by Cat Johnson
“Right? Both of them. They’re perfect together. The chemistry is off the charts.” Blondie’s confusing reply to her sidekick’s equally baffling comment had Clay frowning.
“Perfect for what? What are you talking about?” A single glance at Tasha told Clay she might know a bit more than he did about what was happening, but she looked no happier about it than he was. “Do you know what’s going on?” he asked her.
She raised her gaze to him. “I think I can guess.”
Annoyed, he widened his eyes. “Does someone want to fill me in?”
“I’d love to. Can we sit?” Blondie asked.
“You buying?” he asked.
She nodded with a smile. “Of course.”
Still not moving, he decided to push a bit further, since she was being so agreeable. “You going to back off my house?” he asked.
She smiled wider. “That will depend on you.”
What the fuck was happening? Out of options and still confused, Clay pushed off the bar.
“All right. Fine.” He glanced at the bartender. “Raymond, we’re sitting down. Can you send over another beer for me and put my last one on their tab?” He tipped his head toward the woman willing to foot the expense for his drinking just to talk to him. He wasn’t going to argue.
Raymond nodded. “You got it, Dirtman.”
It was good to be a regular.
“Thanks, man.” Clay turned and made his way outside to the tables in the enclosed courtyard.
Once seated, he had every intention of ordering himself a nice platter of wings too, on them. It was the least he deserved since they were going to cost him tens of thousands of dollars more by bidding up the price of the house . . . if they ever backed off and let him have it at all.
He supposed he’d find out either way soon enough. In the meantime, he was going to order whatever the hell he wanted in the process and they’d be paying for it all.
Ha! He felt better already. And if he got his house back from the thieves who’d tried to steal it out from under him, and didn’t have to go any higher than he had already on the price, he’d be a slightly poorer, but happy man.
EIGHT
Tasha knew the plan for the yet to be named home improvement reality show was to have two hosts. A female—that would be her, hopefully—and a male. Only she’d assumed her male counterpart would be a professional carpenter or something like that. Not the Neanderthal from the bar she’d taken home while she’d been drunk.
But from the comments the producers had made, and their interest in talking more with him, they were considering him.
What were they thinking?
Sure he had Popeye forearms and was built like a brick wall—or a man who could build a brick wall with his own two hands—but still.
Ugh. She had to put a stop to this. She’d have to find someone better. There had to be a hot builder out there somewhere. She’d troll every construction site in the state looking for him if she had to. Anybody would be better than—him.
Crap, she couldn’t even remember his name, if she’d ever known it. How drunk had she been last night anyway?
The answer to that question was clear in her lack of memories—very drunk.
Tasha wouldn’t make that mistake again.
“So,” Joanne, blonde and beautiful and the head of production, settled onto one of the high stools at the table outside. “Tasha, would you like to make the introductions?”
Uh oh. Her eyes widened. “Um.”
“Yes, Tasha, introduce me to your friends.” His smirk told her he suspected she didn’t remember his name.
She turned toward him and forced a saccharin smile. “You feel free to introduce yourself. I know you like to be in charge.”
He cocked up one brow to match the crooked smile that quirked up one corner of his mouth. “You’re right. I do like to be in control. I didn’t think you’d remembered that part about our time together. I’m glad you do, though.”
The cocky, annoyingly handsome and over the top manly man winked at her. Tasha was torn by the turmoil of hormones and emotions that one ridiculous—and ridiculously effective—wink caused within her.
She didn’t know whether she wanted to lift her skirt so this nameless man could show her what she couldn’t remember about her night with him or if she wanted to crawl under the table and die of embarrassment.
When she glanced at the women from the production company, she saw they were riveted, their full attention on the surreal interaction between her and her forgotten and regrettable one-night stand.
He was no help. Instead of being a gentleman—or at least a man—and introducing himself, instead he sat there looking amused at Tasha’s expense.
She let out an annoyed huff.
Finally, the producer took control of the situation and ended the agony of the eternally long awkward silence. She stood and extended one hand toward the caveman. “I’m Joanne Rossi, executive producer and head of development for New Millennia Media.”
He dropped his gaze to her hand before finally extending his own for a brief shake. “Clay.”
Clay. Tasha turned the name over in her mind and found it felt kind of familiar.
That made her feel moderately better. She’d at least known the name of the obnoxious but hot man she’d taken home and had forgettable sex with while in a drunken stupor.
Joanne paused but it became apparent that no further information was forthcoming from the man. Finally, she said, “Nice to meet you, Clay. This is Maria Hortez, our director for this project.”
His gaze moved to the director. “What project?”
“A renovation project on your house, if we can come to an agreement.” Joanne smiled.
Clay leaned back as the waiter came to deliver his beer, but not before Tasha saw him react to the producer’s use of the words your house.
It was obvious Joanne was a master negotiator, like most in her position were. She knew just how to manipulate him.
