbidden
contact.

No.
He just grabbed me, pushed me up against a

wall, and kissed me.

The way a woman secretly always craves to

be kissed by a man - with reckless abandon, with
everything within him, like he had absolutely no
control over his reaction to you.

Warren had done that with me.
And I had no freaking idea what I was even

supposed to think about that, let alone say, or
react.

All I really knew was that the storm raging

outside paled in comparison to the chaos going on
within me in that moment as I tried to calm my
body, tried to remind myself why I wasn't supposed
to have thoughts and feelings like that about
Warren Allen Reyes. That, in fact, I was supposed
to be angry with him, not wanting to jump his
bones.

But even as I desperately sought it, the anger

was nowhere to be found, drowned, no doubt,
under a tidal wave of need that was refusing to stay
at bay.

"I didn't get rid of it," Warren's voice said

suddenly between the unmistakable cracks of
lightning and the room-shaking crashes of thunder.

He sounded... different.
But controlled.
More controlled than I felt, that was for sure.
When my mouth opened to speak, it was

somehow both airy and croaking all at once. "You
didn't get rid of what?"

"The wood carving," he specified, making

my head turn up to finally look at him, finding he
had leaned back against the banister, gaze forward,
casting him half in shadow, making it impossible to
truly read his expression, to glean anything from his
eyes, to learn if he was as affected as I was in the

moment.

"Where is it then?" I asked, taking another

deep breath, hoping my heart would get the
message that it was time to stop slamming so hard.

"Danny came by right as the crew was

leaving," he started. Danny was one of the
electrical guys. "He had to rewire the lights for the
front porch. But the wire shorted out, burned up
through the wall. We were lucky it didn't turn into a
full-blown fire. But we had to rip it off the wall to
get the new wire in. I didn't get rid of it. I know
how much you liked that. I figured we can stick it
back up. Or I can use it to frame that mirror you
got. I can make another couple of sides to match it,
age it, make it all look like one giant piece."

How did he sound so calm, so normal?
My body was still begging me to run over

there, rip off my clothes, then his, and finish what
we had started.

"Oh," was all I could seem to manage as I

leaned against the wall. "Okay," I added when that
didn't sound like enough of a reaction.

"So what do you want?"
You was clearly not the right answer.
He was very squarely set in work mode. How

he had gone from alpha-man-grab-her-and-kiss-her
mode to work mode was beyond me.

And he had been into it.
I hadn't been imagining it.

He had initiated it.
His body had been tense.
His cock had been hard.
He had been controlling the situation.
He'd been into it, damnit.
How had he gone from that to this so

quickly?

While I still couldn't seem to force my

thoughts and body to work together, so that I could
at least stop using the wall for support like some
virgin heroine from an old-school romance novel,
all overcome after something as basic as a kiss.

But there was nothing basic about that kiss.
"The mirror sounds nice," I managed to tell

him.

"Great. I'll get on that tomorrow after we

check out the first house." He paused then, giving
room for me to speak, as I was prone to do,
prattling on about everything and nothing because I
could never seem to get comfortable with long
silences. But I couldn't think of anything to say
right then. "Are those tacos?" he asked.

Somehow, that permeated.
My muscles unclenched, my heartbeat

evened out, my blood seemed to cool back to
normal temperature.

"Yeah. I... it was the only thing we seemed to

have the makings for."

"I was going to make it last night, but we

were too beat," he agreed, bending to grab the bag.
"You eating, or did you have yours already?"

I was starving.
I had planned to eat with him while talking

ahead of time about the plans for the next house, so
maybe we could avoid some of the fighting on
camera.

My stomach was churning angrily at the idea

of what I was about to do.

"I was just dropping it off. I planned to take a

walk."

"It's pouring."
"It's almost over," I assured him, knowing

that these kinds of storms didn't last long.

"You can't go out in this," he objected,

digging in the bag with one hand, but his gaze was
on me, eyes unreadable.

"I'll see you back at the house," I said,

turning, and walking to the door before he could
say anything else.

The rain was still coming down, the kind of

unrelentingly steady that had me drenched before I
was halfway down the path.

I should have been cold.
But my body was overheated,

overstimulated, over... everything.

I reached up, throwing sopping wet hair out

of my face as I made my way down the empty
streets, moving in the direction of the beach.

I wasn't stupid. I didn't go on the sand. Not

until the storm eased. But as I predicted, the
lightning crashed one final time about half a mile to
my left, followed by a half-hearted rumble before
the clouds finally decided to close up shop for the
night as well.

Moving off the pier, I walked out onto the

sand, finding that - for a rare, wonderful moment in
time - it was all mine.

Never before had I needed it so much in my

life.

I had never been the sort to need solitude to

think things through.

I was a talker. I sorted through my own mind

best when I got together with a friend, or called my
mom, or sister, or Brent, and just aired it all out
there, bounced ideas off them, talked until I found
the way out of the labyrinth of my thoughts.

But I wasn't sure this was something I could

bring to any of them.

My mother would remind me of why I took

this job, why strict professional lines were of the
utmost importance. My sister was in the very horny
part of her second trimester. She would tell me to
jump his bones. And deal with the possible fallout
after we got our jollies.

And Brent, well, after the comments on the

phone earlier, I felt weird at the idea of bringing
this to him.

Especially given what happened after.
Was there really another word to put to it

other than rejection?

It sure as hell felt a lot like rejection.
Even just remembering the way he acted like

nothing had happened made my chest feel tight, my
stomach swirly, my cheeks heat with an
unmistakable embarrassment.

Though, I had nothing to be embarrassed

about.

I hadn't been the one to attack him.
Sure, I had reacted.
Maybe I even reacted very openly to it.
But that was all chemicals, hormones, a

primal impulse to, well, respond to an alpha male.

I did nothing wrong.
Warren, on the other hand, had not only told

me to shut up, but then initiated the kiss, and went
ahead and pretended like nothing had happened
afterward.

He should be the one sitting at the beach

trying to figure things out, worrying about
implications, about how we were going to bounce
back from this, if there would be awkwardness, if
we needed to talk it out.

Well, we had to talk it out.
There was no way around that, was there?
We needed to be adults.
For the show.

For our futures.
And, quite frankly, for my sanity.
Because my mind was never going to let it go

until we sorted it out.

Was it something he had wanted to do for a

while?

Was it simply the heat of the moment?
Was it as good for him as it was for me?
No.
Those were not the kinds of thoughts I

needed to have.

I needed to take feelings out of it.
It needed to be approached calmly,

clinically.

A while later, long enough that the tips of my

hair had slowly started to dry, I finally got up off
the sand, spending almost the whole walk home
swatting sand off of places it had accumulated.

His truck was in the drive.
My stomach knotted a bit at that, but I

reminded myself that it had to be handled.

I moved inside, stopping just inside the door,

finding a figure sprawled on the uncomfortable sofa
with a pillow from the bed and a blanket from the
closet.

Whether he was asleep or just pretending

was too hard for me to tell.

But, well, there was no mistaking his actions,

was there?

He didn't want to talk about it.
He didn't want it to happen again.
He didn't even want to be anywhere near me

again.

Why there was a sinking feeling in my

stomach at that realization, yeah, I was going to go
ahead and choose not to focus on that.

As it would turn out, though, pretending

there wasn't an issue, yeah, that was a major
mistake.

Everything went to hell.

EIGHT

Brinley

It was the longest four weeks of my life.
Dramatic? Probably.
But also incredibly accurate.
We didn't talk about it.
In fact, we barely talked at all outside of

situations where we had to. Meaning on the work
sites. And in front of the cameras. We got our
frozen, soulless smiles on, and we put on a good
show. I did little interviews about how much fun we
were having which coincided with the playful fights
on the set, the eye-rolls with sweet smiles like we
were frustrated with each other, but lovingly.

The fights got worse though.

It was like our first job together all over

again. But our close quarters full of long silences
and eye-contact avoidance only fueled the fires,
added malice to the words which - I always realized
in hindsight when it was too late - really didn't
belong there.

It was weighing on me too.
I couldn't say anything for Warren.
Because he did absolutely everything within

his power to avoid speaking to me.

He was still sleeping on the couch every

night. When I'd walk down in the morning, he
would still be moving around slowly, aching as an
eighty-year-old from the hard surface, but refusing
to come back up to share the bed, to be a grown up,
to just move on from it all.

And me, well, maybe I should have invited

him back up to the bedroom. And I likely shouldn't
have been wickedly pleased by watching him grunt
and groan around painfully for an hour or so before
his body finally loosened up.

But, well, I was... ugh, I didn't even want to

think the word. That one that said exactly how
affected I was, how weak I was, how much this was
still weighing on me. A month later. Like a school
girl.

There was no denying it though.
I was hurt.
Hurt.

By this guy.
By his flippant rejection of me after forcing a

kiss on me.

And I was so alone here, more alone than I

had ever felt in my life before. Even cohabitating
with someone. The walls were empty, the space in
between quiet, allowing my brain to do nothing but
scream ever-louder.

What it had to say? Yeah, not nice things.
"I'm going home this weekend," I told him as

I passed by, voice low enough that the guys
painting the bedroom five feet away couldn't hear
me.

"What?" he asked, actually turning his

attention to me, a rarity considering there was no
camera around to catch it.

"I. Am. Going. Home. This. Weekend."
"I was planning on staying here. Get more

work done."

Of course he was. Somehow, we had also

flipped roles. He was now some frantic workaholic
while I did what was required - and still did it well -
but nothing more. Most nights, I walked myself
home just a few minutes after the crew left, doing
any extra projects I wanted to back at the house.
Alone. Away from him. While he stayed at the
house until well after dark. Away from me.

"Well, I didn't invite you anyway," I said,

shaking my head.

"Think you actually need my invitation to go

back to my house, Brin."

Ugh.
I hated that tone.
That cocky, condescending one, the one that

lacked any of the softness he had used with me
before the kiss, something I had maybe started to
get used to.

Jerk, I thought, not for the first time that day.

Or even the tenth.

"I wasn't going back to your house. I am

going to visit my family. And Brent."

"Brent?" he asked, brows drawing together,

voice having an edge I couldn't quite place, and,
quite frankly, didn't want to. I was done with that.
Trying to analyze him, trying to understand why he
did or said the things he did, trying to figure out
how to get along with him. At least in our free time.
"And how are you going to get there? We took my
truck."

"I'll find a way." I didn't care if I had to dip

into my savings to Uber my way back. I just needed
to go. The entire town felt like it was closing in on
me. Which was silly considering the season was
over, the beaches were empty, many of the stores
and restaurants shuttered for the off-season. It was
practically a ghost town in comparison to how it
had been just a week before.

"What..." he started, but I was already

walking away.

I left before him as I always did, packing a

single bag, then calling for an Uber, knowing it
would make their afternoon to get a long ride like
this, and for maybe the first time ever, genuinely
not caring about how much it would cost, how
frivolous it was, what the money could be better
spent on. I would, after all, be coming out of this
situation with more money than I came in with.
While not having to pay any bills. I would be fine.
And this splurge was to save my sanity. You
couldn't really put a price on that.

Though you could put a fare on it.
Two-hundred-twenty-five plus tip.
But it was worth it as we pulled out front of

Brent's house, both familiar and odd to my eyes
after such a long stretch.

I hadn't called.
I guess I probably should have.
Because Brent had company.
And he didn't lock the door.
And when I say he had company, I meant of

the female persuasion.

And the reason I mentioned the unlocked

door?

Yeah, that was because they were having

naked fun time on the couch.

"Jesus Christ," Brent growled, grabbing the

woman who had been riding him, and dragging her

against his chest, shielding both their bodies even as
I whipped around.

"I'm sorry. So so sorry. Okay. I'm leaving. Ah,

carry on..." I mumbled, moving out the door with
my heart slamming in my chest.

It seemed that Brent was enjoying his

freedom.

That sent a swirling, uncomfortable feeling

through my belly before I tamped it down, shook
my head, tried to shake off the negatively clinging
to me.

He should be enjoying his freedom.
He should be screwing people on every

surface of his house with no fear of being found
out.

It was just becoming ever clearer that I didn't

belong here anymore.

Reaching for my purse, I dug around for my

cell, finding my sister's number, waiting until it
almost went to the machine before she answered,
sounding out of breath.

"Brin, is everything okay?" she greeted.
"I, ah, yeah. Everything is okay," I said, but

it suddenly felt like a lie.

"Okay. Well, I am at lamaze class. And then I

have a birthday party for Abby. Can I call you back
tomorrow?"

So there went that option too.
"Yeah, sure. No worries. Give the kids a kiss

for me," I demanded, feeling some hopelessness
start to settle deep.

Hanging up with her, I tried my parents,

getting the machine, then a text back a moment
later telling me they were visiting my brother, his
wife, and their new baby for the weekend.

Never, never had I felt quite so alone as I did

when I called yet another Uber, this time to take me
to Warren's house, so I could grab my car, unsure
where or what I was going to go or do.

Feeling lost, I climbed inside my car, rolling

down the manual windows to let out the stagnant,
stifling air, lowered my chair back so I could go
flat, curled on my side.

And did it.
Cried.
I wasn't, in general, a big crier.
It took a lot for me to get to that point, where

I felt like I had to purge it. Maybe because I
emoted a lot in general. I wasn't one to bottle
things. I let it all out, so it didn't fester.

But, I guess, I had been holding things in

more lately. I hadn't let my family or friends in on
what had been going on with Warren, hadn't been
able to talk about it with him to get it settled, so it
wasn't weighing on me.

I felt heavy.
And, I guess, I was as full as I could get.
I needed to empty out.

That was what I did, in the privacy of my car

in Warren's quiet driveway. Until my face felt raw
and my eyes were so swollen that they felt half-
closed.

It was pitch black outside when I finally

pulled my seat back upright, swiping at my tear-
stained cheeks, then grabbing my purse, deciding
that if I was here, I might as well check on things,
maybe get a drink, use the bathroom, and grab a
cup of coffee before I hit the road again.

To where?
That was a good question.
I had no idea.
I guess I could squat at my parents' place

while they were out of town, wait for my sister and
Brent to have some time for me.

I would feel refreshed then, ready to take on

the next few weeks. This was what I needed.

Grabbing the key Warren had given me when

I had fake moved in what felt like a lifetime before,
I made my way in, checking to be sure that his mail
was still being held, flicking on the exterior lights.

His house was eerily quiet, making me oddly

act on the impulse to flip on his stereo. And not
change the station.

I would never admit this aloud, but I actually

kind of missed his country music. We weren't
allowed to play any music on the set because of
copyright laws and such, so we mostly worked in

silence.

I had oddly gotten used to the deep voices of

the male singers he preferred, the slow songs, the
depth of feeling in the love songs. I had oddly
started to find comfort in it.

And comfort was what I needed right then as

I moved around making coffee, having to make do
without cream because he had cleared out his
fridge - of course - before we had moved out. I
loaded it up with sugar and some chocolate syrup I
found in his cabinet, then went to the bathroom for
a quick shower.

Sure, I should have called him and told him I

was here.

Actually, I should have asked.
He had even told me so.
But I was just staying for an hour or so.
I would tell him when I got back.
When it was too late for him to blow a gasket

about it.

I hadn't meant to fall asleep.
I think my puffy eyes and slight crying-

hangover headache had worn me out. I had just
meant to sit down on the couch to finish my coffee.

But I must have curled up on the sofa at

some point.

"Brinley."
The voice was soft, coaxing, trying to drag

me out of a dream about being trapped under a pile

of throw pillows.

Familiar, but my mostly unconscious brain

couldn't place it, didn't want to follow its
instructions.

"Baby, wake up."
That sounded sweet, my brain decided,

reaching for consciousness, liking the soft way the
voice was trying to get my attention, my body
feeling warm and light and happy.

"Brin."
This time, the voice was a little firmer,

making me finally lose the dreamy in-between,
startling awake with a jolt, eyes shooting open,
heart starting to pound as I looked almost
frantically around, trying to make sense of my
surroundings.

"Relax," Warren said, voice softer than it had

been in weeks.

"Wh..."
"You're at my place. You passed out on the

couch," he explained calmly, his dark eyes
watching me, seeming to see through me. It had
been so long since his focus was genuinely on me
that it was off-putting, making me immediately
wonder about the state of my hair that I had fallen
asleep on while it was still wet.

I pushed myself upward, feet planting on the

floor, hands on my knees, suddenly acutely aware
of how close he was from where he was perched on

the coffee table.

"Why are you here?" I managed to ask,

knowing he was staying behind to catch up on
work.

"Your phone is dead," he informed me,

making my eyes shoot to my purse, figuring that
made sense. It was old. It went dead just from me
checking the time.

"Oh. Did something happen?" I asked,

reaching up to rub at my eyes that felt bone dry.

"You could say that," he told me cryptically.

"Were you crying?" he asked, making me jolt
backward, feeling oddly caught. "And don't lie," he
warned me.

Warned.
Like he had any right to do so.
"You barely speak to me for weeks, and you

want to know personal details about me? No, that
isn't how this works," I told him, keeping my tone
calm, knowing he had a tendency to win when I got
too angry. "What could have happened to make
you drive all the way up here instead of waiting for
me to charge my phone?"

God, what time was it even? The sun was

streaming through the shades. But it was impossible
to tell if it had just risen, or had been up for hours.

"I'm assuming you haven't been online."
"I've been sleeping."
"Rachel, Mica, and Andy are having a

fucking conniption."

"What happened?" I asked, suddenly alert,

body stiff, heart starting to pound.

Were we found out?
God, anything but that.
"Apparently, the crew has been talking," he

told me as he fished for his phone, flicking and
clicking through it for a second before handing it to
me.

And there was the cover to some cheesy

tabloid. There were pictures of us, one from the
promo we had been photographed for, a dramatic
photoshopped split down the center; the other two
that were taken in other points of time. Mine was a
picture from my Instagram, the craft I had been
working on cropped out, one that had refused to go
right, so I had been scowling at it. But, of course,
they had it, so it looked like I was scowling at
Warren whose picture was a somewhat blank-faced
one, unreadable.

Then right there in bright yellow block

letters, the headline.

Fix It Uppers Break It Off?
"Oh, God," I groaned, looking up at him,

feeling my pulse start to throb in my temples.

"It gets worse," he told me, tone a little

guarded. "You can flip through to the article.

"'Don't you know that they're toxic?'" I read

aloud, groaning. Really? A Britney reference? I

mean, not that you could expect clever journalism
from a rag mag, but that was just lazy.

Things are not as they seem in the smiling

promo pictures for Home Improvement Television's
new season of their hit - though wrought with
scandal - show Fix It Up.

According to sources on set, show

frontrunners Warren Reyes - the contractor - and
his wife Brinley Spears - an interior decorator -
can barely get through a conversation without
erupting into screaming matches.

"Screaming matches, my ass," I snapped,

looking up for confirmation that he was as outraged
as I was.

"It's not exactly The New York Times," he

said with a shrug. "They sell more copies if they
exaggerate the truth."

"Who would snitch on us?" I asked, suddenly

offended. These were people we worked beside,
sweated with, broke bread with, laughed with,
brought coffee in for in the mornings.

Betrayal wasn't something I could claim to

be familiar with, always having been lucky enough
to have family and friends who always had my
back, who would never talk about me behind it to
strangers.

Maybe it was silly to feel so now seeing as

we didn't really know these people per se.

"I won't be able to look at anyone the same

again," I admitted, not bothering to read the rest of
the article after I caught some snarky line about
how we must have married based on our supposed
'explosive sexual chemistry' instead of actual
compatibility. I imagined it only went downhill from
there.

"They weren't exactly lying, though, were

they?" he asked, making my stomach drop a bit.

"What are Rachel, Mica, and Andy saying?"
"Well, Rachel is saying that Andy is freaking

out about his investment, about how they should
have gone with the couple with the kids because
viewers like when they make guest appearances."

Andy was a hothead and a worrywart.
I wasn't worried about him as much per se.
"Is Rachel mad?"
Warren did a shrug and headshake all at

once, a combination I was instantly wary of.
"She's... concerned. She brought us in. The weight
of this is falling on her. She wanted to know if it
was the stress of the show that was making us fight,
if we were okay."

"What did you say?" I asked, feeling guilty

for not having been accessible, even though maybe
Warren had been the better person to handle it
since he was much more adept at staying calm in
tense situations.

"I said we have always butted heads, that all

couples who work together get on each other's

nerves, that we were fine, just had very different
styles on the job."

"Did she buy it?"
He looked toward the front window at that,

lips curved up enough that I could see the bright
outline of his teeth. "She, ah, implied something
about fighting and making up," he said, making me
smile too. Not because of her comment, but
because he almost seemed a little embarrassed by
it. Warren, embarrassed. It was novel.

"So... what are we supposed to do?"
"You know how we have the interview on

Tuesday?" he asked, making me let out a grumble
about the early morning spot on a talk show. Which
I mostly objected to because it meant we would
have to get up at four AM to get there on time.

"How could I forget?" I whined, making his

gaze move back to me, the smile slipping a bit to
hide his teeth, but not disappearing.

"She wants us to go up to the city tonight or

tomorrow. And 'get seen' out on the town. Being in
love. Happy. Let it imply that it is just the work that
makes us bite each other's heads off."

That was, well, doable.
We'd have to work on it, given how tense

things had been with us personally, but we could
make it work. He had to make it work.

"And she wants you to take over control of

the social media for the show, post behind-the-

scenes things, and pictures of us at home, being a
couple. Get more personal. She said that social
media is where you really shine."

It was the first time I had heard a word of

praise in weeks. I was almost embarrassed to admit
just how much that affected me that she thought
that, and that she would trust me with the official
pages for the show.

"I can do that," I agreed, nodding, finding a

soul-deep kind of determination to get it perfect, to
prove to her that she was right to put her faith to
rest in me.

"I am supposed to get back to her as soon as

I got in touch with you, so she can get us some
reservations in the city. And, though she didn't say
this, I am figuring, tipping off the rival rag to this
one," he said, waving at his phone that was still in
my hand, "that we will be there, so they can catch
pictures of us happily together."

"And since this one has no pictures or proof

of us arguing," I concluded, "the newer one would
be seen as the more accurate."

"Yep."
"Where did you tell Rachel I was?" I asked,

stomach dropping a little. That didn't look good, did
it? This article dropped when I was nowhere to be
found, couldn't be gotten in touch with?

"I told her your sister was pregnant, that you

were coming up to help your mom plan a baby

shower."

"And since that is a woman's thing, of course

you hung back to do some work."

"Exactly."
"You think fast," I told him, impressed.
"You want to head up today? Saturday

night."

"Date night," I agreed, nodding. "What time

is it now?"

"A little after nine. Got time to get some food

before heading in."

"Rachel will handle the hotel room?" I asked,

finding that I liked having someone to handle those
things. Having always been a bit of a control freak,
I never thought I could find comfort in having
someone else make decisions for me. But Rachel
had picked out the townhouse. And she always had
the best choices for set meals. It was nice for a
change not to have to think so much, micromanage
every little thing, do it all myself.

"Yeah. She just needed the confirmation. I

will call her. Go charge up your phone, get some
coffee. Then we can hit the road."

With that, he got up, taking his phone to go

out front to make the call. I jumped up to go get
myself presentable, make coffee for us both, charge
my phone, and then take myself back into the
bathroom to hold a plastic baggie full of ice to my
eyelids, trying to take down the puffiness.

"Why were you crying, Brin?" Warren's

voice asked, soft, but unexpected, making me jolt,
the baggie falling off my face, slapping down into
the sink as my gaze went to the mirror, finding him
reflected there.

Standing in the doorway, his arm was cocked

up on the jam, head slightly ducked, dark eyes
boring into me.

"It doesn't matter."
"It matters," he countered.
If there was one thing I knew, it was that

while I was stubborn, he was equally so. In fact, in
many situations, he could out-stubborn me.

