Total pages in book: 43
Estimated words: 41373 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 207(@200wpm)___ 165(@250wpm)___ 138(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 41373 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 207(@200wpm)___ 165(@250wpm)___ 138(@300wpm)
“I… spread a little bit of butter onto them,” I said. “I think that’s what the recipe said.”
He nodded. “That’s better than nothing. Here.”
He came over, reaching for the pan.
“Wait. Here. Take the hot pads,” I said. “It’s still scorching hot.”
“Well, there’s your problem,” Rowen said. “You’ve got to wait until they cool down.”
“Fuck,” I repeated.
He reached out to rub the small of my back. “It’s no biggie. Once it cools, we can easily fix it up. This piece will come out and fit against the other one like a puzzle piece.”
His hand on my back felt good.
He was still touching me like that, even when we weren’t taking pictures or filming anything yet?
I cleared my throat. “We can do the video, then, I guess. While we wait.”
I tried hard to hide how flustered I was.
This gorgeous man in my kitchen, who was probably used to the fanciest food in New York.
For all I knew, his life back in the city might have been leagues beyond anything Bestens, Tennessee could offer. Other than auditions, he probably didn’t have a care in the world back there, living it up and hanging out with wealthy socialites.
Rowen was the kind of guy who could have anyone he wanted. And he was taking a shot on me, even being nice enough to bring over fresh flowers, for fuck’s sake.
I wanted to lead with love.
Even if it was… fake love.
Just chill, and pretend to be his boyfriend for the video, I reminded myself. And please, God, stop staring at his lips.
4
ROWEN
I’d never been in a house quite like Shane’s. It definitely looked like the before footage of before-and-after renovations, but there was also something unique about it that made me feel at home from the moment I stepped inside.
There was peeling paint, sure, and I was pretty certain that 75% of the stone pavers on the front walkway had sunk into the grassy lawn by now.
But every inch of the place was like a time capsule, of the house and of Shane himself. The old fridge was covered in photos, presumably of him, his sister, and tons of family. The Christmas decorations were in every room, and even the kitchen counter had a tiny, ancient little ceramic Christmas tree that plugged in and lit up small multicolored bulbs all over it. The fact that most of his dinnerware had been passed down was cute.
It was so different from my family.
I swore Mom ordered a new, fancy set of dinnerware every few years, when the old one didn’t seem “in style” to her anymore. They were all imported from Sweden or France or handcrafted by someone in Japan. I’d accidentally broken a tea saucer once, and she’d sent me home in a rage—only to discard that dinner set a few months later.
We’d always had the finer things in life.
Too bad all of those finer things were the direct results of my parents’ embezzlement and tax fraud.
And I liked Shane’s stuff better, anyway.
“We should set it up in here, I think,” Shane was saying now, walking over toward the living room. “Get the fireplace in the background, and the edge of the Christmas tree. I want them to see how much work the house needs without thinking it’s totally dilapidated.”
I hauled my camera over toward the living room and set it on the same shelf from earlier. “All right. Let’s get this thing rolling.”
Shane was wide-eyed. “Do you want to do some practice runs first? Figure out what we’re going to say?”
“I say we just go for it,” I told him. “All we have to do is look like a happy couple and talk about the house.”
I hit the record button on the camera and walked over to Shane’s side.
I leaned in, pressing a little kiss to his cheek and squeezing him from the side.
“Oh,” he said, with a little gasp, and something about it made me go a little tingly. I liked surprising him, even though I didn’t really know why.
I’d expected Shane to start talking about his house the moment the camera was recording, but he seemed a little paralyzed, the same way I used to get when I filmed audition tapes.
So I started to do what I did best—I improvised.
“Hi! I’m Rowen Skye, and this is my boyfriend Shane,” I said confidently, smiling at the camera. “We moved into this twentieth-century craftsman home—oh, what was it, five years ago? The home sits at the heart of Bestens, Tennessee, one of the best-kept secret gems of the countryside. We fell in love with the house after falling in love with each other. But there’s one thing our love can’t fix, and that’s this.”
I turned to gently push on one of the bricks near the fireplace and it crumbled away, pieces dropping to the floor.
“We, ah, we need the Fixer Brothers’ help,” Shane finally said, stepping in. “We need your help. The Fixer Brothers has been my favorite show since it first came out, and, well, um—I think my house would be good for it. Our house, I mean. Shit.”