On the other hand, Clay proved he wasn’t without skills of his own as he reached for the long neck bottle and pressed it to his lips in an unhurried motion. The smug move looked calculated, to prove he was in control and that they could all wait for him to be ready to continue.
Setting down the bottle, he finally said, “I’m listening.”
Damn, the man was good. The production company had the power and the money and, as far as she knew, the top bid on the house he obviously wanted. But now that he had his game face on, Tasha would never have guessed how much was on the line for Clay in this negotiation.
In seemed of the three parties represented here, she was the only one without bargaining skills. She hated that every thought and emotion showed on her face—when it wasn’t spewing out of her mouth at the most inopportune time.
She hated that Clay could look so calm and cool when her heart pounded until she felt light-headed as fear that she wouldn’t get this job gripped her.
On the other hand, a feeling of dread overwhelmed her, dismay that she would get the job and that her co-star would be Mr. Obnoxious, her one-night stand.
Hate it or not, she’d do it. She’d do the show even if they chose this insufferable beast of a man to be her co-host.
Tasha knew even without her agent’s warning that after her viral public meltdown and the show’s cancellation this could be her one chance to salvage her on-air career.
Milly should be here for this. This is what Tasha paid her for.
It was too late now.
When they’d set up this meeting it wasn’t meant to be a negotiation. Just a quick, casual, get to know you kind of thing. Clay’s presence had turned it into something else entirely.
Now it felt like they were all playing hardball and the final score would determine her future. It was yet another reason to resent Clay, as if she needed another one.
“We’re producing a home renovation reality show—” Joanne began, only to be interrupted by Clay’s snort.
When sh
e paused and lifted a single brow in silent question, Clay said, “There’s no reality about any of those shows.”
“Well, I can assure you one thing will be real and that will be that we’re using the bungalow in Imperial Beach. Whether or not your name is on the deed or ours is when we finish production is what we’re discussing now.”
That sobered him fast enough.
When he remained quiet, Joanne continued, “The concept is to show the renovation from start to finish.”
“There’s too many of those shows on TV already. What’s going to make this one different? And how does any of this involve me? You think I’m gonna buy it from you after you’re done screwing it up?”
“Ah, but that’s the part where you come in. You’ll be the one doing the renovating.”
He frowned. “What do you mean? You’re going to hire me to be the contractor?”
“In a way.” Maria smiled.
Clay was confused. Tasha could tell that much from his expression.
He wasn’t going to grasp what was happening the way Joanne and Maria were dancing around the subject. Tasha might dislike this man, but she hated this long drawn-out guessing game more.
Time to end it. “They want you to be one of the two on-air hosts for the reality show. You’d do the work on camera.”
His eyes popped wide before they narrowed. She could see the pieces fall into place in his mind, like watching a chimp trying to figure out how to get a banana out of a box.
He swung his gaze from Tasha to Joanne. “And in exchange you step away from the purchase and I can buy the house?”
She nodded.
“You already drove the price up tens of thousands of dollars above what I initially offered. The price I would have gotten it for if you weren’t in the picture since it sat on the market for two years before you came around.” He folded his arms and leveled his gaze on her. “What about that financial hardship you caused me? Will I be compensated for that?”
Joanne’s lips twisted in what looked like more of a forced than a genuine smile. Tasha had been in this business long enough to know the difference. “You will be compensated. Yes.”
“And who has the final say regarding the design choices? Because I don’t want you messing up my house since I’m the one who’s going to be living in it.”
“You can make the final choices. Of course,” Joanne said.
Clay pressed his lips together. “The deed is in my name and mine alone?”
“Your name alone if all of the conditions laid out in the contract between us are met.”
“Then I think we have a deal.” Grinning, he reached for the beer again.
Joanne’s smile was victorious now. “I think we do. I’ll have my lawyer send over a contract for your participation in the show. Once you sign it, we’ll tell the real estate agent we’re withdrawing our latest offer on the house.”
It seemed like a done deal. Sign on the line. Everyone walks away happy. Simple. But Tasha knew better.
These deals, and the accompanying contracts, were never simple. This man was swimming with the sharks, dealing with Joanne and her lawyers. Judging by his smug look of satisfaction, he had no idea who he was up against.
Tasha shouldn’t care, but she had to. If all went well, she’d be right there alongside him for the duration of this show and she had a feeling when Clay was unhappy, he made everyone around him miserable.
Joanne slid her business card across the table to him. “Email your information to my office for the contract. We’ll messenger it over by tomorrow morning.”
“I look forward to it.” He stood. “Thanks for the beer.”
He looked like he’d gotten everything he’d come for and more. So happy, he even spared a moderately pleasant tip of his head toward Tasha on his way out.
Once he’d gone, Tasha turned her attention back to Joanne and Maria.
“Well, that was easy,” Maria said.
“Yes, it was. Now, for you.” Joanne leveled her gaze on Tasha.
“Me?” Tasha asked.
Joanne cocked up a brow. “Yes, you. You know as much as we do that he’s only half of the equation.”