My mouth felt oddly flooded with saliva, like

my body was trying to drown out the words. I
swallowed, though, and forced them out.

"I was lonely," I admitted.
"You were lonely?"
"I can go through a whole day hardly

speaking a handful of words to people anymore," I
explained. "So, I came home to spend some time
with my friends and family. And everyone was too
busy for me. It was just... overwhelming," I
concluded, unable to make eye-contact, even
through the mirror.

"Not used to being alone," he murmured,

making my gaze finally lift to see him watching me.

"No, I'm not," I agreed. It had been

incredibly isolating to move away from everyone,

to know their lives were moving on without me,
while mine stayed oddly stagnant. It was the calm
before the storm for me, I knew, but that didn't
change the day-to-day drudgery.

"I've been a shit roommate," he surprised me

by admitting. "Don't remember the last time I even
said good morning to you."

"Well, in your defense," I said, lips twitching,

"you were too busy creaking like an old man to say
much of anything."

"It was nice to sleep in a bed," he admitted,

smiling a little, making me feel guilty. Like maybe
he had been waiting for the invite after all. "First
time in weeks my back wasn't hurting," he added.
"Did you bring enough stuff to hold you over for a
few days, or do you need to stop by your old
place."

"Depends."
"On?"
"How fancy is this place Rachel is getting us

reservations for? Keep in mind that anything that
requires footwear other than flip-flops is fancy in
my book."

He smirked at that. "Then fancy."
"Ugh," I grumbled, not excited about the idea

of having to drag out a little black dress. "Alright.
Well, do you want to go pick up food while I grab
some more clothes? We can meet back here, eat,
then head out."

"Sounds like a plan," he agreed, moving

away.

So that was what we did.
When I got back to Brent's, he and his lady

were long gone. I had six text messages from him I
had yet to check, finding that every time I thought
of answering him, I got an image of him and his girl
in my head, making my cheeks heat up. It was silly,
sure. We were adults. We had sex. We'd even had
sex while the other was in the house. But it was
always somewhat subtle. A squeak of the bed or a
moan that the radio or TV didn't quite cover. We
talked about sex. Joked about it.

I guess it was a whole different monster,

though, to see a brother figure playing hide the
hotdog with a very beautiful woman in the living
room where you spent many late nights watching
old Friends reruns while eating Chinese right from
the cartons.

I packed some clothes reserved for special

occasions, heels, some more makeup, and a few
refresher items for my wardrobe to bring back to
Cape May with me after this was all done since the
weather would likely be turning soon. I would have
to swap out everything pretty soon, but since
almost all of my bags were still in the townhouse, I
would have to make a trip up again in the near
future to get all my fall and winter clothes.

Warren was already back when I got to his

house, transferring my bags into his truck, having a
quick, awkwardly silent meal, then hitting the road.

We were twenty minutes in, and my belly

was doing a weird swirling thing at the idea that we
were going to have nothing but more silence on the
drive, when he finally spoke.

"You didn't change the station."
"I'm sorry?" I asked, turning to watch his

profile, pretending - at least outwardly - that my
mind didn't have a tendency to drag out the
memories of the kiss whenever I looked at him - at
the hard press of his lips, the rough grip of his
fingers, the burn of his stubble on my skin, the feel
of his hardness pressing into me. Even just thinking
of it sent a flush over my body, made my sex clench
hard, wanting more of it, wanting everything he had
to offer.

"At my place. You turned the radio on. And

didn't turn the station."

Oh.
Right.
And how was I supposed to respond to that?
I don't know why, but the music makes me

think of you, and despite all the tension the past
several weeks, I still somehow find that
comforting?

Yeah, no.
That wasn't going to work.
"I've learned to like some of the songs," I

said instead, it being true.

"Such as?" he asked, seeming genuinely

interested. I guess because I had railed so hard
against the genre for so long.

"There's one slow one, and a guy says

something about damnation and crying to his
grave."

"'Fire Away,'" he supplied, glancing over at

me. "Chris Stapleton," he added. "That's an
interesting one to choose."

"Don't dig too deep," I said, shrugging. "I just

like the sound of it."

Except it wasn't just the sound; it was the

lyrics, and the depth of emotion the singer put into
them. I don't know, it spoke to me in a way. But
that sounded silly, especially because I wasn't in
love with anyone. But, yeah, it gave me shivers.
Goosebumps rose up on my arms when I heard
those first few strums of the guitar.

"I'll make a country fan of you yet," he

declared, sounding light, almost joyful, and it was
such a contrast to the Warren I had been living with
for months now that I found myself studying his
face as he drove.

"I wouldn't go that far. For every one of

those soulful songs, there is one that talks about
bare feet and cut-off jeans and objectifies women
as badly - or even worse in some cases - as many
rap songs."

He said nothing, but smiled as he reached

inside his center console, producing an iPod. "Find
a song called 'Girl In A Country Song' on there, and
play it," he demanded, fingers brushing mine as he
handed it over. It was accidental, of course. Chaste
as well. But my skin seemed to spark at the contact,
making me almost drop the damn thing before I set
to doing as he demanded, grabbing the AUX he
handed me, and plugging in the iPod, listening to
two girls complaining of exactly what I had just
complained about. "The industry saw the problem
after this one dropped. It's gotten a little better
lately."

"I miss having music on the worksite," I told

him as he switched back to the radio when the song
finished. "I guess that's why some of the guys sneak
in iPods under their shirts." It was against the rules,
of course. The cords were dangerous, and they
couldn't hear it if someone yelled out a warning.
Which was why a low playing radio was usually
used.

"We're moving onto the third house soon," he

told me, as though I wasn't aware. The schedule
was weird. We moved on before we were finished.
And then I was expected to go back to put all the
finishing design touches when the crews finally
finished, Warren showing up to help even though
that wasn't what he did ever.

"Thirteen after that one."

"We'll get used to it."
It was the first time I had heard anything

even close to a complaint from him about the job. I
found it refreshing. I was starting to feel ungrateful
with not being completely happy with the process.
This was the chance of a lifetime, after all. But that
didn't mean it was all sunshine and roses either.

"You don't like leaving the project

unfinished," I half asked, half declared.

"No," he agreed. "I have no idea what these

guys are doing, if they are following instructions
exactly, or improvising. It's frustrating. My name is
on these projects."

"I get that," I agreed, nodding. No one else

was doing my job for me. I couldn't imagine having
to give up that much control over a project. He was
handling it better than I would. Sure, he went over
after hours to work, tweak, check things. But I
would probably be obsessively stopping over,
rearranging, reorganizing, grumbling about
candlesticks being on the wrong end of the
sideboard.

"At least we get to do something a little

different this time."

He was right.
The last two homes had been abandoned, too

damaged to be worth fixing up, on land not
desirable enough for the slimy developers to come
in and steal them up. The next one would be

different because the property was owned. In fact,
it was owned by a couple in their mid-thirties who
had bought it on a song - because of the obvious
damage - and had set their minds to trying to fix it
up themselves. Snag after snag made them all but
give up when they were approached by Rachel's
team about allowing us to do it for them.

"We have a budget," I reminded him. That

was new for us too. While Andy did control the
pursestrings, he generally didn't quibble about
things that we found necessary. I guess he figured
that whatever we put in, he would get back two-
fold if he sold, or even if he used it as a rental
property. This time, we only had what the owners
had in their savings to work with. Not a penny
more. Forty-thousand. For who-knew-what work.
We'd seen a picture of the outside, but had no idea
what was within.

"I can work on a budget," he told me,

nodding. "Most of my jobs come with a cap. I'm
used to making do. Hopefully, the foundation is
sound, and the electrical and HVAC aren't too old
or damaged. Those are the cash-eaters."

"Yeah. And I actually have a lot of pieces

stored in my parents' garage. Tables, chairs that I
could reupholster for just the cost of the fabric and
some batting - which is minimal, and some basic
wall art pieces, frames, just a mismatch of a ton of
things I got from great antique shops and flea

markets. That should help keep costs low. Paint,
lighting, and accents shouldn't be too bad. We'll
make it work. So long as they don't have designer
tastes on bargain budgets."

"Rachel seems to think they are reasonable.

If they were willing to try to do the work
themselves, I doubt they are the kind of people who
drool over thousand-dollar sofas. I was thinking of
suggesting they work with us," he went on,
chancing a look at me when he stopped at a light.

"I think that's a good idea," I agreed,

surprised the producers hadn't thought of it. "But
just on the beginning stages. Demo and maybe
some landscaping. So we can have a big reveal at
the end."

"Exactly," he agreed, giving me a small

smile.

"Did you mention this to Rachel?"
He shook his head. "I wanted to run it by you

first."

"Thank you," I said, meaning it, liking that he

didn't go behind my back. Like he would have any
other time.

"What kind of restaurant do we have

reservations to?"

"The Grill. It is some kind of steakhouse. She

wanted to do some French place called Daniel, but
I reminded her we aren't fine French dining kind of
people."

"Thank God for that," I said, grimacing.
"Not into getting all cleaned up?"
I shrugged a shoulder. "It's been a long time.

I guess it is nice every once in a while, but I am
more of a jeans and flip-flops and taco takeout kind
of girl."

"Really into the tacos, huh?"
"Well, I have tastebuds, so... yeah."
"Your tacos were amazing," he told me,

making a rush of pride move through me. "I think I
forgot to tell you that."

"Yes. You were busy avoiding me."
There.
I said it.
It had to be said.
I didn't want to ruin what was a pleasant

moment, but it was just going to keep eating me up
if I didn't get it out, didn't address it.

"Yeah," he agreed, mouth barely opening, so

the sound came out clipped, almost growling.
"We've never excelled at the talking thing," he
added after a moment. "The bickering? The
snapping at each other? Yeah, we do that great. But
the talking, just two people rationally hashing
something out? We haven't been good at that."

"No," I agreed, nodding. "We haven't been

good at that. But maybe if we tried it a little more,
we could learn to be. We owe it to ourselves - and
each other, since we are in this together - to give it

a try. It will be a long year if we don't at least try to
get along."

"So, we'll try," he agreed.
The silence fell again, but this time, it wasn't

so uncomfortable. The music hummed, slow and
steady, just like I liked it. New Jersey faded away
into New York City faster than I would have liked,
finding more ease in that hour and a half than I had
in weeks.

"The hotel won't let us check in for a few

more hours. Any ideas on how to spend the time?"

"You really shouldn't let me choose," I

warned him. "I imagine they have dozens of
antique shops."

"Yeah, no. You're not choosing," he informed

me with a laugh, driving around with the ease of
someone who had clearly been in the city many
times before.

"How do you know your way around?" I

asked as he found the hotel, giving the keys to the
valet to handle for us. Even though we couldn't
check in for a while yet, he took our bags inside to
hold for us, so we could hit the streets to waste
some time.

"I had a job here a few years back."
"What kind?"
"Penthouse. He was OCD. Made me gut the

place, and redo it from scratch. We had to wear
gloves and masks. He didn't want anyone else

physically touching any of his surfaces but him.
Took almost seven months. I got used to getting
around. You spend any time here?"

"A couple hours here and there for concerts

or shows. But I pretty much just went from the
train station to the venue. I haven't been able to see
much. Where are we going?"

"To see things," he told me simply, shrugging.
Then we did.
We walked down some streets, checking out

hotspot tourist attractions. I remembered last
minute to grab my phone, and squeeze in close to
Warren to take selfies to share to the Instagram
account as soon as I had access.

"Hey, don't," I objected when I finally talked

him into going with me to some kitschy craft store
where he pulled out his phone and snapped a
picture of me while I flipped through funky fabrics
that I had never seen anywhere else - succulents on
a hot pink background, mermaids drinking frozen
coffees, multicolored pastel macarons.

"Why not?" he asked, looking down at the

picture.

"Because I wasn't ready," I insisted, knowing

that ninety-percent of the time, people took the
absolutely most unflattering pictures of you
possible. Was it so hard to lift your hands up, and
angle the camera down? Then again, Warren was
about a foot or so taller than me, so I guess any

picture he took would be at a downward angle.

"That's the point," he told me. "It will look

candid because it was. And you look great," he told
me, turning his phone to show me the picture that,
admittedly, was pretty flattering.

"Alright, fine. Send that to me," I told him as

I put the fabric back. Cute and kitschy in the city
meant a mini future. And I had spent enough
money this weekend already. "Can we double back
to the soft pretzel cart?" I asked, belly grumbling.
"There's no way I am making it to seven."

We had pretzels. Then kabobs. And soft

serve dipped in unicorn colors which was, of
course, more selfie-worthy goodness.

"We can hit the hotel now," Warren told me

as we just kept destination-less walking. "Check in.
Maybe get a shower. Or a nap. You can do
whatever chicks do to get ready for a night out."

"Whatever chicks do to get ready for a night

out," I repeated with a snort. "I mean, it's really not
that complicated. Three hours of makeup, some
tugging and plucking... a blood sacrifice to the
beauty gods..."

"Sounds about right," he agreed as he put a

hand at my lower back, trying to guide me to the
side. It was a nothing contact. But my skin seemed
to sizzle. As if maybe it wasn't just me feeling it, his
hand snatched away as quickly as it touched me. Or
maybe that was just wishful thinking on my part.

Wishful thinking?
No.
That wasn't possible.
I didn't wish for him to want me.
That would be irrational.
We barely got along.
I mean, we currently were.
But this was a rarity.
Normally, we were at each other's throats.
And it would be idiotic to want a man to feel

sparks when they touch you when you could barely
tolerate them most of the time.

But that was perhaps being too rational.
There really wasn't anything rational about

attraction, was there? It was all chemicals, all
random firings in the brain.

It was why you sometimes feel nothing for

the uber hot guy from the gym, but got all hot and
bothered over the odd, only moderately attractive
guy with unkempt hair and glasses from the
coffeeshop.

It was just an animal impulse.
Something primitive, encoded in the DNA.
My body wanted his, whether that made

sense or not.

But just because my body wanted it didn't

mean I wanted it.

Right?
"Wow," I exhaled as we moved into the

lobby of the hotel, having been spaced out for
multiple blocks.

"She said you would like it," he agreed,

stopping beside me as I took it in.

"Just me?" I asked, eyes moving over the

cedar-wrapped beams across the ceiling, the
matching gleaming hardwood floors, things that
were perfectly up his alley. As was the giant
seamless check-in desk with shiplap walls behind.
The rest was me though with the cream couches but
light blue accent chairs, the textured walls in an
off-white, the giant and unique mason jar
chandelier.

"Us. She said we would both love it."
"She gets us," I agreed, suddenly feeling his

gaze on me, making me turn to find him watching
me, dark eyes almost penetrative.

"She does," he agreed with a nod, tone

somewhat guarded. "You ready to check in, or do
you need to go and eye-fuck the carpet too?" he
asked, jerking his chin toward a seating area at the
side that did have an amazing carpet.

"We can check in," I said, looking forward,

not liking his tone, but not disliking it enough to say
anything about it.

Then we did, getting our keycards, being

trailed by a bellman who insisted on carrying our
bags into the elevator, down the hall, then to our
room.

The room spoke more to Warren's style than

mine, brown and tan carpet, brown curtains, brown
loveseat, brown accent wall behind the bed, white
sheets, and a brown runner across the bed.

"Check out the bathroom," Warren said,

having moved in ahead of me. "More your speed."

I glanced inward, finding walls that were this

odd in-between brown and purple shade that I had
never seen before, had no name for, but was
instantly in love with. There was a floating white
vanity, a deep white soaking tub, and an all-glass
shower enclosure. Propped up against an empty
wall was a ladder bookshelf with brown wood and
white shelves, overflowing with rolled fluffy
towels.

Maybe I could indulge in a bath.
It would certainly calm me down, get me in

the mood to get all dolled up to go out on the town.

"Got a balcony too," Warren called, making

me move back out, finding him looking out the
sliding door outside.

It was then I realized something else.
One bed.
Sure, we had slept in the same bed before.
But it somehow felt different now.
Because of the kiss, sure.
Because of the confusing period of time

following, the loneliness, the fights.

Because of the way my body seemed

hellbent on reacting to him in ways it shouldn't
have.

I wondered if it would be odd to call down to

the front desk for about six extra pillows. The
barrier wall might have been juvenile, but things
felt almost... risky without it.

As silly as that was.
"You taking a bath?"
"Ah, yeah," I agreed, taking my bag when he

extended it to me, thankful for an excuse to get a
little space. From him. From the bed. From the
things that him and that bed could mean. And the
way my body heated at just that thought alone.

"I'll see you in a few hours. Try not to get the

blood everywhere." I must have had a taken aback
look, because he smirked. "From the sacrifice to
the beauty gods," he explained, making me smile
before I locked myself in the bathroom and ran my
tub.

I felt acutely aware as I reached for the hem

of my shirt of the fact that Warren was simply one
door away from me, feeling almost irrationally
exposed as I stripped out of my clothes, like he
could see through the wall.

And that idea, yeah, it wasn't helping the

overly sensitive state of my body.

The water felt too hot on my already warmed

skin, felt way too erotic as it enveloped me, too
sensual as it lapped up over my hardened nipples,

tweaking them further until they were almost
painful, until the glide of a drop as it moved down
my chest made my legs clamp tight together, trying
to calm the chaos I felt there.

In the other room, I could hear Warren's

boots drop down on the floor, could hear the bed
give way slightly as he moved on it. I could see him
in my mind, resting on his back, arm cocked up,
hand behind his neck, making his strong chest look
like it was fighting the confines of his t-shirt
material.

I hoped - in a small, silly way - that he was

thinking of me. Much like I was thinking of him.

Maybe like I was picturing him in the bed, he

was imagining me in the tub.

Would that thought set his body ablaze like it

did mine? Did he find it impossible to force the
thoughts away, to focus on other things? Was he
seeing me naked, body aching for touch? Did it
make his long for it as well?

I wasn't aware I was even thinking of it as

my hand slid up my own ribs, cupping my soft
breast, fingers sliding over the nipple, making my
breath catch as my eyes closed, thinking of his
hands - those huge, work-rough hands - instead of
my own, letting the image, letting my touch, drive
me upward as my hands worked my nipples for a
long moment before one moved a path down my
belly, the muscles the fingertips grazed over

tensing.

My legs fell open, giving up all pretense at

self-control. There was nothing left but the need
burning inside me, the tightened coil in my lower
belly, turned so taut it felt ready to spring at the
lightest of touches.

Which was what I gave myself, shamelessly

imagining Warren's fingers tracing between my lips,
pulsing teasingly against my opening without
pressing inside, moving up at the last possible
second to work my clit in slow, thorough circles
until my breathing got hitched and frantic, until my
body stiffened, back arching, free hand pressing
hard against the bath wall, holding myself still as
the pleasure built, became overwhelming,
unstoppable, uncontrollable.

I remembered at the last possible second to

bite into my lip, hissing out my orgasm as my leg
kicked out, sloshing water up and over the edge of
the tub.

I came down quickly, reality something that

could really take the thrill out of a good orgasm as I
shot up, reaching for the towels I had grabbed for
myself, dropping them down on the floor to sponge
up the water I had spilled. I drained the tub, hastily
drying myself, trying not to think about it. To harp
on it. To wonder if it all meant something.

There could be time for that later.
Or never.

Never would work for me too.
Besides, you didn't need to analyze every

self-care session. No one knew it happened to judge
you on it. And sometimes you just needed it so you
could simply think straight for a change.

And straight thinking was what I needed

tonight, I decided as I carefully dried my hair,
applied makeup that I rarely wore, slathered on
some expensive lotion that smelled like vanilla ice
cream, then slipped into a black dress, the kind that
fit like a second skin, making me suddenly wish I
hadn't eaten quite so much on the street this
afternoon. But what was done was done. Whatever
was leftover of my food baby would just have to be
embraced since this was the only acceptable thing I
had to wear to a fancy dinner.

Sliding my feet into heels that I was no

master at, but usually managed not to make a fool
of myself in, I took a deep breath, looking at my
reflection.

It would be silly to say that I didn't recognize

myself. Of course I did. I was just me. But different
as well. My eyes popped with mascara and some
subtle liner. My lips were bright red, giving me a
glamorous look that I never would usually think I
was capable of possessing. My hair, so often -
almost always if I were honest - twisted into a
careless messy bun looked longer than I
remembered, falling in sleek sheets to my

shoulders, waving slightly because my hair refused
ever to stay completely straight. My body, usually
made shorter thanks to the choppy cuts of jean
shorts and a tee or tank, looked leaner and longer in
a well-fitting dress. My legs, short by any standard
looked almost model-like with the heels to give
them the illusion of length.

As I looked at my reflection, I couldn't seem

to help the thought that came to me.

I wonder what Warren will think?
I wasn't supposed to care.
Just for show.
Just for the show.
But I was beginning to find it impossible to

deny the truth anymore. I wondered, in fact, how
long I had been doing so, lying to myself,
pretending, avoiding, denying the truth.

I had feelings for Warren.
Absurd? Sort of.
But true nonetheless.
Maybe it wasn't even that unexpected.
We were both strong personalities, both

passionate, skillful, interested in many of the same
things. We worked, ate, slept, lived together for
weeks, getting to know the rhythms of each other's
days, what foods we liked, or hated, what shows or
activities we found joy in, what things annoyed or
excited us.

And, well, there was chemistry.

That kiss was all the proof you could need of

that.

It was one for the books.
Literally.
It needed to be immortalized in a book

sometime, so everyone could experience it in a
way, could know what it was like for a man to grab
you and kiss you like he meant it, to break through
all the bullshit and show you what had been hiding
there, to show you something about yourself that
you had somehow managed to overlook.

Ugh.
I needed not to be thinking those thoughts.
Because solid orgasm and all, my body was

already getting ideas again.

I shook off the thoughts, grabbed my phone,

and headed out into the room, stopping short at
seeing Warren standing looking out the sliding
doors, the lights of the city bright as they always
were, his strong back blocking a huge chunk of it.

He had gotten ready while I had

monopolized the bathroom. His usual well-loved
jeans, boots, and tee were gone, replaced by black
slacks and a slate gray dress shirt that fit so well it
had to have been tailored to do so.

I must have made a noise.
Lord knows my body was having all kinds of

non-verbal reactions to the sight, so it wouldn't
have been all that unusual if some kind of

whimpering sound escaped me, drawing attention
to the fact that I was standing there, the carpet
having silenced the click of my heels, allowing me a
blissful moment to take him in before he turned and
noticed me as well.

"Christ," he hissed, shaking his head a little

like he wasn't sure he was actually seeing what he
was, a thirsty man in the desert being tricked by a
mirage of a waterfall.

His eyes moved over me, taking in every

small change - the hair, makeup, the tightness of the
dress that showed off a figure I generally didn't
dress to accentuate, my bare legs, the heels my feet
were slipped into.

Every inch felt heated under his inspection,

like there was a physical touch attached to the
gaze, making a shiver somehow course through me,
goosebumps rising up on my skin.

"It was worth it."
"Excuse me?" I asked, sure I misheard him.
"The blood sacrifice," he told me, his lips

curving up, but it seemed forced, not meeting his
eyes, barely even lighting up his face.

"You clean up nice too," I told him because it

was true. "Should we take a picture in the room
before heading out?" I asked, feeling awkward as
he kept looking at me. "I think a mirror selfie is
pretty standard in this sort of situation."

He said nothing as he followed me into the

bathroom, as I unlocked my phone and flipped the
camera.

He said nothing as his arm slid across my

lower belly, so low that it was pressing down on the
triangle above my sex as he slid behind me,
crushing my back to his front, resting his head on
the side of mine as I couldn't seem to do anything
but stand there with my arm aloft with the cell
phone, watching our reflections as my body seemed
to short circuit there was so much going on within
it.

"We're gonna miss our reservation," he told

me, voice soft, his breath making my hair dance
slightly.

"Right," I agreed, moving my thumb over to

the capture button.

And the second it hovered there, his lips

pressed into the side of my head.

I clicked the button because my hand

spazzed, not because I meant to, too surprised to
claim that much control over my actions.

But the second he heard the shutter, he

yanked away from me, leaving me almost unsteady
on my heels, making my hand slam down on the
sink vanity for a second, something he luckily
missed because his back was to me as he left the
room.

I needed to get a hold of myself.
If I was going to survive this night when he

was - obviously - going to keep touching me,
smiling at me like he meant it, maybe even kissing
me, saying things that my mind and body could
easily confuse.

But it wasn't for me.
It was for show.
It meant nothing.
Not for him.
Though, if I were being honest, it did mean

something.

To me.
And that, yeah, that was going to be a

problem, wasn't it?

NINE

Brinley

The Grill was straight out of nineteen-fifties

grandeur. We walked into a darkness much like
outside, everything painted deep browns with hints
of gold accents. The large square bar was
illuminated from the floor, casting a giant magnolia
blossom tree in beautiful low light. Hanging down
over the array of liquor bottles from the ceiling was
a massive piece of ceiling art the scale of which I
had never seen before. At least not in person. There
were thousands of hanging bronze rods that from
far away, you couldn't tell what they were, they
almost looked thin, flimsy, delicate, like it was
almost raining down.

We were led that way to have a drink to

wait for our table.

"Do you see this?" I asked, head turned up,

not caring if I was gawking, if it didn't make me
look as fancy as everyone else casually seated
around.

"Yeah, I see it," he agreed.
"No one else is looking," I told him, shaking

my head. "I hope I never lose the wonder of
admiring beautiful things," I added.

"Me either," he agreed. But when I looked,

his eyes weren't up; they were on me.

There was no denying the fluttering feeling

inside as I thought maybe, just maybe, I wasn't
misinterpreting it, that he was talking about me.

"What can I get for you tonight?" the tall

male waiter in an almost over-the-top white coat,
white shirt, and black bowtie asked, standing before
us.

We ordered, waiting in silence for them to be

made. My drink - bright red in a martini glass - was
barely slid toward me before I felt Warren's hand
snag the end of my chair, dragging me closer until
my side brushed to his. His arm slid around my
lower back, slipping into the hipbone at the other
side. Way, way too close to somewhere I
desperately needed to feel him. Yet also way too
far. His arm tightened, pulling me closer, his face
moving in, lips almost brushing my ear.

"Don't look, but across the bar on the corner.

That's Rachel's man," he told me as my head
ducked, my cheeks heating because the way his
breath moved over my ear made a shiver course
through me, something I knew he had to have felt.

"How do you know?" I asked, wishing my

voice wasn't so breathless.

"He's got a damn camera lens on the back of

his phone that has been zeroed in on us since we sat
down."

I didn't chance a look. I couldn't even think

past the realization that I could feel his body heat
through my dress.

His fingers shifted suddenly, sliding slightly

upward.

"Don't," I pleaded, head falling down on his

shoulder as another shiver worked through me.

"Why not?" he asked, his fingers pausing,

staying planted on my ribs.

"You know why," I told his shoulder, trying

to take a deep breath.

"Drink your drink, Brin," he told me, voice

soft, pulling away a few inches.

Pride a bit decimated, I stiffened, turning

forward, reaching for my drink. My eyes slid across
the bar to see the man Warren had been talking
about, his eyes on his phone, so it didn't look like
he was stalking us, but that camera lens was
absolutely set in our direction.

I had barely taken two sips before we were

called up to our table. As I stood, Warren's hand
pressed into my lower back to guide me, making me
actually have to focus on walking, so I didn't fall on
my face.

We spent a few minutes looking over the

menus before we were stuck staring at each other.
"We should probably be talking," I said, nervously
sipping my drink, hoping it would help steady my
nerves. Thank God we had a table between us. My
poor body was just not ready to handle all the
touching.

"He's not getting a table," Warren supplied,

having the better view of the bar. "But, yeah,
talking would be good. What do you want to talk
about?"

I felt my shoulder shrug, asking him to tell

me more about the farm. He wasn't a man for
whom conversation generally came easily. But
something about the memories associated with his
childhood home - and the lands surrounding it -
made the words flow easily from his lips. He
became alive as he shared them too. His eyes, so
commonly guarded, opened up, brightened, danced
as he told me about trying to catch chickens in the
woods when they wandered too far, actually
reaching across the table to show me a scar on his
finger where one had gotten a hold of him while he
tried to carry it back home.

He didn't pull his hand back, though.
No.
He rested it over mine.
This, this I could handle.
It wasn't too distracting.
And he would have to surrender it back to

me as soon as the food arrived.

"Would you give it up?"
"Give what up?"
"Your career," I specified.
"Not right away," he said carefully. "I'd still

have a mortgage to pay down. But once that was
handled, I'd probably just stick with the farming."

"Producing crops and such?"
"There's a big market for local organic food

and fruit. Luckily, my grandfather put down an
orchard a good twenty years back. Kept the bugs
under control with chickens and mantises. There'd
be enough apples, pears, peaches, and plums to fill
a grocery store."

"Could you really make a living just selling

fruit?"

"And vegetables. Some milk, eggs, whatever

I get going. Yeah. He did. He was never rolling in it,
and he was too old to really work the land as much
as he could have the past decade and a half. The
market has changed so much. You could cash in if
you know what you're doing."

"You wouldn't miss it? Building? Planning?"

"I'd still be building and planning. Just a

different sort - outbuildings, greenhouses,
hydroponic planting. And the house itself needs an
addition, some updates. I'd never want for a
project."

"Do you have any pictures?"
"Not on my phone, no," he said, sounding

disappointed. The waiter returned, and Warren
reluctantly released my hand, so I could reach for
my fork. "So what about you?"

"What about me?"
"When this show blows up, and you have

more calls than you can take, what's your plan?"

I honestly hadn't even thought of that much

since we had started working. My mind had been so
preoccupied with the jobs, with the strangeness of
our new life that I hadn't had time for daydreams.

"I guess I could finally get an office. Maybe

have an assistant."

"Maybe?" he asked, looking up at me from

under his brows. "You're definitely going to need an
assistant, Brin. I think you're thinking too small
still."

"I think I am traumatized after years of just

barely getting by," I corrected. "You start out so
young and idealistic, you know? They tell you that
if you work hard enough, if you hustle more than
your peers, if you learn how to market, how to
brand, how to reach your audience, then everything

is just going to magically fall into place. But the
world doesn't always work like that. Sometimes the
people who put in all the work just keep struggling,
while the slackers get dumb luck. Ugh, I'm
complaining," I grumbled at myself. "Don't listen to
me."

"You work your ass off, Brin. It's

understandable that you are frustrated that you
haven't gotten further than you have. But I think it
is safe to say that you can start dreaming again.
Because you're about to be swamped. I wouldn't be
surprised if you need to start looking into an intern
by next summer."

That was the dream.
An office.
A name.
A team.
And all the superficial things that came with

that - a car that worked properly, a house of my
own, hair coloring that wasn't bought on
clearance... with a coupon.

"Are you nervous about the interview?" I

asked.

"They're going to bring up the rumors," he

warned me, bringing attention to something I hadn't
stopped to consider.

"I need to get on that Instagram as soon as

possible. Post up the pictures for tonight. They
likely won't have the new pics from the guy at the

bar until after we finish filming. At least we will
have them to show the interviewers when they
ask."

"They're still gonna ask."
"So, we'll be honest. We fight on jobs a lot.

We both have a vision for how we want it to be,
and it doesn't always match up. Arguments are
inevitable until we can finally agree on the end
result."

"We can sell the truth. While we act like

we're madly in love," he added, reminding me of a
duty that while it wasn't abhorrent to me the way it
would have been just months before, filled me with
dread nonetheless. There would be no way to
escape it, no way to hide my reaction to it. Right
there on TV. For the whole world - including my
loved ones - to see. While my parents and brother,
and maybe even my sister, might just write it off as
good acting, Brent would know. And Brent would
call me on it. Then we'd have to talk about it. And I
couldn't do my best to pretend it wasn't happening
anymore.

We ate in comfortable silence for a few

moments, occasionally commenting on the decor,
on the dessert choices even though we likely
wouldn't have room, about how much we hated
having to get our makeup done before workdays -
and the upcoming interview.

"You never talk about your people," he said

oddly after I rambled on about the crew who we
had forged casual friendships with over the past
several months.

"My people?" I asked, confused.
"Family. Friends. For someone who shares so

much, you hold that close."

Did I?
I guess I did.
I didn't remember the last time I had made a

reference to my family.

"I guess I figure that if you don't know them,

you have no interest in hearing about them."

"Well, I'm interested," he told me, shrugging,

giving me his full attention, something that made
me want to squirm in my seat, an impulse I just
barely controlled.

"Everyone is really successful," I led with.

"My mother does project management at an energy
company. My father took his inheritance when his
parents died when he was twenty-five to invest in
real estate. Which he continues to do. My siblings
are older. My sister is a pharmacist. She is married
with two kids and another on the way. You know
that part," I said, remembering the excuse he gave
Rachel about where I disappeared to. "Wait, how
did you know that?"

"You had a bunch of baby room DIY on your

Instagram," he told me casually.

And I had captioned those about my

upcoming niece or nephew.

He had admitted to looking into me when he

first heard about me, but that post was just from a
few weeks ago. In fact, just two days after he
started sleeping on the couch. That was...
interesting.

"Right," I agreed, watching him for a long

second, trying to read him the way he seemed to be
able to do with me, but finding I had no such skill.
"And then I have a brother who is an attorney.
Married. Just had a baby."

"Think I'm starting to get you," he told me,

nodding a little as he reached for his drink.

"What do you mean?"
"This drive you have. It isn't really about

superficial shit. Wanting to have designer shoes and
a top-of-the-line car. You feel inferior. Everyone
around you is doing well. And you're still
struggling."

"Yeah," I agreed, swallowing back the bitter

taste of my own failure.

"You're successful now, Brin. You have a TV

show."

I snorted at that, shaking my head. "That I

got by lying."

"No. You got it because when Rachel looked

into you, she found something she liked. It wouldn't
have mattered if she thought we were fantastic
together," he said, emphasizing the word the way

Rachel did, making me smile, "if your work sucked.
You got this on merit. And a small white lie."

For a small white lie, it sure felt big, world-

changing if it were found out, career-shattering.
Maybe I should have taken him up on the offer to
actually tie the knot. Sure, if someone started
digging, it would show that we did so after we
signed the contracts, but it would still make it legit.

But even just the idea of that made my belly

slosh around uncomfortably. It was hard enough
seeing a wedding ring on my finger, one I had put
there myself. It would be a whole other monster to
have him slide it on in front of a Justice of the
Peace. It would steal something away from me, the
chance to experience that for real the first time it
happened, to feel excitement and nervousness, and
love all at once instead of a sort of resigned
obligation.

I meant what I said - marriage meant

something to me.

I didn't want to cheapen it.
Not even for the success I had worked so

hard for.

"They've got to be proud of you, Brin," he

added after a long moment where I was lost in my
own thoughts.

I guess they were. When I told my parents -

even with the lie - they had said they would bring
all their friends together to watch it, carefully

avoiding answering questions that they had no
answers for. Like what the wedding was like. What
Warren was like when he came and asked for my
hand. Why it was such a secret.

"Yeah," I agreed, nodding.
They were proud.
Even before this.
My mom trolled my social media, gushing

about jobs I did or projects I worked on. My dad
hired me to redo the interior of a doctor's office he
had acquired a year back.

Maybe it had always simply been my own

insecurity about where I was in life that prevented
me from seeing that they didn't look down on me
because I didn't make a ton of money like my
siblings, like they themselves did.

Sometimes it was hard to see past your own

bias. Even toward yourself.

"So, do you actually have room for dessert?"

he asked, sounding dubious.

"I wish," I said, longingly rubbing my hand

over the dessert menu that had been discreetly
dropped off again at our table after the food had
been taken away.

"If you want something later, there are about

three dozen places open for dessert at all hours."

"This is true," I agreed, thinking I would

much rather have three big cupcakes for half the
price of a small slice of cheesecake here.

"No, we can split," I started to object when

he reached for the bill, discreetly placed inside a
thin leather fold. "What?" I asked when all he did
was raise a brow at me. And maybe look at me like
I had lost my ever-loving mind.

"You're not serious," he informed me,

slipping a card into the fold, and pushing it out
toward the edge of the table.

"This place is crazy expensive. No way you

should be paying for it all." I hadn't exactly chosen
something cheap either, something I was now
kicking myself for.

"You're not paying," he informed me as the

waiter came to take the check away.

"Why not?"
"Because you're not. Not when you're out

with me. Do the guys you usually go out to dinner
with let you pay half?"

"I haven't been out to dinner with anyone in

a long time, but yeah, sometimes."

"How long is a long time?"
"How is that your business?" I asked,

stiffening, knowing the answer - for a healthy,
confident, sexually active woman in her twenties -
was a bit embarrassing.

"Don't argue," he reminded me, smiling a

little, trying to throw off the guy who was likely still
at the bar. "Just answer."

"I don't know exactly. A year, give or take."

"You're shitting me."
"No," I said, shrugging. "I've been busy with

work."

He looked away for a second, and I found

myself wanting to know what was going through his
mind, but was too chickenshit to ask. "You need to
date better men."

"What? Just because we split the check,

they're not good men?"

"They're boys in men's clothing," he told me,

taking the book after the waiter dropped it back off,
doing some quick math, then signing his name.

"Not all men can afford to pay for dinner," I

said.

"Then he shouldn't be dating."
"That is very backward."
"If a man can't pay for dinner, his finances

aren't in order. If his finances aren't in order, he has
no business bringing a woman into his mess."

"But..."
"You take dating seriously, right?" he cut me

off, catching me off guard.

"What do you mean by that?"
"Do you date just because it's a nice way to

spend a night, or because you're looking for
something serious?"

"Something serious," I admitted, shrugging.
"Right. So, if you're looking for something

serious, you need someone who is serious about

building a life. How can he build a life, help pay a
mortgage when you get a place together, cover the
bills if you want to take a few months off after you
have a baby, if he can't pay for dinner?"

Okay.
Put that way, I could maybe see his point.
"You're forgetting one thing, though."
"What's that?" he asked, leaning forward. I

knew he was probably just putting a show on for
the paparazzo who was still at the bar by moving
closer, like he was enthralled by the words that
came from me. But it still gave me a small thrill as
his hand brushed mine again.

"I'm not financially stable."
"How'd you get to my house?"
"An Uber," I admitted.
"You paid it?"
"Yeah," I said, brows drawing together,

figuring that was obvious.

"Couple hundred, right?"
"Yeah," I admitted, nodding.
"You still got money in the bank?"
"Yes," I told him.
"Enough to pay your bills?"
"Yeah."
"It's not that you aren't stable then, is it? It's

that you live within your means. If a man can't
afford to pay for dinner, if his finances are that
tight, then he doesn't have it together enough for

something serious. Because shit pops up. Cars
break down. Water heaters crap out. Partners get
laid off. If you don't have a little something stashed
away for that, then - in my opinion - you shouldn't
be starting something serious. I'm not saying all the
men need to pay all the time. But on a first date at
least, Brin, you shouldn't be splitting a check."

He told me this as he moved to stand, coming

around the table in one stride, reaching to help slide
my chair back. His hand moved out, palm up,
inviting me to put mine there to help me up.

With little choice, I placed it there,

pretending to ignore the tingling feeling at the
contact as I pushed to my feet. He didn't release
me, though, when I was on my feet, put his hand to
my back like I was expecting. No. His palm slid
down mine, fingers slipping between my fingers,
and closing in tight, completely swallowing up my
hand with his.

"Try not to look so freaked. We're supposed

to love doing this, remember?" he reminded me,
head dipping down a little.

The problem wasn't that I didn't love it; the

problem was I liked it too much.

My hand instinctively curled into his, held on

tighter, as he led me down the path of tables, then
out of the building.

"Want to walk around a bit? See if the guy

follows for a few more shots?"

All I managed was a nod as we started

walking.

"Cold?" he asked a few moments later after I

had shivered hard against the cool night air.

"A little," I admitted, feeling his hand

unclench from mine, slide away. I barely had a
moment to feel the loss before his arm was around
my shoulders, half curling me into his body. Too
close to do anything else, my arm went around his
lower back, the other resting on his stomach. This
close, I could make out a slight trace of cologne,
something woodsy - trees and dirt and fresh air, a
scent that seemed to fit him perfectly. His warmth
moved over and through me instantly, making
another shiver rack my body as the heat chased
away my chill.

"Better?" he asked, voice almost a little

rougher than usual.

"Yes." My voice was markedly breathless. I

swallowed hard to combat it. "Did he follow us?"

"Across the street," he informed me.

"Probably will follow us back to the hotel."

"How far is it?" I asked, not having gotten

any better at figuring out how the streets were laid
out.

"Five minutes straight ahead," he told me, his

arm seeming to squeeze a bit.

So we walked, wrapped like lovers to any

who saw us.

We were a handful of steps away from the

front of the hotel when Warren suddenly stopped,
pressing me back against the wall, head ducking
down into my neck, warm breath making a tremble
move through my belly.

"Warren," I hissed, my voice a warning.

"Don't," I pleaded much like I had in the car.

"Sh," he told me, breath moving over my

sensitive skin beneath my ear. "Relax," he
demanded softly, his nose tracing up my ear,
making another tremble move through me, but this
time, not just on the inside.

It's for the camera, I tried to remind myself,

to focus, to keep control of the chaos in my body.

"Warren, let's go inside," I suggested.
I knew what I meant.
Let's go inside.
Slip out of our clothes.
Give in to the pull between us.
But he didn't hear that.
He heard the words, not the meaning behind

them.

"Yeah, I think we're all set," he agreed,

pulling away, grabbing my hand, and all but
dragging me inside.

Maybe it looked romantic.
Like he was desperate to get me inside, to

get his hands on me.

But there was nothing sweet or loving about

his hold on me. If anything, it felt frustrated. As
soon as we were in the elevator, his hand ripped
from mine, his body going to the furthest corner.

Nothing was said.
It didn't need to be.
The charade was over.
He didn't need to pretend to be in love with

me anymore.

It shouldn't have - since I knew what this was

- but it did send a sinking feeling through my chest
and belly as we walked back into our hotel room.

I closed myself into the bathroom, removing

my makeup with an almost savage diligence,
wanting every trace of this night out of my
reflection. I stripped out of the dress that suddenly
felt too tight, cutting off my air, and got into a
simple short and tank set before going back into the
bedroom.

Warren had been staring out the doors as I

walked in, but turned as he heard me, stalking past
me to lock himself in the bathroom.

He hadn't even looked at me.
But there on the bed were three pillows he

must have had someone bring up.

With a sigh, I turned out most of the lights,

set up the pillows in our usual order, and climbed
into bed, pretending not to listen to the water
running in the shower, trying not to imagine him
under the stream, the water sliding down his...

Okay.
Enough of that.
It was clear that Warren was simply an

amazing actor, someone who could put on a real
show, could fool even his co-actor into believing
that there was sincerity in his words and actions.

I was every kind of fool for believing it.
But that was over now.
I was going to get control over myself.
The bathroom door opened as I pretended to

sleep, body curled up into itself.

He moved slowly around the room, flicking

off the last remaining light. It would have darkened
the room, but not to pitch because I hadn't closed
the curtains to the balcony, and the city that never
sleeps was bright as ever, no doubt shining into the
space, making it easy for Warren to find his way to
the other side of the bed. I could feel it depress as
he moved up on it, settling into place.

I knew without looking how he looked right

then.

On his back, arm cocked up, hand behind his

neck, the other on his bare stomach.

I felt movement behind my back, but wasn't

sure what it was, just him trying to get comfortable,
I imagined.

But not a moment later, I felt a body slide in

behind mine.

The pillow barrier came down.

A strong chest pressed into my back, hips

cradling my butt, legs cocked up under mine, an
arm across my belly.

"Tell me you were faking it, and I'll get my

ass back on my own side," his voice said close to
my ear, soft, like we were still sharing secrets we
didn't want others to overhear. "I won't believe it,
but I'll go."

"Why won't you believe it?" I heard myself

ask, not knowing why I would even let those words
come out of my mouth.

"Because you're a decent actress, Brin, but

not that good. There was no way you were faking it
when you..." he started, fingers tracing across my
belly, his thumb just barely brushing the undersides
of my breasts in the process, whether on purpose or
not, "yeah, that," he told me as my body shivered.
My head fell back, pressing into his chest as I took
a shaky breath. "You want the barrier back?" he
asked, voice rough as my butt wiggled against his
hips.

"No," I whispered, pushing backward so I

could move onto my back. His body shifted just
enough to allow me the space to do so, but
remained still half curled over me. Face mostly in
shadow, I could still make out his deep eyes, finding
them watching me as I looked up at him. "I thought
you were faking it," I admitted, my mouth not
seeming able to shut up and let things happen.

Warren's breath snorted out of him. "I've had

to sleep on a couch for weeks to keep my hands off
of you, baby. How the fuck could you think I was
faking that?"

I looked away, not wanting his penetrating

eye-contact for what was about to come out of my
mouth. "I thought the kiss had made you decide
you didn't want me after all. And were just being
immature about it."

"Christ," he said, almost sounding amused,

and when I looked up, he was smirking down at me.
Yes, that smirk. The one I so often wanted to slap
off his face. Somehow, though, I maybe liked it up
this close. "No, Brin. I just didn't want to fuck this
up."

"How could this fuck things up?" I asked,

shaking my head at him. "We're supposed to not be
able to keep our hands off each other."

"And if shit went south?" he asked, watching

me. "After we got our hands all over each other."
At my silence, he nodded. "Exactly. A lot is riding
on this for us. We've already had issues with bad
press."

"Because we weren't talking about it."
His smile was sweet, but with a hint of

something beneath that I couldn't quite make out.
"Don't feel like talking right now," he told me. "I
feel like doing this," he added, hand sliding up from
where it was planted at my side, gliding up my ribs,

then sliding up over my breast, the nipple - already
hardened - tweaking further through the thin cotton
material. "Couldn't fucking think straight thinking
of you up in that bed every night without me," he
told me as his hand moved upward, sliding under
the top of my shirt to move downward to touch me
without a barrier.

"I wanted you to come up," I told him as my

breath stuttered out of me, his thumb gliding over
my ultra sensitive nipple. "I wanted..." I started, not
sure how to explain the need that had been clawing
at me.

"This," he told me as his huge, work-

hardened hand closed around my breast, squeezing,
making my back arch up into the sensation, my
heart to start slamming in my chest.

"Yes," I whimpered, pressing my thighs closer

together to try to ease the need growing there, a
coiled, almost painful thing.

"And this?" he asked, hand moving away as

his body lowered, his lips closing over the hardened
peak, tongue gliding across it, making goosebumps
prickle up over my skin as my fingers curled into
his arm, guaranteeing crescent shapes etched there
in the morning.

"Yes," I moaned as his head moved across

my chest, torturing my other nipple until my body
was writhing beneath him, my greedy fingers
moving down his back, sinking into his ass, trying

to pull him closer as my legs fell open on the
mattress, needing the contact as I needed my next
breath.

"This?" he asked as he lifted up slightly,

giving him enough room to tug my shirt up as his
head moved back down, lips and tongue tracing a
line down the center of my stomach, making my
hips start to rise shamelessly up, knowing where he
was heading, and begging for it. His fingers snagged
the waistbands to my shorts and panties, but
paused, looking up at me.

It took me a long moment, unable to think

beyond the overpowering need overtaking me, to
realize he was waiting for an answer.

"Yes," I told him, my hand moving down,

sliding into his soft hair as I once found myself
fantasizing about as I watched it - a week late for a
trim - fall a bit onto his forehead while he discussed
plans with a few of the guys.