“Exactly. So what’s the history between you two, anyway?” Maria asked.
“Um, not much. I actually only met him yesterday.” Tasha shrugged as if that were all and tried to evaluate if they believed it.
By the twitch of their lips, she hadn’t convinced them completely, but she didn’t care. They wanted her for this show. She was the other half of the equation. Whatever was between her and Clay—sex, hate, hate sex—the producers liked it.
“So let’s get down to business.” Joanne’s negotiating smile was back in place.
Tasha slowed her breathing and tempered any excitement. Time to play their game. “Gladly. Just let me get my agent on the phone.”
Show time.
NINE
“Did you read this?” Clay’s bulk filled Tasha’s doorway as he didn’t bother to say hello.
“Read what?” she asked when she could wrest her attention from the beefy arm holding the paper and to what he’d said.
“This, this . . . piece of crap,” he spat, waving the pages in the air.
Still holding the door open as he stood outside, she asked, “You mean your contract with the production company?”
“Yes.” He stalked into the room and slapped the papers onto her table before spinning to face her.
“Sure, come on in.” Brows raised, she closed the door since it seemed, invited or not, he was staying. She walked, a lot more calmly than he had, to where he stood. “What’s the problem?”
She’d gotten the final copy of her own contract, negotiated by her agent, and had happily signed it. It wasn’t quite as good of a deal as she’d had with Good Day, San Diego, but it was still pretty good.
Given the circumstances, she was happy. Clay, apparently, was not. Maybe he should get himself an agent to negotiate his terms.
Clay and an agent. She smothered a chuckle at the incongruity of that idea. Though it was no more ridiculous than his being her co-host.
Meanwhile, he had yet to answer her question as, red faced, he snorted like a bull.
She picked up the papers and scanned them. It looked like the typical contract. Not a whole lot different than hers, except his contained the stuff about the property as well as his compensation. She scowled when she saw how much he’d be earning even though he had no experience at all in front of the camera.
“It looks pretty boilerplate to me. What’s the problem?” she asked, looking up to see him staring at her, wide-eyed.
He sputtered. “What do you mean, what’s the problem? Look at these requirements. Cameras following me around twenty-four hours a day including inside every room in my house.”
Tasha held up a finger to interrupt his rant. “No, not in the bathroom.”
“Yeah, great. Nice of them not to film me taking a shit.” He screwed up his mouth.
She sighed at his crudeness. “It’s a television show. Cameras are not negotiable. Anything else?”
“Yes, there is. She said I’d make the final decisions, but I don’t see that written here anywhere. So, what? Will you get a say in my design?”
Insulted, she frowned. “I have excellent taste.”
“I don’t give a shit. It’s not my taste and this is my house. You’re probably going to want to strip it of everything that makes it unique and turn it into some generic soulless piece of shit.” His gaze swept the surroundings, inferring her home was exactly that.
“I’m not going to try to destroy the character of the house. That’s what I love about it. I’d probably switch up the exterior color though. The more I think about it, that turquoise looks a little too much like a swimming pool. But I think a nice soft pink would fit the period of the house and keep its unique character. I picked up a book of historically appropriate paint colors at the hardware store. There was one called Shrimp Pink that was beautiful.”
She was about to get the booklet to show him when she noticed his expression.
“Shrimp Pink? What the fuck? No!” His eyes bulged as he shook his head. “I like the blue. It’s staying.”
She let out a huff. “Of course, you like it.”
The color was brash and over-the-top in-your-face, just like he was.
“This isn’t going to work.” He shook his head and reached for the papers.
Fearing he’d tear them up and walk away from this deal, she leapt forward. “All right. The color stays. It’s your choice.”
He narrowed his eyes to glare at her. “I’m not sure I trust you.”
“You’re going to have to if you want this house.” And Tasha was going to have to learn to compromise because she wasn’t convinced Joanne would keep her on as the host if Clay walked away from the deal.
Somehow they’d become a package deal.
Stupid vodka. She’d never drink it again since apparently she made horrible choices while under the influence. Now she was stuck with that bad decision, twenty-four/seven for the entire shoot.
She crossed her arms and let out a huff. “I don’t know what you’re complaining about. I’m the one who should be upset. I have to live there with you for the duration of the show.”
“Oh, yeah. Because it will be such a hardship for you to live on the beach.” He rolled his eyes.
“It will be a hardship as long as you’re there. It’s not going to be comfortable. That house is smaller than this place and I live here alone. Living with you in that tiny bungalow is going to be a little too close for comfort.”
His face twisted into an ugly hateful expression. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. You don’t have to be concerned about the close quarters. There’s no chance of me touching you ever again. I assure you.”
She didn’t know whether to be relieved or insulted—and then there was that strange niggling of disappointment inside her.
Tasha planted her hand on one hip. “Fine with me. I’m certainly not looking for a repeat of the other night.”
He blew out a short bark of a laugh. “Yeah, I’m sure.”