His eyes darkened before his head ducked.
Hands tugged, forcing my hips up off the

mattress so that he could pull my shorts and panties
off my legs.

His fingers found the sensitive inside of my

ankle, tracing up it, my calf, the underside of my
knee, the ultra soft skin of my upper thigh.

Eyes suddenly on me, his hand moved up

and inward, pressing into my clit, making my air
rush out of me, my fingers curling into his hair, the

other grabbing him at the wrist of the hand touching
me, silently begging for him not to stop, to give me
an end to the torment overtaking me.

"When you were in the tub," he said

suddenly, voice barely a rumble, something deep,
masculine, primal, "were you thinking of this?" he
asked. Mouth suddenly dry, I couldn't find words,
nodding my head. "I heard you," he told me,
something that - under any other circumstance -
would make me stiffen, go red in embarrassment.
But with his finger still gently working my clit,
driving my body slowly upward, I couldn't seem to
muster the self-consciousness that would require.
"Think the only thing preventing me from coming
in and finishing the job for you was the locked
door," he admitted as his hand suddenly left me.

A low, pained sound came from somewhere

deep in my chest at the loss.

But even as the sound was leaving my lips,

his body was lowering, arms going under my thighs
as his chest met the mattress.

"War..." I started, but his lips closed around

my clit, sucking hard, hard enough for my vision to
white out for a long second. My hips bucked
upward, my hand curling into the back of his neck,
holding him to me, silently begging for him not to
stop, to give my body what it had been dying for
for weeks.

His tongue moved out to start working me in

slow, relentless circles, an unhurried demand for an
orgasm that would make me see through time and
space, would make me cry out loud enough for
whoever we shared a wall with to bang on it in
frustration, would move through my whole body.

His arm left one of my legs, sliding between

us, pulsing at the opening to my body for a long
while before finally stealing inside, thrusting lazily
for a long moment before curling, and tapping up
against my top wall.

"I..." I started to moan, catching as his

tongue slid, finger tapped... making the orgasm
come crashing through my system, stealing my
voice and my breath for a long moment as it
seemed to start at the base of my spine and shoot
outward, overtaking my whole body.

My back was arched painfully as my breath

finally returned to my lungs, letting me cry out on
the tail end of the orgasm, calling out his name with
reckless abandon as the waves crashed again.

My body collapsed back down on the

mattress, weighted and damp, the sweat making
goosebumps move over my skin as I looked down
to find Warren watching me with heavy-lidded dark
eyes, his chin resting on the triangle above my sex.

My hand released his neck, both of them

moving to claw at his shoulders, trying to drag him
up and over me.

His hands planted, and I thought he would

come over me, but he got onto his knees to sit back
on his heels, reaching down to drag me up to my
knees as well. Reaching out, he snagged my top,
dragging it up until my hands slid through, then
discarding it to the floor.

Completely bare, he hauled me up onto his

lap, his hard cock pressing into my cleft, the head
pressing into my swollen, orgasm-sensitive clit,
making a shiver move through me as my forehead
fell to his shoulder on a moan.

My hands moved down, grabbing at the thin

material of his pajama pants until I somehow
managed to get them awkwardly down to his knees,
baring him to me.

My hips dropped down to his lap, letting his

cock slide between my lips without the barrier,
something that racked my body with a shudder as
my breath sighed out of me, not having realized just
how much I needed him inside me until I felt him
against me.

His hand slid up my spine, slipping into the

hair at the base of my neck, curling, and pulling
hard enough to make my scalp sting, forcing my
head back.

Eyes fluttering open, I found his on mine,

deep, heavy, full of promise just a second before his
lips crashed down on mine, searing into them,
branding them in a way that said I would feel them
there hours, days, weeks later.

Desire was a live wire in my body as his

tongue teased over mine, making my hips grind
down on him, letting his cock keep sliding between
my slick lips, stroking over my clit, driving me ever
upward so effortlessly.

"Warren, please," I pleaded against his lips,

unable to take the pressure on my lower stomach
for another minute, needing to feel him slide inside
me, claim me, fill me completely.

His arm went to my lower back, bracing me

as he bent me backward, lowered me down onto
the mattress toward his side of the bed. His hand
braced beside my body, holding his weight as the
other sought the wallet he left on the nightstand,
producing a condom, and making short work of
protecting us.

He grabbed my ankle, pulling it up and

across his body, pressing it into the other one, then
cocking both my legs up at an angle on the mattress
as he slid in behind, stroking his cock through my
wetness for a long moment, eyes on mine, before
thrusting suddenly forward, claiming me fully
without warning, making a moan get choked in my
throat, my hand slamming down on the wrist of his
hand that was holding my thighs where he wanted
them.

My mouth opened, looking for words, things

that always came so easily to me, but I found none,
just sensations, just the feel of him inside me,

claiming every inch, making my walls tighten hard
around him as he refused to move, just savored the
moment, just got lost in the feelings as well.

The need overtook me before it did him, my

hips rocking, begging for the motion my body was
screaming for.

He gave it to me, slowly at first, watching my

face for reactions, then faster as my whimpers
became moans, as my muscles tensed, as my walls
grabbed at him more tightly, getting closer.

The second orgasm slammed through me

unexpectedly, making my legs shoot out as a
strange stunted moan escaped my lips, my fingers
digging into his wrist as the waves crashed again
and again.

They hadn't even stopped before he was

reaching for me, spreading my legs to either side of
his again as he put an arm around my lower back,
dragging me back up on his lap as he sat back on
his heels.

My arms closed around the back of his neck

for support as I moved my hips against him, almost
a little tentatively at first, adjusting to the position,
then faster, harder, wilder as my body somehow
managed to build with need again.

Warren's eyes were pinned to mine, heavy-

lidded, almost pained with his own need for release
as our bodies glistened with sweat, as our breathing
hitched and hissed, as our muscles tensed with the

knowledge of the upcoming release.

Never before had I been so fully in a

moment, so consumed with the feelings and sounds
that it blanked out everything else, quieted my
mind. It heightened everything, the feel of his hand
at my hip, fingers curling into the flesh, likely to
leave little marks to be found in the morning, the
way his chest was shaking a little as he fought for
control, his ragged, just barely there groans.

I was drunk on all of it, every touch, every

sigh, every wave of pleasure.

I never wanted to lose it, this moment, this

one flawless, perfect moment when the whole
world stood still just for us.

But my body was losing control, getting

pushed closer to the edge, begging to be thrown
over.

And then it did, falling over the edge with a

distinctive bottomless feeling to my belly, making
me fall forward into Warren for support as the
orgasm started at the base of my spine and sparked
outward over every inch of skin as my walls
spasmed around Warren, as he hissed and cursed as
I stole away the last threads of his control, and he
came with me, holding onto me as I was to him, like
if we didn't, we might not make it through.

Spent, muscles weak and weighted, I

collapsed forward into Warren, letting him hold me
up as I fought to steady my breath, to calm my

frantic heart, to wrap my head around the moment.

See, sex was sex.
An action leading toward a goal.
A bodily need being fulfilled.
Practical, almost impersonal if you didn't

romanticize it.

But this?
This was not that.
This was something I was sure I had never

felt before, a connection that had been more
personal than any I had ever experienced.

My body felt a mix of wholly satisfied,

contended, and achingly, beautifully exposed. I felt
raw as I rested against him, more exposed than I
ever could have anticipated, open and receptive,
guards decimated.

I wanted to find the words, to express them,

to see if he was experiencing something similar, but
my mouth stayed stubbornly silent as my thoughts
came trickling back to me, warning me about the
risks associated with exposure, about opening
yourself up too fully with someone, about how
many men got scared away if your eyes so much as
glistened after sex, let alone you tell them you
somehow felt... changed from it.

That was dangerous territory.
And Warren and I had proved many times

before that we never had the best footing.

So I steadied my breath.

I slid away when the moment felt right.
And I slipped under the sheets as he made a

short trip to the bathroom.

I let him pull me to him, settling into his

chest, letting my tired eyes rest, my sated body
relax into his hold.

But I kept the moment selfishly to myself.
And I drifted off to sleep.

TEN

Warren

It needed to be talked about.
What happened the night before.
But, somehow, we had both forgotten to set

alarms, waking up just an hour before we were due
to arrive at the set for makeup.

We seemed to realize it somehow

simultaneously, waking in a sort of dreamy stupor,
just letting the sleep creep away. And then shooting
apart at the same moment, hearts slamming, bodies
stammering to try to catch up as we rushed around
the room, fighting for bathroom use, dragging on
clothes as we tried to force our hair into submission
without showers to help the process.

"We can't," she objected when I suggested

grabbing breakfast in the dining room before
heading out.

"We can't have our stomachs growling while

we get interviewed either," I reasoned with her,
making her turn on her heel at the last possible
second to rush into the breakfast area, grabbing
things we could eat on the go, and nearly running
out to catch a cab.

We made it there with five minutes to spare,

being whisked away to separate areas to get made
up and briefed.

There was simply no time.
But it had to happen.
The talk.
Because shit had gone down the night

before. Things had changed. I know she felt it too.
There was no way it was just me, no way that what
had happened hadn't had an impact on her as well.

It had been a long couple of weeks, trying to

avoid her, trying to put space between us, trying to
avoid the seemingly inevitable.

I was supposed to spend that time regretting

putting my hands on her, but all I could do was
think about it again, finding myself losing focus
during work because she walked past, and all I
wanted to do was push her up against a wall again,
get a taste of her, get my hands all over her, get
inside her.

And all that pent-up tension on both our

parts had exploded into ever more vicious
arguments and resentment. The latter more so on
her part since she blamed me for it all. Rightfully
so. She'd been right. If I hadn't been avoiding her, if
we had maybe been adults about it, things wouldn't
have escalated quite so much.

But, also, sometimes shit happened because

it was supposed to.

We chose not to discuss it, our lives became

a pressure cooker, and when things finally started
exploding outward, and those around us could see it
as well, they started talking. The talking led to the
tabloids which led to Rachel forcing us on a date.
Which led to us finally giving into the feelings that
we'd both been harboring for so long.

Maybe some things were meant to be that

way, even if while you are going through it, it is
miserable.

Life worked that way sometimes, everything

so much clearer in retrospect.

I just wished we'd gotten up earlier, that we'd

had a few minutes to stretch, be lazy together, say
good morning.

And talk.
Because the more hours we put between the

events of last night and the talk, the less likely it
would have the same impact, the same points of
interest.

Namely, this was going somewhere.
In case that hadn't been made clear to her.
In case she hadn't allowed herself to feel

what I had felt the night before.

And not just the sex, though that was

something I didn't quite have the right words for
yet. But the date, the talking, the being close and
actually not snapping each other's heads off.

We fit well.
We'd been fitting well, even when we were

trying to avoid each other, for months. We knew
each other's rhythms, what foods we liked and
disliked, what movies, music, TV shows, what we
were like when we were hungry, tired, frustrated,
proud of ourselves.

All that little stuff that comes from months of

dating someone, we'd already learned that. We
were ahead of the game. Now it was time to
explore each other more deeply. She'd opened up a
bit about her family life at dinner, as I had too. We
were letting down our guards, getting closer.

And I wanted to let her know before she

worked at reinforcing hers again that I was in. All
in. If that was the route she wanted to take.

I knew she wanted it, actually.
So that phrasing was wrong.
If she would allow herself to have it.
I saw no reason why not. We got along when

we weren't arguing over work. We liked many of

the same things. We respected each other. We had
chemistry the likes of which I hadn't experienced
before, and given what sounded like a less than
stellar dating history, she hadn't either.

And it worked.
For the show, especially, since we would no

longer have to be faking anything. We simply
would be together. We wouldn't have to fake the
intimacy, the touching, the lingering looks. It would
all come naturally.

"Ugh," Brin growled, wiggling her shoulders,

shaking her arms like she was preparing for a race.

"Nervous?"
"It's live," she answered, giving me a

grimace. "What if I say something stupid? Or forget
to speak as a whole?"

"You? Forgetting to speak?" I teased, smiling

when she slitted her eyes at me. "You'll be fine.
And if you put down the slack, I'll pick it up. No big
deal," I assured her, reaching to put an arm around
her, giving her hip a squeeze. And it wasn't wishful
thinking when her body curled into mine for a
moment, like she was trying to draw strength from
me, before we were called out onto the stage.

"Of course," Maria, the morning host with

perfectly coiffed, unmoving dark brown hair and
lined, deep eyes, said, nodding at Brin's explanation
about how tempers always flare on worksites, and
how hers had a short fuse to begin with, so of

course we butted heads. "And we were looking
around your Instagram posts," she went on, waving
a hand to the screen behind her as my hand found
Brin's knee, giving it a squeeze under the table,
something the audience - and the cameras - surely
didn't miss.

Our faces popped up on the screen, Brin

standing in front of me, her head on my chest, with
a giant smile, all white teeth on display as she held
out the camera for a selfie, me, well, I was looking
at her. It was the first time I had ever seen how I
did it. With almost... wonder. Awe. It was almost
shocking to see it so plainly, the thing I had been
fighting for so long that, clearly, I had made
absolutely no progress in fighting it.

The slide slid to a side-by-side, the one I took

of Brin in the craft store paired with one she had
taken of me when I clearly wasn't paying attention,
running my hand over an intricately carved wooden
bench we had passed by.

It slid again, showing the mirror shot we had

taken before the restaurant.

There was a collective sighing aw from the

audience, and Brin's hand covered mine on her
knee, giving it a squeeze. Because we knew we had
it. We did it. They believed us.

I mean, at this point, there wasn't much to

believe.

It was all real.

"I don't know about all of you," Maria said,

looking at the audience, "but I'm seeing a couple
madly in love."

We got up five minutes later, walking back

toward makeup where we were both dying to scrub
our faces with handy wipes we'd learned all
makeup artists carried in their toolkit.

"Rachel is going to flip," Brin informed me,

shoulders less tense, eyes brighter. "That was... oh,
speak of the devil," she said as her phone started
buzzing in her pocket. "Hey, Rachel. Did you see, I
know!" she said, smiling. Light. That was what she
was right then. I guess I hadn't noticed how much
the situation had been weighing on her too, so
wrapped up in my own discomforts.

"Were we fantastic?" I mouthed to her,

making her smile, and whack me in the stomach.

"I know. Yes, absolutely. We needed the

break. Totally," she agreed, putting her phone
between her ear and shoulder to reach up and fix
her hair. "Tomorrow? Sure. Ah, yeah. Where?"

"What's tomorrow?" I asked as we moved

out of the studio, stepping into the warm early fall
air.

"Meeting with the couple. Rachel is worried

that we are falling behind schedule. She wants to do
the walk-through tomorrow at noon, then have us
go back to the first house to do the finishing shots."

"Long day," I observed, disappointed. I

wanted another couple of days with her, to talk, to
explore each other and the city, to just be a man
and a woman getting to know each other without
the stress of work.

But, well, work was inevitable.
We'd have to learn how to navigate that.
Sooner rather than later.
"Want to drive down in the morning? If we

hit the road around nine, we'll get there at noon."

She chanced a look my way, lips curving up

so tentatively that I would almost consider it shy,
even though that was generally not a word I would
use to describe her. "That sounds good," she
agreed, jumping to the side to get out of the way of
someone who was barreling down between us.

"Lunch?" I asked, wondering why the hell I

was the one who was carrying the conversation,
what was going on in her head that kept her so
quiet.

"Only if we can go food cart hopping," she

declared, livening up.

"Like I'd deny you greasy kabobs and hot

dogs."

I kept trying.
To talk to her.
To open up that dialogue.
But she seemed to sense it every time, hear

something in my tone I hadn't meant to insert there,
and bring up something else suddenly, gushing

about the food, about the stores, about the shows
she felt like she was supposed to see in life,
whether she was genuinely interested or not.

"Brin..."
"Let's not," she suggested, the words bursting

out of her to try to cover up my own.

"Let's not what?"
"Have the talk that is making your voice do

that serious thing," she told me, bouncing a bit on
the heels of her feet, too anxious to even stand still
to have this conversation. "Can we just... be?" she
asked.

"Be?"
"Yeah. Just... do whatever. Don't dissect it.

Good things tend to crumble under too much
analysis."

"Good thing, huh?" I asked, feeling my pride

swell a bit.

She ignored that. "What do you think? Just

let things happen?"

My hands slipped into my front pockets,

rocking back on my heels much like she had before
because a part of me knew this was a bad idea, that
what we needed to do was talk, even if that was
uncomfortable for her.

But I found myself agreeing despite my

reservations.

"Yeah, we can let things happen," I agreed,

reaching out, snagging her chin, and dragging her

up onto her tiptoes so I could claim her lips.

I'd been keeping my hands - and everything

else - to myself out of uncertainty, and wanting to
straighten things out first.

But if we were okay with letting things

happen, well, then this needed to happen.

Right here on the street, people curving

around us like waves around rocks. I heard a
whistle as my head tilted to deepen the kiss, my
tongue moving forward to claim hers.

It wasn't until I felt her sway into me, her

hands curling into my arms, holding on for support,
that I slowly eased away, reminding my body that
wanted more right then that we could have
whatever we wanted once we got to the hotel room.

Which would happen three more carts later.
"Ugh, don't let me eat that much," she

declared, pressing a hand into her stomach as she
took a deep breath. "I think I went up a pant size in
one afternoon."

"No one forced that breakfast food

monstrosity on you," I reminded her, smiling at her
obvious food regrets.

"It was scrambled eggs and sausage wrapped

in a French toast taco, Warren. A French toast
taco. I couldn't not eat that."

"Maybe having that follow Cheetos-Dusted

fried chicken wasn't the best combination."

"Don't remind me," she grumbled as we went

into the room.

"Here," I said, going for the fridge to grab a

soda. "Take this and shake the bubbles out. Take a
bath."

"I need to take a ten-mile run on the

treadmill in the gym downstairs," she said, both of
us knowing she wasn't the type to voluntarily run
for any reason. "But I'll settle for a bath," she
agreed, going into the bathroom.

I heard the water running.
Then the ripples as she lowered herself

inside.

I tortured myself with the image of her in

there, naked in the water, her hair floating around
her, her nipples peaked, skin soft from the bomb
she undoubtedly tossed in from the bowl of them
on the counter.

My cock hardened as I sat off the end of the

bed, reminding myself that once she came back out,
she'd feel refreshed again. And I could finish what I
started on that street.

"Ah... Warren?"
I hadn't expected her to call me, making my

body stiffen as my head looked over in the
direction of the door. "Yeah?" I asked, tone as
tentative as hers had sounded.

"I'm an idiot."
"Okay..." I said, the sound dragging at the

end as I moved to stand, getting closer to the door.

When she didn't go on, I stopped right outside of it.
"What's up, baby?"

"Well, I forgot clothes," she informed me,

making me roll my eyes. There were towels and
robes in there. This really was a nonexistent
problem. Besides, I didn't plan to let her stay in
clothes for long anyway. "And to grab a towel," she
added after a moment, making me let out a small
chuckle. "I would normally just try to like slosh the
water off, but this floor is slippery."

"Did you lock the door?" I asked, maybe a

bit too eagerly, too ready to get in there, to see her
bare before me again.

"Yep. But you're a big, bad, contractor guy.

I'm sure doors stand no chance against you."

"I'm a builder, not the Hulk," I snorted, but

checked out the knob, finding a simple pinhole
lock. I went into the closet, grabbed a hanger, and
poked it into the hole, hearing it pop open.

"See? Told you," she informed me, trying to

sound light, but there was a nervousness in her
voice.

Nervous.
When I had seen and felt and touched and

tasted every inch of her just the night before.

But that was in the heat of the moment.
This was a towelless bath emergency.
"Coming in," I said, pushing in the door

slowly, hearing a small slosh as she moved around

in the water.

It took every goddamn bit of self-control I

had not to look, to keep my eyes forward to where
she had towels stacked on the sink vanity, just a
few inches too far out of reach.

I grabbed the towels, steeling myself to have

to face her. And keep this casual.

But the second I turned, I found her there in

the water, thighs pressed together and cocked to the
side, hiding her pussy from view, her hand across
her breasts.

And her gaze on me.
She might have been shielding herself, but

she forgot to do that with her eyes. I saw need
there, as plain as mine felt.

I didn't think, didn't analyze the impulse.
I was across the room to her in a stride and a

half, going down on a knee beside the tub, my hand
plunging into the warm water, sliding under hers to
slip between her thighs. Her breath hitched as her
body jolted, surprised by the sudden contact.

My finger slid up her slick cleft, finding her

clit, working it with my thumb until the shock left
her face, replaced with something else just as
distinctive. Lips parted, eyelids weighted. Needy.
Desperate. It was a look she wore beautifully, one I
was sure I would never get sick of seeing there.
Two of my fingers traveled downward, pressing
against the entrance to her body for a long moment

before gliding inside, feeling the way her walls
shivered and tightened at the invasion.

Her hands left her breasts, slamming onto the

edges of the tub, water dripping as she grabbed the
porcelain, trying to hold on as my fingers started to
work her, thrusting slowly, twisting, tapping,
keeping her guessing, never letting her body have a
moment to adjust to the sensations, driving her up
harder, faster.

"Warren..." she whimpered, her breasts rising

up and down out of the water with her frantic
breath as she tightened around my fingers, getting
closer.

"Come, baby," I demanded, voice rough as I

felt her walls start to tremble. "Come," I demanded
again.

The orgasm slammed through her system,

making her curl onto her side, voice catching as she
cried out my name, curling into herself as the
waves kept crashing, as my fingers kept working
her clit and G-spot, dragging it out, milking it for all
it was worth.

Spent, I slowly pulled my fingers out of her,

giving her thigh a reassuring squeeze as aftershocks
started to rack her system.

It was a long moment before they subsided,

and she let out an odd, unexpected snort. "Remind
me to forget necessary clothing items more often,"
she said, rolling onto her back un-self-consciously,

smiling up at me as her foot hit the drain, sucking
the water down until it was only ankle-deep. Her
hand reached out, seeking mine to help her onto her
feet where she let me reach out, drying her legs,
belly, breasts, arms, hair. "For future reference,"
she said when she was finally wrapped in the
warmth.

"Yeah?"
"You have to dry my hair first," she informed

me like it was common knowledge. At what must
have been a confused look, she turned, showing me
her soaked back.

"You could have told me."
"It's kind of refreshing when you don't know

how to do everything perfectly, you freak."

"I do everything perfectly, huh?" I asked,

pushing her forward into the sink vanity, pressing
my hips into her ass, letting her feel my straining
cock.

Her breath stuttered, but her eyes met mine

in the mirror. "Well, it has been a while," she said,
giving me a pretend confused look. "I might have
forgotten if you are perfect at everything," she told
me, eyes wicked.

"Well, maybe you need a refresher," I

suggested, grinding into her, feeling a white-hot
spark of need when her ass wiggled against it,
begged for more. Greedy pussy. A man could get
used to that.

"I think that might be wise," she agreed,

voice airy as my hand slid up her belly, finding the
tuck of her towel, slipping my finger in, and baring
her again.

She turned suddenly, hands snagging my

shirt, dragging it upward, her fingers moving over
my chest and stomach like she was trying to
memorize it, like she couldn't get enough of it. I
seemed to suffer from a similar affliction, so I
understood the urge completely.

Her fingers traveled down the trail of hair

that disappeared into my jeans before snagging my
button and zip with restless hands, dragging my
pants and boxer briefs roughly down, lowering
herself until she was on her knees in front of me,
her hand closing around the head, sliding it down to
the hilt before her tongue traced up the sensitive
underside of my cock, finding the head, and lapping
up the bead of pre-cum there.

"Fuck," I hissed, my hand curling into the

hair at the nape of her neck as her lips closed
around me, sucked me deep, worked me with the
same kind of determination as my fingers and
tongue worked her, like there was nothing else in
the world but the pleasure of bringing someone else
pleasure.

She was doing that too.
Too much.
Too fast.

"Enough," I rumbled to her when she fought

me when I tried to pull her backward gently by her
hair. "I'm going to come down that throat, Brin," I
promised her, my balls aching with the idea. "But
tonight, I want to be inside you again," I told her,
pulling her back onto her feet, turning her, and
pressing her downward until her hands planted on
the sink vanity as my hand went for my wallet to
find a condom, protecting us, then moving in
behind her.

My hands moved up her belly, closing over

her breasts, squeezing and tweaking her nipples
until her ass was moving in circles against me,
thrusting backward, demanding I take what was
offered.

One hand slid back down her belly, slipping

between her thighs, pressing into her clit as my
cock found the entrance to her pussy, thrusting
deep, hard enough to make her hips slam into the
vanity with the pressure.

"Fuck," I growled when that didn't even give

her pause as her hips started moving in circles.

I yanked her back, using my free hand to

grab her hip, using it both to prevent her from face-
planting the mirror, and to guide her, dragging her
backward as I slammed forward, making her body
take every inch of her with each thrust.

Until her moans became cries that echoed

back off the walls, until the sound of our bodies

crashing together somehow even managed to
muffle her cries for release.

Until I felt her walls tighten hard once, then

spasm endlessly as I fucked her harder, my own
release becoming impossible to ignore.

I slammed deep, cursing out her name as I

came, my legs almost fucking giving out with the
intensity, making me have to slam my hand into the
mirror right above her head.

Her gaze shot up, cloudy with her own

pleasure, but understanding, and a swell of
feminine pride met her lips as she smiled at me
while she struggled for breath.

We both moved away a long moment later,

climbing into bed without ever having bothered to
slip clothes on.

I pulled her onto my chest, feeling her fingers

trace the outlines of my muscles and scars until her
body slowly went weighted with sleep.

We didn't talk.
We didn't analyze.
We just let it happen.
Maybe she was right.
Maybe it would be alright.
I guess time would tell.

ELEVEN

Brinley

I was being superstitious about it.
Like if we talked about it, we might ruin it.
In the morning, I woke up before him, the

sun casting the room in dreamy yellow beams. I had
no idea what time it was, refused to move to look at
the clock in case I'd wake him up, and we would
both have to decide it was time to get up, to get
ready, to pack our stuff, to get back to the life we
had been on a lovely vacation from.

If I were being honest, I'd say I was nervous.
About going back into that environment

where we so easily sniped at each other.

Would we still do that?

If we did, would there be resentment after

we left the site? Or would we be able to leave work
at work?

Soon, we would be able to see for ourselves.
So I figured it was useless to think about that.
Hopefully, we'd find a rhythm.
Because, well, I liked this.
Too much.
So much so that there was a knot in my belly,

twisting tighter by the moment at the idea of losing
it.

The rational side of my brain was telling me

to take a step back, to be cautious, to remember
that this man had easily inspired me to consider
homicide. Many times. But I couldn't help but
wonder if maybe some of the head-butting was less
out of genuine anger, but more repressed attraction.

I snorted at myself as I threw my makeup

back into a bag.

Because, well, that was ridiculous.
We fought because we were both stubborn

and unbending in our visions. And, if by some
miracle, we survived the rest of this year, I think it
was pretty safe to say we should never, ever work
together again.

"I grabbed you two breakfast wraps," Warren

declared when I emerged, physically ready to get
back to work even if mentally and emotionally, I
just wanted to stay in this hotel room in this city

with this man and pretend that life didn't exist. At
least for a few more days. "They're, essentially,
breakfast tacos," he added, handing the foil-
wrapped food to me. "I have learned your
preference for food imitating tacos."

"It makes life easier," I told him, grabbing

one of my bags before he could try to get them all
himself. "I eat on the run a lot. I don't have time for
knives and forks. So if it can be wrapped up in a
tortilla..."

"Or French toast..."
"Exactly," I agreed, smiling. "Then I am a

happy - and well-fed - camper."

Three hours later, we were pulling up to a

house several blocks away from the others, further
from the waterfront, and significantly less
damaged-looking. The front porch had been ripped
clean from the house, and there was a simple
makeshift pile of bricks out front to help you get to
the already-raised front door.

"This might be easier than we thought,"

Warren said as we pulled up, his keen eyes
assessing the foundation, the windows, the roof.
While mine were more focused on the little things -
the ugly green siding that needed to be ripped off,
the shutters in need of an update, the lack of
landscaping. In this town, not having - at least - a
well-established snowball bush was practically a
crime.

They were easy fixes, though. The kind of

projects you could finish over a weekend.

There was a knock at my window, making

me jolt and turn to find Rachel standing there,
beaming at us. "Alright, so the crew is ready to film
the meeting and the walk-through," she told us. "I
know this is a bit different than usual, but they are
simply going to talk you through the house, and
then you will all get together and talk about their
vision for the space."

"Alright. Sounds good," I said, smiling,

watching as she moved away, and the camera crew
moved in to film us getting out of the car.

The couple were Bobby and Jennifer, who

had just celebrated their third wedding anniversary
two weeks before, admitting with guilty looks that
they had done so while fighting over the plans for
the kitchen.

Warren and I had shared a look at that. "We

know what that is like," I assured Jennifer.

"I am going to go with Bobby to see the attic

they want to turn into an in-law suite," Warren told
me, giving my hip a squeeze.

A camera crew went with them, but one

stayed with us as well. "Okay, now that we're alone,
I have one more thing I want done. But Bobby can't
know about it," she told me, beaming.

Wait. No. Glowing.
I felt my lips already curving up even before

she told me about the baby, about how she wanted
a nursery to surprise him with the news.

And all I could think as I caught sight of

Rachel as we moved down the hall to the room in
question - one that Bobby thought Jennifer wanted
to turn into a craft room - was This is going to
make great television.

"She's really not going to tell him?" Warren

asked, looking almost a little offended.

"Well, of course she is going to tell him. She

wants to surprise him with it, though. It's sweet."

"But don't you think he would want to know

as soon as she does? So he can prepare?"

"Prepare for what? They already have a

house that we are going to renovate for them. He
has a good job. She has a work-from-home job
already. Nothing needs to be prepared. You know,"
I added, watching his profile as he drove us back to
the second worksite after we finished the walk
through on the first one, Warren wanting to make
sure the work was done to his standard while we
were away, "you are very... traditional."

"You're saying that like it is a bad thing."
"Not bad, no."
"But?" he prompted. "I know you. There's a

but in there somewhere."

"It's not really a but. Just... what moment do

you think you - as a husband - would enjoy more?
Your wife telling you over Chinese takeout that

she's pregnant the week she found out herself, or
spending some time on a surprise, pulling you down
the hall, opening the door, and showing you the
nursery?"

"I don't think I'd want her assembling

furniture and painting walls if she were pregnant,"
he told me, considering it.

"Oh, my God. You're impossible," I declared,

shaking my head. "Maybe she hired someone. Or
had her brothers in on the furniture assembling.
What then?"

He looked over at me after parking the car,

deep eyes penetrating. "Then I guess maybe the
nursery would be a nice way to find out," he
conceded.

"Do you want kids?"
Did I actually just ask that?
It was weird, right? To ask a man that so

soon.

But it wasn't exactly random. We were

talking about babies. Hopefully, he didn't read too
much into it.

"If my wife wants to give them to me," he

told me, eyes still not breaking contact, making my
belly swirl in a way I couldn't quite describe.

"You could teach them all about the farm like

your grandfather taught you," I told him, unsure
what else to say, how to lighten the somewhat
heavy air in the car.

"That would be the plan," he agreed,

nodding. "Kids never get to be kids anymore.
Always on computers and phones and tablets. I'd
want my kids scooping up tadpoles in the ponds,
getting excited over cool rocks they found in the
stream, climbing trees, eating food they helped
grow themselves."

"That's a nice dream," I told him, feeling

something within me tugging. That was the only
way to describe it, a pulling sensation I didn't
understand, didn't know what it meant or where it
came from. But it somehow felt like it was trying to
drag me in that direction. Of a simpler life. Of a less
superficial way of being.

"Gonna be a reality," he told me, words laced

with conviction.

"You're meeting the real estate agent this

weekend, right?" I asked, knowing he wanted to get
his house sold quickly, so he had the cash as a
downpayment for the farm. He had spoken to his
broker about getting a loan for the remainder. We
would be getting paid halfway through the process
for the work already done, but that was still three
months off. I'd agreed to take my portion from the
end payout, giving him a bit more money to pay
down the mortgage more quickly. I didn't need the
money right away, though I had started doing some
fantasy office-shopping. I didn't want to get my
hopes too high, but a little daydreaming was never

a bad thing.

"Yeah, you coming up with me?" he asked,

making my belly do a flutter thing that was a bit too
delicious. "We could finish the bathroom," he
added, sending me a smirk. "You can yell at me
without the fear of anyone overhearing."

"I don't yell," I insisted.
"You snap. And once, you growled."
"I did not!" I yelped, mouth falling open.
"Oh, you so did. I think it made it into the

final cuts of filming too. It was hilarious."

"You're not supposed to find my anger

amusing."

"Then don't be so ridiculous," he suggested,

but he was smiling.

It was strange how well the next few days

went. We seemed to fall back into our old rhythms,
but with less arguing, and more - and now realistic -
stolen touches, kisses, looks. We'd once even been
caught on lunch break - me sitting off his open
truck bed, him between my legs, making out like a
couple of teenagers.

"The weekend away did you two some

good," Rachel had told me when I'd seen her next.
"You're going away again this weekend, right?"

"Well, not away. We're going back to W... to

our house to work on finishing the bathroom, so
Wa... we can put it on the market."

That was where I fumbled. About the things

that were supposed to belong to both of us.

"Oh, you're moving!" she said, and I could

see her wheels working. She could have some kind
of special about us doing renovations at our own
home.

"Warren has been wanting to buy his old

childhood family farm. The show has given him the
opportunity to make that dream a reality."

Wait for it.
"That is just... fantastic!" I had to fight to

keep the smile in. "Are you two planning a
nursery?"

"For ourselves?" I asked, having to actively

fight the stiffening in my body. "No. I mean... not
yet. Things are still rather new. We are... enjoying
our time together right now."

"Maybe after season one!" she announced

happily.

I felt a stab of guilt at her enthusiasm, her

interest in watching us grow. Meanwhile, we didn't
plan to come back. We wouldn't be able to.

Unless...
No.
I couldn't let my mind go there.
It was too soon for that.
Especially since I had been the one to insist

that we not talk about what was happening, to just
go with the flow. I couldn't be the one to suddenly
start thinking about the possible long-term, that if

we ended up being deeply in love, wanted to make
it official... then there would be no lie anymore.

There was a tapping on the door of the

nursery, a distinct tap tap, pause, tap. It was a code
of sorts. Just for this room. Because Bobby was on
the worksite every day, as was Jennifer, pitching in,
having little arguments like the crew had caught us
doing many times before, giving them some
contrast, some validity. People - even deeply in
love people - got into tiffs over home improvement
projects. It was inevitable.

"Coming," I said, reaching for the hook &

eye that was installed on the inside to keep Bobby
out while we were working on the nursery. Warren
and I had actually needed to stop by the house at
four one morning to get the furniture inside and the
boxes broken down and removed.

"I brought you a, and I say this with

complete disgust," Warren told me as he slid
carefully inside, waiting for me to lock the door,
then holding out a coffee to me, "açaí and almond
coffee."

"Oh! Different!" I said excitedly as I reached

for the large cup, bringing it up to take a long sniff.
"When did they start carrying açaí?"

"This morning, apparently," he told me, eyes

on me as I so often found them these days.
Unreadable, but I felt I was starting to recognize
that look, one that must have been in my eyes when

I looked at him too. Affection. Maybe even a bit of
joy.

"It's awesome," I told him after tasting it.
"You're almost done," he said, leaning back

against the door to look at the room. He hadn't seen
it since I had the floors refinished. I had kept this
room my little secret. We were going to have a
reveal for Jennifer while Bobby was on a business
trip. Then, hopefully, we'd be done when he
returned, and we could show them both the whole
house, then do the big baby surprise at the end.

"Just final touches," I agreed, moving to

stand beside him, my side plastered to his, having
found comfort in his touch, even after a day that
had my feet screaming and my head pounding. He
always managed to make it all more tolerable.

We'd come a long way in a short time, it

seemed.

It was amazing what could happen when you

stopped fighting long enough to actually speak to
each other.

"I know gray is the traditional gender neutral

color," I said, looking at my walls with ten-inch
thick horizontal sand-colored stripes and the off-
white between. "And rightfully so. You add a pop
of blue or green or pink or purple, or keep the
accents white, and it works perfectly. But I wanted
something that fit the town better, felt a little
warmer too.

I'd made Warren add thick molding and

baseboards, bringing the space up a notch, drawing
your eyes up and down, making the small space
seem larger. I'd installed white indoor shutters on
the window, so Bobby and Jennifer could block out
the harsh afternoon sun when the baby was
napping. The crib was simple, white, rectangular
with all sand-colored bedding and a small
assortment of toys. An oversized glider - big
enough to fit Bobby and Jennifer if they both
wanted to snuggle with the baby - was situated in a
corner. Across from that, the dresser/ changing
station.

"I like this better than the gray," Warren told

me, leaning over to plant a kiss to the side of my
head. "You did good, baby."

Oh.
My poor heart.
It squeezed when he said things like that,

when he got sweet, when he called me baby.

"Thank you," I said, my voice oddly small. "I

really like the kitchen," I told him. "And I'm sorry I
called you a pain in the ass."

"You called me a bull-headed, short-sighted

pain in the ass," he corrected me, making me
chuckle as I rested my head on his arm.

"In my defense, in the moment, you were

totally being all those things."

"Probably," he agreed.

The funny thing was, nothing changed. Even

though everything had. If that made any sense at
all.

We were still us.
We still fought.
He still made fun of my throw pillows.
I still had to gently remind (read: rag on) him

about doing things the way we had agreed on, not
the way he wanted to.

I still ran too hot.
He still smirked and rolled his eyes when I

did.

We bickered.
We got frustrated.
We threw up our hands and stormed off.
But the difference now was that there was

contrast. We fought, but we made up, we laughed it
off, we let it go. We didn't stew. We didn't hold
grudges.

If it was a particularly rough day, we went

home, and worked through the frustration the good,
old-fashioned way.

We fucked it out of our systems.
I didn't remember the last time I felt as light

as I did when we came back from the city, as un-
stressed, as balanced.

Hell, I hadn't checked my personal work

Instagram in two days. I updated the show one
because that was part of my job now, but for the

first time in years, I wasn't obsessively worried
about my job.

I didn't even realize how weighted I was

from it all until it was lifted.

Warren's house already had an all-cash offer

with a fast closing option, making him loosen up as
well.

We had already shot the walkthrough of the

next two houses, allowing us to work on our plans
in our spare time before we started doing demo.
The other two houses were done. This one was
dangerously close as well.

It felt like a whirlwind, the work. While

everything else - namely, the time Warren and I got
to spend together, seemed to slow down, allowing
me to savor every minute of it. Every stolen touch,
every whispered word, every fluttering sensation in
my belly.

"Come on," he said once we'd finished for

the day, the crew long gone.

"Come where?" I asked, stepping out into the

early evening air that no longer strangled your
breath in your lungs.

"I made you a promise a while back. I never

made good on it."

"How far back?" I asked, not even bothering

to hide the smile when I felt his hand close around
mine, fingers curling in, easily, like everything had
been since we decided to just go with it.

"The first day we came here."
"When we moved in?" I clarified.
"No. When we drove down here for the

interview."

"You've been sitting on this for months?"
"I don't like not making good on my

promises, baby."

I didn't even remember what promise he

could possibly be talking about. And he refused to
answer questions as he led me down the block, then
into town, weaving me effortlessly down the line of
mostly shuttered stores, down into a weird almost-
underground area that suddenly felt vaguely
familiar.

The memory tried to surface, buried and

dust-covered from time.

But before it could, he pulled me in front of a

door.

And I finally understood.
The promise that had been eating him up for

months?

It was to get me ice cream at the place I used

to go as a kid.

"French vanilla, right?" he asked, looking

down at me as I looked in the windows of the shop
that had definitely been updated since I had last
seen it, but had the same setup as it always had.

"Yes," I agreed, nodding, feeling a weird

scratching sensation in my throat. Like I was

choked up. Like I was emotional about something
so small.

But, really, was it that small?
That he listened to my story?
That he remembered the details of it?
That it bothered him that he hadn't gotten me

ice cream that night like he told me he would?

For something arguably little, it certainly felt

rather huge to me.

"You alright?" he asked, brows drawing

together.

And all I could think was - deflect.
I couldn't let on that this was impacting me

so much.

I couldn't take any chances on ruining what

we were both so clearly enjoying.

"I am glad you were smart enough not to

feed me first," I told him with a smile. "Because I
want to try a scoop of everything in there."

"And then make me listen to you bitch the

whole way home about how I should never have let
you eat a scoop of everything?" he asked with a
smirk.

"Exactly," I agreed, reaching for the door,

pulling him inside with me.

I ate too much.
I grumbled at him about it.
But we managed to work off some of the

calories before we went to bed.

It was two weeks later when my phone

screamed on the nightstand, making me shoot up,
whacking the top of my head into a sleeping
Warren's chin.

He grunted and rubbed his chin as I grabbed

the screaming thing, heart slamming hard in my
chest.

One a.m.
It was never a good call at one a.m.
I barely registered Brent's name before I

swiped the screen and brought it up to my ear.

"What's wrong?" I asked, voice croaking and

dry from sleep.

"Get your laptop," he told me, making me

throw off the blankets, jumping off the bed,
stumbling over Warren's shoes on the floor in my
path to the bag on the floor where my laptop was
situated.

"What is it? What's going on?" I asked as

Warren flicked on the light, sitting up in bed as I
finally turned to make my way back.

I could feel it.
The twisting in my belly.
From the look on Warren's face, he felt it

too.

The shit just hit the fan.
"It's over. It got out."
My shoulders fell as my legs gave out,

making me drop down on the bed, my password

only half-typed in.

"How?" I whispered as Warren took my

laptop, erasing what I had done, then adding it in
himself.

"What am I looking for?" Warren asked, tone

guarded.

"I don't know how. But I have your name as

an alert. I just got a ding that woke me up. Found
some online rag got the scoop. Celebs Behaving
Badly," he told me.

"Celebs Behaving Badly," I told Warren, my

stomach plummeting as he moved to sit off the side
of the bed beside me, so we could both see the
screen.

Warren no sooner clicked the website when I

saw our faces from a selfie we had posted on the
show's Instagram just the day before, smiling,
happy, a genuine couple picture.

'Oops, Fix It Up Did It Again.'
Ugh.
Of course.
Ruining our careers wasn't bad enough, they

had to take a Britney Spears shot too, huh?

"''A show brought low by last season's hooker

scandal, and vicious divorce has another
embarrassment on their hands'," Warren read aloud,
tone dead, as dead as my suddenly very still heart
felt.

"Get the fuck out of there," Brent told me,

voice commanding, as it often was when he thought
I needed to hear it, that I wouldn't respond
correctly without it. I called it his 'warden voice.'

"What?"
"This is going to bring all the slimy rag

paparazzi down there. Get the fuck out while you
can."

Warren must have overheard, because he

tossed my laptop to the side, and moved to stand,
pulling a shirt on, then grabbing our bags out of the
closet, yanking the zippers open, and throwing
things inside.

I should have been helping him, but all I

could do was reach for the laptop, torture myself
with our failure.

HITV's new hit couple, Brinley Spears (yes,

that is her real name) and Warren Reyes, have
been gaining attention with their sweet social
media selfies and playfully bickering teasers for
the new season of their show set in Cape May,
restoring houses destroyed by Sandy in a clear
publicity stunt to try to regain some respect, are
not all they seem.

A happy, lovesick, newly married couple.
In fact, they are not at all what they seem.
Rumors of on-site bickering have been

circulating online for weeks now, but that isn't
even the biggest facade.

Oh, no.

It turns out that Brinley and Warren are not

even MARRIED.

"Stop," Warren snapped, slamming the laptop

shut on my lap, snagging my chin, dragging it up.

"Tell that asshole to get you home," Brent

said in my ear that felt oddly muffled, like my
hearing wasn't working properly right then.

"Look at me," Warren demanded. "I need

you to help me pack. We need to be in the truck,
and on the road in ten minutes."

"We can't just run away," I said, tone hollow.

"It will follow us."

"We're not running away. We are getting

some space, so we can handle it in our own way,"
he told me, tone reasonable, but firm.

I rose to my feet, feeling oddly numb. "I

have to pack," I heard my voice, dry and brittle as
fall leaves crunched underfoot, tell Brent. "Thank
you for this."

With that, I hung up, vaguely aware that he

had still been speaking.

But this wasn't the time for talking.
This was the time for throwing everything in

bags, and getting a head start away from our
problems.

And not thinking.
Not freaking thinking.
About what was going to happen when

Rachel, Mica, or Andy got up in the morning to this

news. About how they would feel, the betrayal they
would rightfully be drowning in, the anger they
would be entitled to.

About my life.
My career.
My dreams.
Warren's career.
Warren's farm.
His dreams.
It was gone.
All of it.
I was only half aware of what I was doing as

I carelessly tossed shampoo, conditioner, and soap
into a plastic shopping bag, as I scooped my
makeup right on the top of it all, as I dug through
the cabinets for any other personal items we might
have put away.

I came back out to a bare room, hangers

knocked onto the floor of the closet, nightstand
drawers open. I could hear Warren downstairs
collecting everything else up as I turned off the
lights, and went down to help.

Within twenty minutes, we had everything

jammed into the backseat of the truck, and were
backing out of the driveway.

I didn't ask how he felt.
I imagined it was similar to how I did.
Upset.
Anxious.

Guilty.
Ugh, the guilt was maybe the strongest of the

sensations as we had to drive past Bobby and
Jennifer's place.

We'd lied to them.
And Mica.
And Andy.
And, especially, Rachel.
Who had put her neck on the line for us.
Who had fought for us.
Who thought we were fantastic.
Only to learn we were that... fantastic fakes.
My hand went to my belly that felt like it

was sloshing around ominously, making me worry I
might need Warren to pull over, so I could throw
up.

But I slow breathed.
I fought it.
We were just driving out of the city limits

when it came on.

The song.
The one I had secretly loved, then not so

secretly loved, singing it with wild - tone-deaf -
abandon around the townhouse almost daily for
weeks.

Somehow, the slow, sad tone worked at my

guards, at the dam that was holding back my
emotions.

I turned away, looking out the side window

as the tears started, slow, but relentless.

I don't know if he was aware, if he could see

or hear me, all I knew was he was silent as he
drove.

Two hours of silence as our worlds fell apart.
"Brin," his voice called a while later, just as

we crossed into my old town. "I don't know where
you live."

My eyes closed hard, making the last two

tears stream down my cheeks, dripping off my chin,
and dying on the material of my t-shirt.

"Off of Wilson on Birch."
"The townhouses?" he asked, there was

something in his voice too, but I couldn't seem to
muster the wherewithal to analyze it.

"Yeah. Number twelve," I told him, watching

the mostly dark streets, only the occasional porch
light on. Including Brent's.

"All the lights are on."
"Brent was who called me."
"Brent?" he asked, parking in the small drive,

his monster truck taking up what little space was
left after Brent's.

"He has my name as an alert. It woke him

up."

I climbed out, not bothering to get any of the

bags. Neither did Warren as he followed a full step
behind me, walking up the front path. The door
opened, and there was Brent, arms open.

Because he knew.
Even without seeing my tear-stained face, he

knew.

Maybe it wasn't smart.
Maybe I should have thought it through

more.

Maybe I should have leaned on Warren.
But I flew at Brent, letting The Bear envelop

me in a, well bear hug, like he had done many times
before, the tears starting up again. This time,
though, there was no dignity involved. It was loud,
ugly, and, well, snot-laden.

I wasn't even really aware of anything until I

felt tissues shoved in my hand, and took a moment
to try to regain some of my composure even if the
sinking feeling inside felt worse than ever.

"The world isn't over, Brinny," Brent assured

me as I finally pulled away, mildly embarrassed
about the wet spot on his shirt that was likely a mix
of two different types of face fluids.

"Right. Just my career. Our," I corrected,

looking suddenly around for Warren.

Only to find he wasn't there.
"He didn't come in," Brent told me, tone a

little careful.

"What? Why?"
"I couldn't exactly ask over your 1950s

dramatics," he told me, trying to lighten the mood,
but all I could feel then was panic. A different kind

of panic. The kind that was making my heart hurt.

Why would he leave?
Why would he just... go?
Without a word?
We had so much to discuss, to try to work

through.

And he just took off?
"Don't know that asshole well," Brent told

me, getting up, moving into the kitchen to, I
imagined, put on some coffee. "But I figure maybe
he wanted to be the one you leaned on."

"What? Why?" I asked quickly, too quickly.
See... I hadn't told them.
My parents, siblings, Brent.
About how we weren't really faking

anymore.

I figured it wouldn't do any good if I told

them, and things went south. And that it didn't do
any harm to simply keep them in the dark until
things became more clear to us.

"Oh, please," he snorted, moving into the

doorway to the living room, crossing his arms, his
brows raised. That was his I know all about that
time that you thought your UTI was a crippling
STD, so you can't keep anything from me look.

"What?" I asked, going for innocent,

knowing my acting had improved as of late.

"From the looks of it, you two stopped acting

like you were crazy about each other... around that

trip to the city you took. I've seen you with guys
before, Brin. I've never seen you look at one the
way you've been looking at him in your pictures, in
the show trailers. You two finally got your heads
out of your asses, and took down the pillow
barrier."

There was no use trying to deny it.
"It happened in New York," I agreed. "Well,

he kissed me one night on the set. But then..."

"Then you both acted like it was the end of

the world if you two - who were supposed to dig
each other - actually started to?" he asked, rolling
his eyes.

"He started avoiding me." My voice was

defensive.

"And instead of putting your big girl panties

on, and confronting him, you got all mopey?" he
asked.

"You don't know me," I said, not even able to

stop the smile because we both knew that - more
often than not - he knew me better than I knew
myself.

"So, why did you throw yourself at me

instead of him?"

I looked away, annoyed at myself,

embarrassed to admit the truth. "Because we
decided to just... let things happen. Nothing super
serious."

"You decided."

"What?" I asked, looking over at him.
"You decided that."
It wasn't a question, but I answered anyway.
"Yeah."
His hand went up, rubbing the flat of his

palm between his brows like I was giving him a
headache. "Christ, Brin. You're a smart girl, but
sometimes you can be so fucking dumb."

"Hey!" I yelped, hurt.
Brent had always been blunt, a characteristic

I both loved and hated equally. But he had always
just been honest, not malicious.

"That man is into you. And you go ahead and

share his bed and share his daily life and his work
for months, but don't give him anything."

"I gave him..." I trailed off, feeling my

cheeks redden.

"What? Your body? Sex? So the fuck what?

We both know that isn't what it is about. It's not
about that nice shit. It's about the ugly. It's about
the nights bent over the toilet with food poisoning,
and the panic attacks at three A.M when you're
pacing the living room floor, and the snot crying
when your career is falling apart. It's easy to give
someone the pretty shit. It means nothing. He
wanted the ugly, Brin. And you gave it to me."

"Hey! You're the one who opened the door

with his arms out."

"Had tears still drying on your cheeks. You're

not mine, but you're mine, y'know? I'm not gonna
see that and refuse you a shoulder. But I'm saying...
it should have been his." I was still adjusting to the
sinking feeling in my belly when he added, "And I
think you wanted it to be his too."

"He's seen me ugly," I told him, still

defensive.

"What kinda ugly?"
"Ate at every food truck vendor ugly."
"Psh, we both know that is only about a two

on the ugly scale."

"He's never ugly," I added, grimacing. "I bet

he could pull off your peak ugly - bent over a puke
bucket with the flu, throwing up the soup I made
you - and..."

"You'd still want to jump him," he filled in for

me. "Yeah, idiot. Because you're into him. Admit it
already."

"I'm into him," I agreed, since there was no

denying it clearly.

"Come on, do it."
"I just did!"
"Nope. You know what you really need to

say."

"Why don't you tell me?" I suggested, brows

drawing together.

"Been living with him for months, knew him

longer than that..."

"I hated him back then. And don't you dare

say that cliche about a thin line between hate and
passion."

"It's love," he corrected. "And cliches are

cliches for a reason."

"Don't be ridiculous. I don't love him."
"Why not?"
"What?"
"Why don't you love him?"
And, well, I had no answer for him there.
Sure, he still managed to tick me off on a

daily basis, but it wasn't rife with all the animosity
that used to exist there. There was no resentment
afterward, no hurt feelings. I didn't stare at the
ceiling unsleeping, getting angry all over again at
something he did or said.

No.
I curled up on his chest, feeling his fingers

sift through my hair as mine traced the outlines of
his muscles, our own personal little bedtime ritual.

I woke up with his hands on me, sometimes

rousing me with greedy fingers, having me
completely turned on before my eyes even opened.

We shared, well, everything.
And we weren't sick of each other.
In fact, when we did separate to do filming at

different locations, I found I missed him. Even
though we spent every waking - and sleeping -
moment together.

What was that, if it wasn't, well, love?

Right?
"Exactly," Brent said, nodding.
"I'm not admitting anything," I said, even

though my heart was an undeniably weighted thing
right that moment, as if it had been waiting for me
to acknowledge its fullness.

"Not to me, no," he agreed, nodding. "I think

you have someone else that needs to hear it."

"It's like three in the morning."
"You're not going to sleep tonight."
That was true enough.
Even if I straightened things out with

Warren, there was no way I was going to be able to
sleep until we knew what the fallout would be from
that article - and the dozen or so others that had no
doubt picked it up by now.

"And you're still here because..."
"My car is at Warren's," I admitted, making

Brent half turn to the mail table, grabbing his keys
out of the wooden bowl I had bought for just that
purpose, and tossing them at me.

"Let's get your car. Then you can go put out

one fire before the next one really gets going."

So, that was what I did.

TWELVE

Warren

It was wrong to feel like I did as I drove

away from the townhouse, my backseat still loaded
down with half a dozen of her bags.

We'd agreed.
We went with the flow.
We weren't serious.
I shouldn't have been having the sensations I

had in my body, though, at seeing her with Brent.
The tightening of my muscles, the sour taste in my
mouth, the hard set to my jaw.

Jealousy.
That was what that feeling was.
It wasn't one I was overly familiar with.

I guess I'd never let a woman mean that

much.

She did, too.
Mean that much.
It wasn't - as our fake publicity story went -

love at first sight. Not even close. It was something
that had built. Slowly, day by day as we worked
shoulder-to-shoulder, as we shared the same
frustrations and triumphs, as we learned how we
could deal with setbacks together, as we boosted
each other up when we were having a bad day.

And all that was before things really got

started between us.

But once we let down those guards, allowed

ourselves to feel what we naturally did toward the
other, the rest seemed to happen almost
effortlessly.

We talked about daily nothings, about

important everythings.

She showed me pictures online of the offices

she had found, calling them 'dreams' until I had
convinced her otherwise. She trolled Craigslist for
me to find all kinds of animals she thought I could
have on my farm.

We fucked.
We had sex.
We made love.
We did chores together.
We fought over whose turn it was to load the

dishwasher, or why it was so hard to do both the
wash and folding and putting away in the same
day.

But I felt it there still.
On her side, and maybe mine as well.
That wall we'd started building when we had

agreed to be casual, to go with the flow, to not label
or analyze things.

It was still there, maybe getting more and

more reinforced each time we could have - and
maybe even wanted to - but didn't, talk about the
other stuff.

The us stuff.
The things like what our plans were once we

finished.

If she would move out of her current place.
If she would come to the farm with me.
If we would come out as official to everyone

around us.

If we would admit that this was as serious as

it felt.

The not-knowing was hard.
It had been weighing on me since it was clear

that once we grew up, realized we were in it
together on the work-front, and therefore stopped
trying to sabotage each other, and had learned that
it wasn't that we weren't compatible, but rather that
we were so much alike that sometimes it was like
having an argument with ourselves, and all the hard

feelings dissolved, leaving just what was
underneath.

Mutual passion.
In general, but also toward each other.
I regretted agreeing to her terms every

morning when she woke up, stretching and
shivering against me, every time she grumbled at
me for cutting back the sugar in her coffee, each
time she came running up to me on the job, words
tripping over themselves in her excitement to get
them out, to bring me in on some new discovery of
hers, every evening when she would eat too much,
then bitch about it, every night when she would
writhe and moan for me, come with my name on
her lips, then curl up into me, body relaxing, letting
out a soft, almost inaudible mewling sound of
contentment as she drifted off to sleep.

Because I wanted to tell her that I liked it.

All of it. Even when she was throwing her hands up
at me about how my cabinet designs didn't match
the backsplash she picked out, even when she was
chewing Tums because she was anxious and had
heartburn, even when she came out of the
bathroom one night with her hair covered in some
white crap and her face in blue shit, her toes held
apart by toe separators, and whitening trays on her
teeth.

Yeah, I even liked all that.
It was real.

It was her.
It was easy to be into the perfect image you

tried to project onto someone when you started
dating - or whatever it was she wanted to call what
we were doing, if anything at all - the perfect
outfits, the neat hair, the careful words.

The window dressing.
That was always easy to like.
It was something different entirely to really

get a look inside, see the cracks in the foundation,
the scratched paint, the creepy art on the walls.

That was when you really got to see if you

were just enamored with the external, shallow crap.
Or into what was within, flaws and all.

And with Brin, yeah, I liked all the

cobwebbed corners. Or maybe it was more apt in
her case to say the glitter-covered tables.

Fucking hell.
The glitter.
I would never have known how those little

art projects of hers, always so neatly contained to a
folding craft table - or so I thought - could invade
everything in the house.

I'd found it in my razor once. My razor.
Even though I found myself picking that crap

out of my scruff on a daily basis - even when it had
been a week since she used the stuff - I found
myself happy about it.

Because it was part of her.

It said she was a part of my life.
That we had been able to overcome initial

bad impressions and too-stubborn personalities.

We had found the grace to give each other a

second chance, and in doing so, had found
something great. Something I thought was going
somewhere.

I just couldn't say so.
I should have just nutted up, and said

something.

So what if she skittered.
Or, more likely in her case, had a shitfit

about it?

If it eventually led to a conversation and an

understanding, so what if it made her a little
uncomfortable for a while?

But, no, I had kept my mouth shut.
Even in the goddamn truck on the drive back

from Cape May when she turned her head away.
And I knew, I knew without even having to see that
she was crying, that she was having a moment, one
that I needed to show her she could share with me.

But I hadn't.
And the moment she'd seen Brent, she had

flown at him, shared it with him.

Then I'd left.
Fucking left.
I didn't even know what possessed me to do

that, to go when I knew she needed me, even if she

was unwilling to admit that to herself.

Because as old a friend as Brent was, I had

things he never could, never would.

I shared the experience with her.
I was going through the same situation she

was, was the only person in the world who knew
exactly what that felt like.

I didn't know where I was heading when I

left, either. Since the house was having the floors
refinished - a stipulation of the new owner who
wanted to move in within three weeks. And since
he was paying slightly over market value, and I
wasn't currently living there, I didn't feel the need
to fight it. Even though my floors had just been
done two years ago.

I could stay at a hotel, of course.
But I found myself driving out of town,

westward, toward a place I had no idea if I would
be able to afford now that the situation had so
drastically changed.

It was still, technically, my father's.
The farm he didn't give a shit about, that he

was just going to let the bank take.

He didn't live there.
He never really lived anywhere.
He hopped beds when he found women who

would buy into his charms, or hopped couches
when no one was falling for his bull.

He hated the old place, the dated decor, the

land that demanded attention. I wasn't surprised
when I pulled up to find the yard overgrown so high
that it was folding over on itself.

I sighed out my breath, knowing the tick

population was probably at an all-time high, that if I
got to keep this place, that would be something I'd
have to deal with before I got animals.

And while I couldn't see them in the dark, I'd

bet good money on the fences and outbuildings
being in need of complete revamping. The fruit
orchard and berry bushes likely all needed some
care too next spring.

It would be rough to do all the work that

needed to be done while busting my ass like I
would have to just to pay for the mortgage, let
alone the repairs.

The show would have made life easier.
But at least I was still going to get the farm.
I would find a way to pay the bills. I could

take on more jobs, be less anal about them, so it
didn't take me as long each time. It had always
been a mix of apathy and hyper-criticalness that
had my career at the level it had been at for years.
It had always been enough of a living for me. But if
I needed more, I'd make more. The potential was
there. I just never went for it.

Maybe I'd take a page out of Brin's book.
I'd get a website.
A social media presence.

Hell, maybe the scandal would work in my

favor.

People would look into me once the story

broke.

If I could get at least some social media up

by the morning, get some pictures of the jobs I had
worked on up, I could maybe cash in on the interest
people would have searched for me.

I rummaged in the backseat, finding my

laptop and camera, and heading inside, knowing I
would likely have to work by candlelight and use
my phone as a hotspot, but it would be worth it if I
could get things done by sunup when the general
population would hear of mine and Brin's
deception.

As I set up the laptop, and uploaded my

pictures from my camera, I couldn't help but have
my thoughts go back to her. She would love this.
She had been asking - maybe even nagging at times
- to be allowed to give me a social media presence,
to 'bring me out of the dark ages' as she had told me
many times.

She would know exactly what pictures to

use, how to filter them, what to caption them with,
what hashtags to use.

She would even do that set of two pictures

with a little quote or something in the center so that
the whole screen of Instagram posts looked all put
together. Aesthetic, she would call it.

I worked until my phone died, getting a

couple dozen pictures up on Instagram and
Facebook, getting a very basic website uploaded.
Nothing showed any mastery at social media styles,
but it would suffice.

I threw my phone in the car to charge,

tucked my pant legs into my socks, and went into
the barn to grab the only remaining tractor that
hadn't been worth enough for my father to sell,
praying the high grass wouldn't choke it out since it
was really the only way to cut down so many
overgrown acres.

The sun was high in the sky when I saw a car

turning into the drive - one I would know
anywhere. One whose AC was busted. And the
heat, apparently. One that made a squealing sound
out of nowhere every now and again. As it did as
she hit the brake behind my car.

I cut the engine, watching as she climbed

out, dressed in something I had never seen her in
before - deep gray leggings and an oversized white
sweatshirt. Her hair was floating around her
shoulders, framing her soft face with still-swollen
eyelids from both tiredness and tears.

"I think it's time," she declared as she got

closer, her eyes focused on me, a stubborn set to
her shoulders.

"Time for what?" I asked, staying where I

was, letting her come to me.

"To talk," she went on, giving me a firm nod

as though I was going to fight her on it. Meanwhile,
this had been what I was waiting for since the city.
Since I tried to have a conversation about it, only to
be shut down.

"Okay," I agreed, leaning back.
"About us."
"I figured you didn't drive here to discuss the

weather."

"Don't be a smartass," she told me, slitting

her eyes. "I am trying here."

She was right.
"Okay," I agreed, moving to hop down. "I'd

take you inside, but it hasn't been aired out in
months."

I led her back to my truck, dropping down

the bed, hopping up, and patting the space beside
me. But she didn't join me; she stood right at the
other side of my knees.

"Ready when you are," I invited when she

said nothing, just looked off to the side, looking at
the half-cleared field.

She swallowed hard, finally giving me eye-

contact. "Brent thinks you didn't come inside
because I wouldn't give you my ugly."

"Your ugly?"
"Yeah. He said that I gave you all my pretty

and..."

"He clearly doesn't know what you look like

when you're curled up in bed whimpering about
eating too much," I told her with a smirk, trying to
relieve some of the tension in her shoulders.

"Brent cuts me off after three tacos. Three,"

she added, eyes big. "As if anyone can feel even
remotely satisfied with less than five. Because he
got tired of my overeating whining," she told me,
rolling her eyes. "But he meant like... the ugly
emotional stuff. The snot-crying."

"Snot-crying?" I asked, snorting.
"Yes, ugly-snot-crying is a thing. Granted, a

rare thing for me. But a thing. And it is ugly. And I
maybe wasn't ready to be that ugly around you
yet."

"Why, Brin? Been by your side day and night

for months. Seen you sweaty and achy and red in
the face with anger and exhausted and elated and
everything in between. I don't think I've ever made
it seem like I couldn't handle it."

"You're never ugly!" she declared, voice

hitched a few octaves higher than usual, the words
practically tripping over each other, like they were
bursting out of her.

"What?"
"Don't smirk!" she objected, slamming a

hand into my shoulder. "This isn't smirk-worthy."

"You're being ridiculous, baby."
"No, seriously. I've been by your side for

months, and you're always calm and collected,

never a raving lunatic like me. And you never look
run down and haggard."

"Figure my ugly is the smirking,

condescending asshole that used to make you go so
red that you were practically blue on an almost
daily basis."

"But..."
"And maybe you stopped seeing it as ugly

when you got to see my other sides, when it wasn't
all you knew of me. And for the record, Brin," I
said, opening my legs to pull her between, "I have
never, not for a moment, thought you were ugly,
even at your lowest moments. Or you were too
much to handle. A handful, sure, but not too much
for me."

Her head ducked at that, likely to hide the

reaction she knew would show plainly in her face.
Really, it was a miracle she had been able to fake
attraction and love toward me for as long as she did
even when she was hating me. I found she was a
pretty shitty liar in general, her face always giving
her away. But maybe that was because I had just
gotten to know her so well.

"So... you think you want to be stuck with

me for a while?" she asked, still keeping her head
lowered.

"Well, I have just officially followed you on

Instagram, so, good luck getting rid of me now."

"What?" she yelped, head shooting up, eyes

wide. "No way!"

"Figure I might need to cash in on my fifteen

minutes of fame. Spent last night getting some
social media and a website together. Could have
used your help," I added, snagging her chin.

"Are you giving me free rein of your brand

presence?" she asked, sounding both elated and
hesitant to get her hopes up.

"If you're not busy."
"Well, seeing as we were trending online

when I left Brent's... it is safe to say Rachel and
Mica and Andy know what went on. So... I should
have nothing but free time for a while."

"Did you get a call yet?"
"Radio silence," she said, grimacing. "Which

I think is worse somehow."

"Someone will have to get in touch

eventually to cancel the contract."

"I was kind of excited about the next house,"

she admitted. "All that broken stained glass. I had
plans for that."

"There will be other houses, Brin. Maybe not

ones on TV. But other ones. I bet if you checked
out your social media right now, you will have a ton
of new followers and likes and comments."

"I'm too scared to look."
"Don't have you pegged as a chickenshit."
"I'm not a chickenshit, but you never know

what kind of vile things people will say online. I got

nasty comments here and there on my projects
even before my name was on the news rotation."

"Yeah, but what if it isn't nasty? What if it is

supportive? What if people have jobs for you?
What if some boutique wants to do a small line of
your projects? What if they don't care that we lied?
You won't know if you don't look."

"That's true. So..."
"So?"
"So... you're okay with this not being so

casual anymore?"

"Didn't want casual from the start," I told

her, pulling her in closer. "I was waiting for you to
realize you didn't want that either."

"I didn't really want casual," she admitted. "I

was just afraid of what would happen if we did not-
casual, then things blew up, and..."

"Things couldn't really be more blown up

than they are now."

"I meant with us."
"Because you were worried about the show.

And your career."

"Yeah," she admitted, shrugging.
"Well, the show is over. Your career may

stumble, but will recover. So, all we have to worry
about now is us."

"Us," she mused, going up on her tiptoes,

smiling at me. "I like that."

"Me too," I agreed, sealing my lips over hers.

THIRTEEN

Brinley

It was just supposed to be a kiss.
Just a shared moment of relief,

understanding, excitement for the future.

But the second his lips pressed to mine, it

seemed to unleash weeks of worries and
insecurities I had been harboring, coming out as a
desperate, clawing need that had my hands sinking
into his hips, my breasts pressed into his chest, my
lips getting greedier on his.

Warren, usually so in control of himself,

seemed to give into the rawness of the moment as
well - one hand crushing into the back of my neck
as his tongue sought mine, the other trailing down

my back to sink into my ass, grabbing hard, a
possessive touch that had my sex clenching hard.

A low, whimpering noise ripped from my lips,

making Warren break away, looking down at me.
"Twenty acres around us," he informed me, eyes
full of a need I knew was shimmering in mine as
well.

I didn't really need more than that.
My hands moved out, clawing at his shirt,

pulling it up until he took over, ripping the material
up over his head, tossing it back into the bed behind
him.

The whimpering sound escaped me again as

my hands moved over his hot skin, the muscles
twitching under my touch, something that never
ceased to fascinate me.

"Brin..." his voice called out, low, rough,

almost pained.

Sliding my hands down his thighs, I moved

my body backward, feeling his hands fighting the
distance, but giving in as I kept pulling. Out of
arm's reach, my hands went to the hem of my shirt,
dragging it upward, tossing it back into his truck
bed with his shirt. The leggings went off next,
leaving me in nothing but my bra and panties,
something that made a sexy as all hell moan escape
Warren as I moved closer again, my hands tracing
back up his thighs then inward, snagging his button
and zip, working them with clumsy fingers until I

freed them, reaching inside, finding his cock
already straining.

It was rare I considered my shortness an

asset.

But right now, with Warren up on the bed of

his truck, it just put me in the perfect position to
lower down just a few inches, slowly sucking his
cock into my mouth inch by inch, hearing his
breath hiss out of him, feeling his hands grab me -
one gathering my hair so he could see, the other
sinking into my upper arm as I started to stroke
him, working him faster, twisting my mouth around,
lapping my tongue over the head, hand moving
down to cup his balls, feeling his cock get harder
still at the contact.

He wouldn't let me do it.
Make him come with my mouth.
Not right now.
Not when the moment felt oddly poignant.
As if on cue, his hand yanked on my hair

until the pain across my scalp was enough to make
me pull backward, losing his cock.

"Love the way you suck my cock, Brin," he

told me, the praise a shivering thing through my
insides as his hand loosened, trailed down my back,
snagged the clasps of my bra, and freed them with
one hand faster than I ever could with both. The
material loosened, steps moving down my arms,
exposing me to his greedy eyes. "Fuck," he

growled, hands moving to cup my breasts, thumbs
moving over the nipples until he got them hard and
straining, then taking them between his fingers,
rolling them until I was swaying into him,
whimpering for more.

His body moved fast, dropping down onto his

feet, going around me, then going down.

I barely had time to process it before I felt

his fingers snag the lacy material of my panties,
dragging it down over my behind. His lips moved
in, pressing sweetly into one of the cheeks as he
slid the panties down my thighs until they pooled at
my ankles, making me instinctively step out of
them even as I felt his teeth replace his lips, making
a shot of white-hot pain/pleasure shoot through my
system.

My thighs tried to press together to calm it,

but his wide palms were moving down, slipping in
under my ass, spreading them open to him just a
second before I felt his tongue moving up my slit
toward my clit, sucking it into his mouth, making
my thighs shake, threatening to give out on me as
the pleasure started to work its way through me.

Feeling the shaking, his hand snagged my

knee even as his tongue relentlessly worked me,
dragging it up at an angle until he situated it on the
truck bed, making my upper body fold forward as
well, opening me up completely to his greedy
mouth.

Two of his fingers thrust roughly inside me,

thrusting wildly, dragging ragged moans from deep
within me before finally curling, and raking over
my G-spot with perfect precision, making the
orgasm scream through my body unexpectedly,
making me cry out his name with reckless abandon,
knowing no one could hear.

He worked me through it, refusing to release

me until he milked my orgasm for all it was worth.

"Pussy is fucking shaking for me," he

rumbled as he yanked my other leg up, leaving me
spread before him. I could feel my wetness dripping
down my thighs, greedy for more, to feel him inside
me again.

I was sure I would never get enough of him,

a thought that used to fill me with dread, but now,
in this moment, after both having agreed that this
was something between us, yeah, all I felt was an
excitement, a certainty that I could have him
whenever I wanted, and him me, without worries
about losing it.

I heard the swoosh of his jeans hitting the

ground, a small stumble as he got them and his
boots off, then the truck depressed as he hopped up
and moved behind me.

I barely had a second to register his presence

before his cock was slamming deep, claiming me to
the hilt with a delicious little pinch that had me
pressing back into him, wanting more of it, wanting

him to take every last inch of me.

"So fucking tight," he growled, hands digging

into my hips, using them to shove me forward, then
slam me back as he started thrusting, controlling me
and my desire completely, leaving me to do nothing
but desperately enjoy it, beg for it not to stop.

My body folded forward, forearms going to

the clothes scattered across the bed, my head
resting there too as he fucked me harder, faster,
driving me to the edge.

His hand left one of my hips, going between

my legs, stroking through my wetness, teasing
around my clit, but never quite giving me the
contact I needed to end my torment, to send
another orgasm shooting through my system. Just
relentlessly teasing as I moaned for more.

Just when I was sure he was finally going to

move his fingers over my swollen, sensitive bud, his
hand left me entirely, moving, finding a new
destination.

I felt his finger pressing against my ass,

looking for any sign of reservation for a moment.
Finding none, because I was sure that there was
nothing I could deny him - or myself - in this
moment, he slowly pressed inside, claiming me
further, working me gently until I begged for
harder, begged for an end to the coiled desire in my
core.

His other hand left my hip as he fucked me

harder still, going between my thighs, and pressing
into my clit finally.

Thumb on my clit, finger in my ass, cock

raking over my G-spot perfectly, it was only a
couple more thrusts before the entire world went
white as the pleasure clawed its way through my
body.

That was what it felt like, too, a clawing,

something almost violent, borderline painful in its
intensity as I lost my voice and air for a long
moment before it came back, letting me whimper,
moan, cry out his name as the waves kept crashing,
as he kept demanding more of them.

Until my body went slack finally, spent.
He slammed deep, coming with my name on

his lips before his body lost its strength too, making
him curl forward, coming over my body, giving me
his full weight for a long moment as he fought for
his strength to return.

"Christ," he hissed as he pulled out of me,

then dropped down beside me on the pile of
clothes, hand going behind his head as it always
did, the other reaching for me, sending a warm,
gooey sensation through me as I moved to rest on
his chest, felt his fingers sift through my hair. "Can't
get enough of that," he told me a while later when
his heartbeat started to settle beneath my cheek.

"Me either," I admitted.
"It's all that fire," he told me, fingers leaving

my hair to trace down my spine, over the curve of
my hip, the side of my thigh, my cheek of my
behind.

"Hm?"
"All the bickering and attitude-throwing, gets

it all pent up. Makes it fucking explosive."

"Well, then we are going to have the best sex

life for years to come since I always run a little
hot."

"A little?" he teased, sounding like he was

smiling.

"And, I mean, I didn't mean to assume

that..."

"Shut it."
"What?" I asked, trying to push up, but his

arm locked around my lower back, keeping me
pressed to him where I really did want to be since I
was still naked and the air was cool.

"Don't back-pedal on me."
"I wasn't..."
"You were going to say you didn't mean to

assume that we'd be together for years," he cut me
off. He was right, and he knew it. There was
nothing more irritating than Warren Allen Reyes
being right and knowing it. But just this once, I
maybe wanted to hear him out, see what he had to
say. "I'm seeing years, Brin," he told me, giving me
a squeeze. "Figure if we can work together without
killing each other, we can withstand anything."

"I mean, to be fair, you almost lost your life

at least a dozen times," I admitted, smiling when he
pinched my ass.

"Yet, here I am."
"Well, there were a lot of witnesses around."
"Smartass."
"You love it."
It was a throwaway phrase, something I said

flippantly, to anyone, full of sarcasm and
insincerity.

That was why the next words out of his

mouth made my entire body stiffen.

"Yeah, I guess I do."
My stomach dropped, and my heart tried to

soar upward before I dragged that bitch back down
to earth, sure that he was just doing what I was
doing - being silly and sweet, having a friendly
conversation. In the nude. After he screwed me
silly in the back of his truck.

"What?" I asked, pressing up.
"You heard me," he told me, hand reaching

up to tuck my hair behind my ear.

"Maybe I need to hear it again," I said

carefully, trying not to let my hopes get too high,
trying to force myself to be rational.

"Don't act surprised, Brin. Think I loved you

since you debated beating me to death with the
cabinet door dividers in Home Depot that night that
everything changed."

The night that everything changed.
Everything.
My heart didn't soar or sink.
It seemed to stop dead right in my chest,

unsure what to do, what to feel, how to react to his
words even as my belly did a fluttering thing that
was so strong it was almost freaky.

"What?" I hissed, not willing to let myself

believe him.

His hand slid to frame one side of my face,

his dark eyes holding mine relentlessly. "I love you,
Brin. And don't try to pull that 'it's too soon' thing.
We both know it isn't. We've been building feelings
here for months. We've been living together,
sharing every up and down, getting to know every
small aspect about each other. This isn't soon. Even
if it was, it wouldn't change how I feel. I get that
you gotta process that, but I'm thinking maybe we
should do that inside," he told me even as I felt the
goosebumps form over every inch of skin, though
whether that was from the cold or what he just told
me, that was impossible to know.

"Okay," I agreed, pushing up, waiting for him

to do the same, so I could snatch some of my
clothes back.

"You're itching to get your hands on my

social media right now, aren't you?" he asked,
smiling over at me as I reached for my bra and
panties, bunching them up in my hand.

"Well, I mean, you are going to need to finish

the yard, right? I might as well be useful too."

"Useful, mmhm," he said, nodding, yanking

the hem of my shirt to drag me with him.

"What?"
"Think you just want to undo everything I

did."

"Well, you want to have the right aesthetic.

What?" I asked when his lips twitched up, making
his dark eyes dance.

"Nothing. That's just exactly what I thought

you would say," he told me as we reached the front
door.

It was a quaint place, his family home.
And, yes, 'quaint' was absolutely a synonym

for 'small.' But when something was literally built
by his grandfather, it made sense that it wasn't some
massive structure.

It was a low, one-level wooden building with

a wide front porch that needed some definite TLC -
the boards on the floor cracked, the stairs
crumbling. There was a set of old rocking chairs at
the end that his grandfather probably made for
himself and his wife, planning to sit on the front
porch by her side every night, a sweet, sentimental
thought that made my heart squeeze in my chest.
They needed to be sanded and repainted, but I
suddenly wanted to do that project with Warren, to
wait for them to dry, then to sit there rocking with

him as well.

Maybe for years to come.
There was no denying that wobbly feeling in

my belly, something I didn't let myself feel often,
always finding that when I did, it always got
dashed.

Hope.
That was hope.
"It's not too much warmer in here," he

warned me as he pushed the door open. "I need to
open all the windows to air the place it. My old
man clearly hasn't been here in months."

"I should have thought to bring some food or

something," I said as we moved inside.

The overwhelming element inside was

darkness. Even with abundant and unadorned
windows letting in the light, the sheer amount of
wood made it feel smaller than it was - and it was
small to begin with.

We walked right into an open concept living

space that led into a small dining area, then finally
the kitchen. The floors, the walls, the furniture, the
exposed beams in the ceiling, everything was a
deep wood.

"I think I am starting to understand your

obsession with wood elements," I told him,
nodding.

"It's a little dark," he allowed, looking

around. "I think I always had a blind spot about the

place over the years, thinking it was perfect exactly
as it was."

"But?" I prompted, hearing it in his voice.
"But, I think maybe we could lighten it up a

bit. The floors don't need to be so dark. Maybe
some of the..."

"Shiplap," I supplied, grimacing, making him

throw an arm over my shoulders, curling me in for a
one-armed hug, planting a kiss to the top of my
head.

"Yeah, maybe some of the shiplap can be

relocated, just keep an accent wall. That's really
more of your area of expertise though."

"How attached are you to those

countertops?" I asked, jerking my chin toward the
deep red tiles. Yes, tiles. With actual grout. I hadn't
seen a tiled kitchen since design school, and then
only in old houses.

"Those, I'd be happy to see go," he admitted.
"Do you want me to... you know, draw up

some ideas? I know that our styles are different, but
I think I can maybe soften up the place while
keeping its integrity. I mean, I know that it is
your..."

"Draw me up some ideas," he cut me off,

and, if I wasn't mistaken, it was somewhat pointed.
Like he didn't want me to finish that sentence,
knowing what I was going to say about it being his
space. "After you handle my social media," he

added, waving a hand to where his laptop was set
up. "Knock yourself out. I am gonna finish the
yard, then maybe run to town real quick to grab
some essentials. I figure we'll be hunkering down
here until the storm blows over."

"I'd like that," I admitted, meaning it whole -

dare I say it - heartedly.

"Alright, go undo everything I did," he said,

patting my butt before turning and walking out.

And me, well, I figured I had a lot of work to

do.

I wasn't wrong either.
He'd just uploaded pictures, no rhyme or

reason to them, no real descriptions, and the worst
hashtag choices known to man.

I mean #building?
Seriously?
What had he been thinking?
Once I had his Instagram somewhat less

hideous, I went to work on his Facebook, then his
god-awful website. Granted, he had done it quickly
and likely just went with a pre-made theme, but my
Myspace when I was eleven was more advanced
than the coding he had going on.

By the time I finally hit the publish button,

figuring it was as good as it could get without a
professional to tweak it, I could hear Warren
pulling up the drive, making me realize I had been
so zoned out that I hadn't heard the mowing stop, or

him leave in the first place.

I jumped up, stretching out my neck and

shoulders before moving toward the door, slipping
into my shoes, figuring I would help him with the
bags, no matter how much he fought me on it.

The stubborn ass.
Even though I was maybe more charmed by

his old-fashioned manners than I would let on.

I had just thrown open the door when I

realized that Warren's truck wasn't there.

But another car was.
My heart skidded into overdrive as my

stomach swirled ominously, the only thing I could
think was - they found us.

The paparazzi.
The stupid online gossip columns trying to

get a few words from the cons themselves.

And I was all alone to deal with it.
I was about to throw myself back into the

house when the door to the car opened.

No one rushed out with a camera aloft,

barking questions.

No.
She climbed out slowly, almost lazily, like a

cat unfolding from a sun soaked windowsill nap,
head in my direction, gaze direct, but
unthreatening.

Rachel.
Nude heels met the gravel of Warren's

driveway. She reached to close the door, standing
there in an A-line purple dress, her head ducked
slightly to the side.

Forget the trolls on the internet.
Forget the roasts by the late-night

comedians.

This, this was what I was dreading the most.
Because she went to bat for us, she

persuaded her team to take a chance on us.

She thought we were fantastic.
I suddenly felt swamped with guilt for

making fun of that term. Because she hadn't just
thrown the words at us; she had meant them. Every
single time, she meant them. She had faith in us,
even when we were bickering, even when we were
accidentally creating bad press.

And we'd done nothing but lie to her.
And, now, disappointed her.
Betrayed her faith.
"Rachel, we're so..."
"You know," she cut me off, carefully

maneuvering her way toward me on the uneven
rocks. "I've been in TV since... well, I acted in a
cereal commercial when I was six. I was sold
immediately, enamored with the idea that you
would be paid to lie for a living, to pretend, to bend
the truth. I begged my mom to let me keep
auditioning, even when I made that awful transition
from adorable kid to awkward in-between. I took

stage classes, put on shows with the kids in my
neighborhood. It turned out, though, the older I got,
the less convincing I was an actress. So, I went to
college to work behind the scenes. I might not be
able to act well, but I can sure tell when others do.
What you and Warren had, Brin, that wasn't
acting."

There was no stopping the wave of shame

that moved over me, dragged my head down to the
ground. "We acted," I told her, shaking my head.
"We deliberately decided to deceive all of you, to
pretend to be happily married."

"Well, that part, yeah," she agreed with a

smile as she leaned on the column that led from the
rails of the porch up to the overhang of the roof. "A
technicality, really. Looking back, I see why you
two wanted to look over your contracts. Not for
fine print over how it might affect your current
businesses as Andy had suggested, but because you
were looking for anything that might suggest your
official marriage was somehow a deal-breaker." She
paused then, smiling. "I imagine Andy has the
lawyers rewriting those documents to include that
right now."

"Is he red?"
"He is crimson," she confirmed, nodding,

smiling a little, it always being a joke on set about
how hard he flushed when he was agitated. "But he
likes a good outrage. It reinforces his ideas about

the world. Namely that everyone is out to cheat
him, and take his money. The paranoid narcissist."

"Except we did cheat him."
"Legally, not really. But you already know

that."

"I won't lie. The legality part is something

we've been worried about, but that wasn't all I
meant. You took a chance on us, and we betrayed
you."

"Oh, betrayal. That is an interesting word,

don't you think? So dramatic. I don't much care for
it. It gives away some of your power, your peace of
mind. But in this situation, I don't even think the
word is warranted."

"We lied to..."
"Yourselves mostly," she cut me off, giving

me a keen, knowing smile. "All that bickering. All
those sideways looks, the eye-rolls, the arm-
crossing, the huffing and chest-puffing. I remember
standing there wondering why you two were trying
so hard to seem like you weren't mad over each
other."

"Mad? Mad, yes. Mad over? Not so much. I

mean, not really."

"Tell me," she said, ignoring my comments.

"When did you stop pretending? With each other, I
mean."

"New York," I admitted since there was no

reason to keep any secrets anymore.

"I knew it. Mica owes me fifty bucks for that.

She thought it was sometime during that Victorian."

"Oh, well, I guess you both are somewhat

right. He kissed me while we worked on that house.
Like... he kissed me," I added, giving her a look
that she smiled at.

"Like a sailor on leave."
"Better," I insisted even though I had no

experience with sailors on leave.

"Whoo," she said, fanning her face with her

hand. "So maybe she had a bunch, but things went
south after that. That's why you were fighting all
the time. She thought it was you two
overcompensating a bit. I knew it had to be
something other than that."

"So... wait... how long have you two

known?"

"We both suspected almost from the

beginning, but never voiced it to each other until
that news story about the fighting broke."

"May I ask what made you suspect we

weren't being truthful?"

"Mica said it was because you seemed

surprised when he remembered things like you
hating mayo, making sure he ordered you a
sandwich without it."

"And you?"
"The way you two looked at each other

when you thought no one could see. With a mix of

longing and regret."

"I'm so sorry, Rachel," I told her, shaking my

head, at a loss for what else to say to make it better.

An apology is all you can do, but sometimes

it isn't enough. That was what my mother told me
once when I was little and a friend refused to
forgive me over a fight we'd had. It hadn't had
much impact then, being young and hurt and
frustrated. But it became more and more profound
as the years passed, as I asked for forgiveness but
wasn't granted it, or was begged for it, but couldn't
find the grace to allow it.

"The way I see it," she continued, shrugging

one of her strong shoulders, "no one puts
themselves in a situation that could lead to ruin
unless they were really hungry for something. I
looked into you, Brin, remember? You were
starving for a break. You saw one, you were offered
one, and so what if you had to bend the truth to get
it?"

"It was more than a bend."
"Was it?" she asked, lips curving up slyly. "I

mean, maybe at first."

"We still aren't married, Rachel."
"And yet," she said, reaching out, closing her

hand around mine, and dragging it upward, running
a finger across the band on my ring finger, "you
have yet to take this off. I bet he still has his on
too."

Actually, he did.
I hadn't noticed until she'd mentioned it.
"He probably just forgot to take it off," I

insisted, pulling my hand away. Because, well, I
couldn't claim the same. The band had caught my
eye a dozen times since we packed up and left the
townhouse in Cape May. I even remembered
thinking that I should take it off, but could never
seem to make myself do it.

"Yes, that must be it," she said, attempting to

give me a stern look, but her eyes were dancing.

"How are you not angry?"
"I think Andy has the anger covered. There's

no need for more of that. Besides, if I had questions
about your sincerity - and I did - I should have
come to you about it before this blew up."

"But?"
She did let herself smile then, a bit wistfully.

"It's cheesy, I know, to call yourself a hopeless
romantic these days. It's not something I would
ever admit in mixed company. My colleagues
would never take me seriously again, but that is
exactly what I am. It is exactly why I didn't pull
you two aside, and call you on it. I wanted to see
the story of you two unfold. I had a feeling if we
had that talk, the show would implode, and the two
of you would go your separate ways."

"We would have," I agreed, nodding,

suddenly realizing what a shame that would have

been, how easily our lives could be thrown onto a
completely different path, and all the possible
repercussions of that.

"And what a shame that would have been,"

she agreed. "Because you two, well, you're..." she
paused, the twitching of her lips and light in her
eyes saying she knew exactly what people thought
of how she used the word, but didn't care in the
least, "fantastic."

"If it is any consolation at all, we're officially

together now," I admitted, feeling my stomach
flutter a bit at admitting it. "We're going to take on
this farm as a project next," I added, waving to it.

"Now... wouldn't that make good television?"

she asked, brow raising, something about the keen
look in her eye telling me that maybe, just maybe,
our TV careers weren't exactly finished. "The
disgraced Fix It Up couple finding actual love on
the set, then fixing up a house together to live and
love in? My heart is pitter-pattering just imagining
it. Plus, the ratings for the four episodes of this
season would skyrocket."

"You're still going to air them?" I asked,

brows lowering.

"If there is one thing you learn in reality

television, dear, it is there is always a scandal
buried somewhere. The key is to capitalize on it,
not hide from it. The episodes that air - or even re-
aired after the hooker nonsense last season ended

up being the best ratings for the channel all year.
Not just the show, the network. People are rather
predictable that way, rubbernecking to watch the
remains of a car wreck, watching endless news
stories about some senator's private disgrace,
obsessively watching old episodes of shows to see
if they can spot when the marriage started to fail. If
we market this right, we can make them look for
the time when you two stopped faking, when you
really did fall in love."

"We didn..." I started to object, having to

stop myself. Because, well, we did, didn't we?
Warren sure had, had even admitted it in detail.
Me, yeah, I wasn't as forthcoming. But there was
no denying it. It had been happening for longer than
I realized, than I would have let myself admit back
then. Falling for him. I had been falling for him
since we first moved in together.

"Sure you did, dear. And that is why I am

happy for you, not angry. Had this just been a scam
from start to finish, maybe this would be a different
conversation. But this? This I can work with. I can
have the media team spin this, market it right. If I'm
correct - and I usually am about this sort of thing -
there will be demands for a finished season, for a
special about you working on your own home.
Because the general public, they love a good
scandal, but like me, they like a good love story just
as much. And this? This has the making of a rom-

com. Except it is real life. Which makes it all the
more heart-melting. We can work this, Brin."

"But Andy..."
"Sees nothing but dollar signs and bottom

lines. If we buckle down and show him what this
has to offer his pocket lining, he will be on board in
a heartbeat."

"But... how would we go about that?" I asked

as I saw Warren's truck turn down the long drive,
kicking up dust as he went. He slammed on the
brake, throwing the door open without even cutting
the ignition, making it beep for a second before he
slammed the door, rushing up to us. Like, dare I
even think it, he was worried about me having to
face Rachel and the repercussions of our actions
alone.

"Warren," she said, giving him a warm smile.

"Your girl and I were just discussing how we can
turn this all around in our favor."

"Apparently, we are shitty liars," I told him

with a smile as his arm slid around my waist, pulling
me closer, creating a united front.

"Well, I always knew that about you," he

told me, smiling when I small-eyed him. "But I
figured I was always pretty convincing."

"Rachel thinks we can spin this, that we can

maybe get to finish the season."

"And don't forget the special!"
"The special?" Warren asked, but directed it

at me.

"Rachel thinks watching us work on your

farm would make for good ratings. I mean, of
course, that is entirely up to you. She was just
throwing out options."

"Us."
"Hm?" I asked, unsure why he was giving me

such a hard look.

"It is up to us, not just me," he corrected.
"Well, yeah, of course. But I mean... the

farm is..."

"Where your ass is going to be staying," he

cut me off. "So, it is a mutual discussion to be had.
If or when the time comes for that."

Oh, my heart.
My poor, overflowing heart.
"Oh, look at you two," Rachel said, grinning,

clearly holding back a knee-jerk 'fantastic' as she
watched us. "Have you two been off the grid? Or
have you been keeping up with the story?"

"I got a text from my friend late last night

telling us. Since then, we haven't seen anything," I
admitted. I'd even been online. For hours. But I
managed to find some self-control in the matter,
refusing to let myself look, to hear the nasty things
people might be saying about us. "Is it bad?"

"There is a fair bit of mocking, but luckily for

us, the show hasn't aired yet, so no one really
knows you except for the show's social media and

that one interview. So no one really knows how to
work with this story. Which is good. Because it
means, by the large, they are staying quiet. That
likely won't last, though, so I had better get a hold
of Andy now that I know you guys are willing to go
with it, hang in there for the ride. The sooner we
can act like nothing is off, the better."

"Is there anything we should be doing?" I

asked when Warren stayed silent, making me
wonder if he was actually on board as well, or just
agreeing because I clearly wanted it.

"Honestly, if you can think of a clever way to

play with this on your own or the show's social
media, do it. Keep it light, but no more lying."

"I can think about it," I agreed, nodding.
"Okay, good. Other than that, just take a little

vacation. You two were working to the bone.
You've earned it. I will call one of you with more
information when I have it," she told us, moving to
turn away again.

"Rachel, really, we are genuinely for..."
"Fantastic," she cut me off, not even

bothering to turn around. "You are genuinely
fantastic."

"What the hell was that?" Warren asked as

we watched her back out of the drive, just narrowly
missing the side of his still-running truck.

"Apparently, she and Mica both had

suspicions for a while."

"Why wouldn't they say something?"
"According to Rachel, they are hopeless

romantics."

"And that's enough reason to risk a show's

success?"

"They seem to think this will all work out.

I'm sorry, I really should have waited for you to
come back before I discussed anything with her. I
didn't get a chance to ask if you'd be into this."

"Into it?"
"Continuing the show. Coming clean."
"The way I see it, regardless of what we

decide to do, we're gonna have to choke down
some crow. We could do it privately, and hope we
manage to drum up enough business to keep
ourselves afloat. Or we could do it publicly, finish
the show, know for sure we will have the money to
do whatever we wanted after the season is over.
Call it quits, do our private work. Or sign up for
another season. No matter what, though, what we
did is something we're gonna have to own up to,
accept the repercussions of. So, what matters now
is how we want to handle it."

"What are your thoughts running toward?"
"The food in my truck," he said with a small

smile. "Why don't we save the talk for dinner?"

We did that.
Mulled things over privately as Warren

carried in bags, something he wouldn't let me help

with, but set me to cleaning out the cabinets to
store the food in, so I wasn't completely useless.

Warren cooked.
I set the table.
And almost as soon as we sat down, I

couldn't hold the words in any longer.

"What are you leaning toward?"
"Gonna have a crippling mortgage once this

place is officially in my hands. One that could be
eased a lot if we finish the season. Maybe negotiate
hard for the special on this place."

"You'd be willing to do that?" I asked,

surprised. "Open this place up to everyone's eyes?"

"Baby, we opened ourselves up for

everyone's eyes already. I figure this pales in
comparison to that."

"It makes the most sense," I agreed, poking

at the green beans on the plate. They were nice
ones - genuine bone China from days gone by, the
kind that belonged on display, not to be eaten on,
white with little gray birds hand painted around the
edge. I was careful not to let the tongs of my fork
scrape the surface, no matter how many times it
had clearly been done before by a careless boy and
his grandfather. "And I really don't like leaving
things unfinished, y'know? We had all kinds of
plans for the next two houses."

"You were bouncing at the idea of getting

your hands on that stained glass."

I smiled because he wasn't wrong.
"So, we're gonna do it. If they come back

with the offer to finish."

"Yeah, we're gonna do it."
I wouldn't pretend that it was a feeling of

comfort that overcame me then. The general feeling
of everything will shake out. But that wasn't right.

Warren was right.
We'd have to eat crow.
Publicly.
We might choke on it.
There would be questions, hard ones. There

would be criticism, people calling us liars and
opportunists. And they wouldn't exactly be wrong.
We couldn't defend ourselves against that. We'd
have to take the punches square on the chin. And,
well, keep taking them. Until the scandal of it all
faded away, and they would get to know us as a
couple again. But this time for real.

"We'll get through it," Warren assured me,

seeming to read my thoughts. "It will suck. But it
will only suck for a few minutes. Then we can
come back here, jump into bed, and forget all about
it."

"Well," I said, smiling as I looked up at him

from under my lashes. "When you put it that
way..."

Later that night, sitting up in bed in one of

his tees, I reached for my phone.

"Take off your ring," I demanded as I slipped

off my own. He seemed to hesitate as I swiped the
camera to front facing. "We need to do that post,
remember?" I told him, handing him my ring. "Put
your arm around my shoulder with these rings
visible between your fingers." He gave me a brow
raise, but did as I told him as I mussed my hair,
swiped my eyebrows into better order. I let my lips
fall open about an inch, bringing my hand up near
them in a very 'oops' pose.

That was exactly what I captioned the

picture with too before uploading it to mine,
Warren's, and the show's social media.

"That is going to be fucking everywhere

tomorrow," Warren told me, handing me back my
ring which I knew I couldn't put on, no matter how
empty my hand felt without it.

Warren couldn't seem to figure out what to

do either as he twirled the band between his
fingers, watching as it caught the light.

It took all of one minute before both our

phones started dinging with notifications. Five, ten,
two dozen in a row.

We should have turned them off.
They were like a constant music, frantic and

distracting, as we tried to relax, unwind, with no TV
or even a radio to distract us.

Finally, unable to drown it all out, we shut

them down, fell back into each other's arms, and

forgot about it.

Just the way he told me we could.
And, well, it was fantastic.

EPILOGUE

Warren - 1 day

If it were up to me, we'd have left the phones

off for a full day. Just so we could have an extra
day just being us, just being normal.

But Brin was worried that Rachel would try

to get in touch, and that it wouldn't look good if we
couldn't be reached.

So we turned the phones back on after

breakfast, when there was nothing else to use as an
excuse not to.

"Oh, my God," she hissed as soon as her

phone powered up.

"Is that a good or bad 'oh, my God'?" I asked,

not looking at mine yet.

"It's an... Oh, my God oh, my God," she said,

shaking her head. "There are ten thousand likes on
the Instagram post. On my Instagram post. My
personal one. Where, if I'm lucky, my posts get
maybe fifty or sixty likes. I'm afraid to read the
comments," she admitted, giving me a wobbly smile
that I knew her well enough at this point to call
insecurity. It wasn't something you saw on her
often, and it looked wholly out of place.

"So don't scroll," I suggested, shrugging. "For

now. Until you know what the tone is. I'm sure you
got other shit to deal with now."

She did, too.
Six missed calls from her family.
Two from Brent.
One from Rachel demanding a call back.
I wasn't quite as busy, not having family who

I was close to. So unlike Brin, I scrolled. I read the
comments. I found that I went from one follower -
Brin - yesterday to over two thousand overnight. It
wasn't exactly superstardom, but it was more than I
could have gotten on my own.

"Mom, no, calm down. Let me talk," she

said, climbing off the couch to move outside.
Wearing nothing buy my tee and panties that left
half of her ass hanging out of the bottom, yeah, I
damn sure couldn't complain about the view. It was
one I could get used to.

That was the plan, after all.
Though I was pretty sure that no matter how

many times I saw it, I would never get used to
seeing her body so openly on display for me.

She was outside for nearly an hour, pacing

the deck, only once almost falling through the
crumbling floorboards.

I moved out there with coffee - that I had

laced with caramel syrup that I'd needed to go to a
specialty store to pick up for her - when her hand
finally left her ear.

"How'd that go?" I asked, not really able to

relate to having a family all up in your business,
and finding myself almost glad to have that
opportunity moving forward. Because of her.

I hadn't met any of them yet, but she'd told

me stories. Long, rambling stories that took off in
fifteen different directions before they circled back
to the original point to conclude. She called her
mother a hothead, but able to control it a tad better
than she could. Just a tad, though. If the story was
true, the same could be said of her sister and
nieces. For some reason, the Italian blood did not
run so fiery in the male veins, something she
shrugged at when I brought it up.

They were a tight group, never spending

holidays apart, not even now that her brother
moved a bit further away. They all came down to
her parents' house the day before each holiday,

slept over, celebrated together.

I'd never really had that.
Sure, I had gifts under my tree at Christmas,

and we had small, festive meals at Thanksgiving,
and dyed eggs on Easter, but it had always just
been the two of us.

I could barely imagine the scenes she

painted, loud voices yelling over each other,
brightly colored wrapping paper flying, so much
food leftover that they were eating it for a week
after.

More than I would admit, I was excited to

experience that, to feel that energy.

"She is demanding I bring you to dinner

before we leave again, so she and my dad can get
to know you."

"We can make that happen."
"Yeah?" she asked, turning her head over her

shoulder to look at me, face cautious, but hopeful.

"Of course. I figured we'd be getting

together. Got to get their seal of approval and all
that."

"You don't have to worry about my parents.

Or siblings."

"I have to worry about Brent," I guessed.
"You have to worry about Brent," she

agreed. "He will be the one giving you speeches
about treating me right. And how he's learned a lot
of clever ways to kill someone at the prison. And

he might always refer to you as That asshole since
that is what he has been calling you for months
now."

"He's like a brother," I nodded,

understanding. If I had a sister, I was sure I'd be the
same way with her men.

"Yeah. I mean my brother is too straight-up-

and-down to give you a threat. And even if he tried,
you'd know he was talking out of his ass. But Brent
means it. But he is also the one who told me I
screwed up."

"Screwed up how?" I asked, moving to step

behind her, pulling her back to me, sharing my body
heat since she was still without pants.

"By not crying on your shoulder. He was

who talked me into coming here. I was going to
wait for you to come to me. I don't know if you've
noticed, but I can be a bit stubborn."

"What?" I asked, voice pitching higher.

"You? No way."

"Would you have?" she asked, smile falling,

voice getting low.

"Would I have what?"
"Come for me."
"I don't know if you've noticed, but I can be

a bit bullheaded," I said, smiling when she snorted.
"But I'm also a man who knows what he wants, and
will give myself callouses to hold onto it. In case it
isn't obvious, Brin, I want you." I gave that a

second, let it sink in. "I would have come for you.
I'd come back for you a hundred times if I had to."

Brinley - 2 weeks

There was crow.
There was a lot of crow.
And it was just as dry and bitter as you

imagined, full of bone pieces that got caught in the
throat until you were sure you were going to choke
on them.

Our names got smeared by vicious bloggers.
We became punchlines of jokes on late-night

TV.

We had to endure endless questions about

our motivations, doubts about our relationship.

It was ugly.

It was easy to say you needed to have a thick

skin when you are in the public eye. It was one of
those throwaway comments that everyone makes,
like it excuses the fact that people come at you
with sharpened claws over something that didn't
even affect them, ready to tear out your throat for
having the audacity to exist and be human and
make mistakes.

But, I would find - as I would continue to

find - Rachel did know what she was talking about.

The outrage died down when we just kept

owning it, kept eating our crow with a healthy dose
of humble pie for dessert.

We stayed out of the public eye while the

story raged. But we kept our social media updated
with selfies and projects we were working on at the
farm. Warren snapped pictures of me doing projects
at the dining room table. I took ones of him -
shirtless, it was a real hardship, lemme tell ya - as
he worked on repairs to the barn.

We didn't work on the house except to clean

it, clear out some of the older things we had no use
for - cedar chests full of old clothing or paperwork.
Rachel was strict about that. She wanted a crew to
be a part of every step of the restoration if or when
we got to it.

Especially the bedroom, she had told me.

And even though it was through a text, I swear I
could hear the innuendo in her voice.

So we cleaned. We worked on fixing the

outbuildings and the fences. He took me on walks
through the woods to show me the stream he'd
almost drowned in as a kid. He showed me the fruit
orchards, piles of rotting apples, peaches, plums,
pears, and nectarines surrounding the trees that had
been unattended for so long. We went to dinner
with my family, after which he informed me that I
was way more fiery than my mother. And, finally,
we had Brent over one night.

He gave Warren the warnings I had

expected.

Then pulled me aside and told me not to

screw it up.

"What's up?" Warren asked, coming in from

outside with an armful of firewood. Because,
apparently, this place was old old school. Meaning
it didn't have heat. It had fireplaces. And it was
getting cold out.

I waved my hand with my phone at him.

"Just got a call from Rachel."

"And?"
"And it's time," I told him, nodding.
They figured things had blown over enough

for us to head back down to finish filming. We'd
take a solid ribbing from the crew, then could jump
right back into work.

Quite frankly, we both needed it.
Maybe me more so than Warren.

He was used to more downtime.
He had been keeping busy with work on the

barns and the workshop and various other things
that I had offered to help with, but knew I was
more of a hindrance than a help most of the time.

I had nothing to do.
I fiddled with projects, had found a lot of

gems hidden away in the workshop - half-finished
projects and old, seemingly useless items - that I
had up-cycled into really fun projects for my
Instagram profile.

That was another change, too.
There may have been a bit of a mob

mentality about our deception, but there was also a
huge chunk of people who came to look into us,
and liked what they saw, stuck around.

I made a deal with myself not to read the

comments, having heard once that Beyonce gave
out that advice, telling her friends in the industry
not to scroll. And, well, if Beyonce lived by it, then
it was a good rule to adopt.

But there were thousands of new followers,

of likes on my posts as far back as two years ago.

These people came, liked what they saw, and

showed me love.

I needed it more than I would have ever felt

comfortable admitting - the approval. After so long
of just barely getting by, to see that people like my
work despite my somewhat sordid current

reputation, that meant a lot to me.

But even with the love flowing in, I was

getting a bit bored being at home all the time.

I needed to work, to get my hands on a

project, to make a vision come to life.

It was a good feeling - if maybe a slightly

nerve-racking one - to know we were heading back.

"Know what I was thinking?" Warren asked,

running a hand across my hip as he passed, always
seeming to have a need to be touching me, which
was in no way a chore to endure.

"What?"
"Maybe we can nab some of that stained

glass you liked so much. Do something here with
it."

I smiled at that, leaning my head into his

arm.

"Frauds and thieves. That will go over well."

Warren - 9 months

The show was finally going to air.
It seemed like ages ago we had finished the

last scenes on the last episode. But there had to be
edits, and special PR, and press tours, and other
shit that I didn't even begin to try to understand
before the show could go live.

Which it was.
Tonight.
Her family had wanted to host some big

viewing party, but Brin had shut that down, saying
she wanted us to watch it privately, wanted to pick
apart the moments, the feelings, with just the two of
us.

She seemed determined to spot the things

everyone around us on the set, on the show, seemed
to pick up on. Longing looks. Hurt looks. Desire-
filled fights. Things that, in the moment, we hadn't
been aware enough of what was happening to call it
what it was. Or, even if we had felt twinges of it,
never would have admitted it.

We'd wasted a lot of time pretending when

pretending wasn't necessary, when things were
actually happening without us realizing.

"That was weird," she declared after the

credits rolled. "Seeing ourselves. It's weird," she

added. "I snort too much."

"Just when you're annoyed with me," I

clarified.

"So, like... most of the time," she told me

with a teasing smile.

She was exaggerating, of course.
Since filming wrapped up, there had been a

lot less arguing. We'd found that, for the most part,
the work was the trigger. Our opposing ideas mixed
with stubborn personalities. At home, we rarely
found cause to argue. And even when we did, it
blew over quickly.

"Think you're ready for another round of

filming?" I asked as she invaded my side of the
couch, climbing up into my lap, resting her back
into my chest, her head under my chin.

We'd agreed to it.
The special.
At first because we were just so thankful that

they were letting us finish the season that we would
agree to anything they asked of us.

But as time went on, as we tried to squeeze

all mine and Brin's possessions into the farmhouse,
as we fought over counter space in the bathroom,
as we rammed into each other as we tried to cook a
meal together in the kitchen, we were getting
excited to be able to do renovations, to get more
space, to make it our own.

Plus, Andy had opened up his wallet wide,

reached in, grabbed a wad of cash, and offered it to
us.

Because we were doing good things for the

channel. People liked us, liked the realness of our
arguments, liked how we still loved each other after
them.

It was enough money to pay another good

chunk of the mortgage on the farm. And reinvest in
Brin's business as well.

She'd never really believed it.
That she could have it.
After all these years.
After all the hard work that led mostly

nowhere.

She'd never felt comfortable enough to truly

let herself dream, even after the scandal died down,
even when she was swamped with requests for her
to redecorate houses, offices, resorts, and even the
homes of a few mid-level celebrities.

In the end, I had to be the one to sign the

lease for her office building. She'd never have done
it herself, not feeling like she was 'there' yet.

So I took the initiative.
I got the place.
I cleaned it up because the previous tenant

had left a mess.

Then I drove her there blindfolded, led her

inside, and showed her that her dreams were all
coming true.

When she'd turned around to admire the light

from a rare back window, I got down on a knee.

And I asked her to help make my dream

come true as well.

She teared up as you might expect, gave me

her hand like I'd been praying for, then in true Brin
fashion, declared, "Only if you let me put throw
pillows on the bed."

So we had fucking throw pillows on the bed.
But I didn't care.
Because she was there in it with me every

night.

Because she promised to be with me for all

of our nights.

Brinley - 4 years

"This is fantastic," Rachel declared, clapping

her hands a bit as she looked around.

Rachel, as it turned out, became our biggest

fan, our fiercest ally, our cheerleader, our counselor
when we were being our true selves - stubborn and
unbending - our dearest, truest friend.

She'd accepted our deceit, fought for our

redemption, invested herself in our success.

Through a sham relationship.
Then a real one.
A season of a show.
A special.
A second season.
Then a third.
The one we were currently filming.
Right now.
Right here.
In our house.
Mine and Warren's.
The farm we had made our own through

three months of intensive, relationship-testing
renovations.

I had a wall of shiplap, damnit.
And reclaimed shipping pallet floors.
Because, in return, I got my stained glass

window, throw pillows, beautiful wall art, a tile-free
countertop, and a coffee table that Warren was not
allowed to put his feet up on.

We'd done the impossible; we'd meshed our

styles until they weren't two starkly contrasting

ones anymore. They were just seamlessly stitched
together.

There had been a much-needed addition,

making the master bigger, and adding on a third
bedroom and a home office. Where I was forced to
keep my craft projects. Glitter was strictly
forbidden in the main area of the house.

"It is," I agreed, smiling at the room. "I hope

he doesn't guess it right away."

"Why would he?"
"Remember season one?" I asked, as though

it was possible for her to forget.

"That was a bit of a whirlwind. Why don't

you refresh my memory."

"Jennifer and Bobby. They bought the house,

and wanted to DIY it. We swooped in to help. And
had a particular surprise for Bobby."

"The nursery," she remembered. "That was

some good TV."

"We had a talk about that episode. I'm

worried he will walk in, smell the paint, and just
know."

"You paint in the house all the time. I think

you're being paranoid. And even if he does sense
something, the nursery will still be a surprise."

"He's going to bitch at me about how I

shouldn't be around paint or on my feet or lifting
heavy objects - and Warren considers grocery bags
heavy items that women shouldn't have to carry in

from the car - when I am pregnant."

It sounded weird to say.
Pregnant.
It was both a surprise, and not.
We'd ditched birth control almost a full year

ago.

But nothing had happened.
I was starting to wonder if we needed to go

see a fertility specialist since we certainly had sex
enough to produce a baby in a year.

But then one night, the smell of chopped

meat cooking for tacos made me feel violently ill.

I'd figured it was food poisoning or a bug at

the time, since we were constantly around a
revolving door of new crew members who brought
who-knew-what with them.

But then we'd been on a job site a week later,

and someone brought in nachos. More chopped
meat.

More vomiting.
I'd called my mom on the way to the urgent

care center, and I remembered being deeply hurt
when she'd laughed at me.

Laughed.
At me being sick.
"That is too good," she said, recovering.
"Being sick is good?" I snapped, trying to

ignore the rolling in my stomach.

"You're not sick. You're pregnant."

"What? No," I said immediately, but it only

took me a second to see that was a possibility. "I
mean... why would you say that?"

"I was never sick with your brother or sister.

But then you came along, and the smell of chopped
meat cooking made me green. I couldn't be
anywhere near the stuff until I popped you out. You
grew up obsessed with chopped meat too," she
recalled, nodding. "Sloppy Joes, beefaroni, and
tacos. That was all you ever wanted to eat, I
swear."

That was, well, bizarre.
But kind of cool.
It was also not exactly a foolproof way to see

if you were expecting.

So I drove myself to the urgent care center,

peed on a stick, and learned that - as she so often
was - my mother was right.

I was pregnant.
My immediate urge had been to rush home,

tell Warren, let him share that thrill since we both
seemed to be losing hope on having a baby.

But then I remembered.
The way Bobby's face had looked, the way

he had grabbed Jennifer, the way she had given him
a beautiful memory of learning he was about to be
a father.

I wanted that for Warren.
Even if he didn't realize he wanted it.

Mr. Practicality.
So I kept it to myself.
It had only been six weeks, barely long

enough to be absolutely certain. Six weeks too
early to be telling anyone.

I felt guilty telling Rachel and Nick - the lone

camera guy we were allowing in on this - as well as
Brent who had done all the work for me because he
was every bit as overprotective as Warren, but I
had to remind myself that it was for a good reason.

Warren had been called down to Cape May

to deal with a 'suspicious busted window' at our
townhouse there. Yes, that townhouse. The one
we'd fallen in love within. It had been a wedding
gift from richer-than-Midas Andy. We went every
summer with my whole family as I did as a kid,
walking the pier at sunrise, going to the beach, the
arcade, cooking, having ice cream every night in
town. Warren had even surprised me with an
outdoor shower one day, prompting me to thank
him inside it together.

But the window wasn't busted.
And the neighbor didn't really want Warren

to come over to tell him how he could expand his
kitchen for two hours.

And I didn't really need him to stop on his

way home to find files for Billy Andrews and
Brandy York to bring home to me. Billy Andrews
and Brandy York didn't exist. But he'd only been

gone nine hours - commute included - and we
needed one extra one to throw all the finishing
touches together.

He was on his way now.
I'd just gotten the text saying he was giving

up on the file, that I must have brought it home
with me or something.

"Alright, Nick, let's move outside," Rachel

said, as we had agreed. They could film. From
outside the nursery window. Giving us the space we
needed to have a private few words.

It was just twenty minutes later when I heard

him come through the front door, his boot-clad feet
clomping through the house as they so often did.

My belly was in knots, my heart skittering

around in my chest.

"Brin?" he called.
I sent Nick and Rachel a hopeful look, "In

the spare room!" I called out to him, taking a deep
breath, moving inward slightly so I could both see
the door - and therefore Warren's reaction - as well
as be seen by the camera.

"What are you doing in..." he started,

pushing the door open.

The words froze on his lips as his eyes landed

immediately on the crib in the center of the room.

There was a long moment as his dark eyes

stayed there - dark eyes I hoped our baby would
inherit - too surprised to show anything.

And then he did a very Warren thing.
He looked at me with that smirk of his.
"Billy Andrews and Brandy York?" he asked,

eyes dancing. "B-A-B-Y?"

"That's what you have to say?" I asked,

slitting my eyes at him. "I had Brent bust his butt
for you and all..."

"You really gonna argue with me right now?"

he asked, smiling.

"You started it!" I insisted, shaking my head,

unable to stop the smile that pulled at my lips
either.

Four years.
Endless idiotic arguments.
More love than I ever knew it was possible

to feel.

And all there was in the future was more of

it.

I wasn't sure my body was big enough to

handle it all.

"Let's try that again," I said after a second.

"What do you think?"

"You're making me a father?" he asked,

moving close, putting his arms around my lower
back, crushing my lower body to his, making me
have to crane my neck up to look at him.

"Yeah," I told him, seeing the depth of

emotion in his eyes for a long moment before his
lips started twitching.

"Know what I think?" he asked, and I knew

what was coming.

I knew.
And there was no stopping the smile that

made my cheeks hurt.

"I think it's fantastic," he told me before

sealing his lips to mine.

And it was.
Absolutely, completely, one-hundred-percent

fantastic.

DON'T FORGET

Dear Reader,

Thank you for taking time out of your life to

read this book. If you loved this book, I would

really appreciate it if you could hop onto

Goodreads or Amazon and tell me your favorite

parts. You can also spread the word by

recommending the book to friends or sending

digital copies that can be received via kindle or

kindle app on any device.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Acknowledgments

As always, Chloe Sanossian, who deserves

all the woots, for her excitement for this project
and her amazing cover design. Also for listening to
my fears and insecure ramblings for weeks on end.

Nikki Lund - who sent me pictures of her

baby chickies to help me on hard days. And for
being the best cheerleader any author could ask
for.

Anne Malcom - because she understands.

#sisterqueens

To my readers who took a chance on this one

with me, even though nothing goes boom and no
one gets killed. You are all the best <3 I'm a
writer; I usually have the words, but I simply can't

find the right ones to describe how thankful I am
for all of you.

ALSO BY JESSICA GADZIALA

The Henchmen MC

Reign

Cash

Wolf

Repo

Duke

Renny

Lazarus

Pagan

Cyrus

Edison

Reeve

Sugar

The Savages

Monster

Killer

Savior

Mallick Brothers

For A Good Time, Call

Shane

Ryan

Mark

Eli

Investigators

367 Days

14 Weeks

Dark

Dark Mysteries

Dark Secrets

Dark Horse

Professionals

The Fixer

The Ghost

STANDALONES WITHIN NAVESINK

BANK:

Vigilante

Grudge Match

OTHER SERIES AND STANDALONES:

Stars Landing

What The Heart Needs
What The Heart Wants

What The Heart Finds

What The Heart Knows

The Stars Landing Deviant

Surrogate

The Sex Surrogate

Dr. Chase Hudson

DEBT

Dissent

Into The Green

Stuffed: A Thanksgiving Romance

Unwrapped

Peace, Love, & Macarons

A Navesink Bank Christmas

Don't Come

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jessica Gadziala is a full-time writer, parrot

enthusiast, and coffee drinker from New Jersey.
She enjoys short rides to the book store, sad songs,
and cold weather.

She is very active on Goodreads, Facebook,

as well as her personal groups on those sites. Join
in. She's friendly.

STALK HER!

Connect with Jessica:

Facebook:

https://www.facebook.com/JessicaGadziala/

Facebook Group:

https://www.facebook.com/groups/314540025563403/

Goodreads:

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/13800950.Jessica_Gadziala

Goodreads Group:

https://www.goodreads.com/group/show/177944-
jessica-gadziala-books-and-bullsh

Twitter: @JessicaGadziala

JessicaGadziala.com

<3/ Jessica

Document Outline

Contents
TITLE PAGE
DEDICATION
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- EPILOGUE
- DON'T FORGET
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- ALSO BY JESSICA GADZIALA
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR
- STALK HER!

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