by Cat Johnson
She ignored the comment rather than get into a conversation that would force her to have to admit she didn’t remember anything past opening the door that night, until she woke the next morning alone.
“Anyway, you have to sign the contract or you don’t get your house.”
“Don’t remind me.” He mumbled something else under his breath too.
She couldn’t quite make it all out but it sounded a bit like a long list of obscenities.
“It’s four weeks total, including all the post production stuff. Surely even you can survive something for that long,” she said.
He sent her another glare. “As I’ve pointed out before, you know nothing about me, but yeah, I can and have survived worse.”
Looking around him, he stalked to her kitchen counter and grabbed the pen lying next to a pad of paper. He strode back and spun the contract to face him.
Bent over the low table he flipped to the last page and scratched a large scrawl of black ink on the signature line, sealing their fate for the duration of this production.
“There.” He shoved the papers forward. “You can get that back to them. I don’t scan or fax or whatever the hell else they suggested I do with it. And I sure as fuck am not paying to deliver it to them by messenger.
She reached out and took the precious paperwork that would ensure her future career prospects and clutched it tight against her chest. “I’ll get it to them.”
Scowling, he tossed the pen down and turned toward the door, only to spin back before he took a single step. “I don’t care what that paper says or doesn’t say, I want it understood that I choose what happens to my house.”
Tasha tipped her head. “Fine.”
He stared at her for a few seconds, as if evaluating whether he could trust her or not.
Finally, he turned and yanked open the door. When it slammed shut behind him and his overwhelming presence was gone, Tasha dropped onto the sofa and sagged against the back cushions, his contract still clenched in her hand.
She glanced down at his signature, as bold and unruly as the man himself.
God, he was just so . . . so . . . she was having trouble coming up with enough descriptive words for what that man was. Obnoxious and annoying didn’t seem strong enough.
She’d need a thesaurus to fully express how he made her feel. And ugh, she was going to have to be his roommate for a month.
So why did thinking about him make her want to break out her battery-operated boyfriend? She wished she knew.
TEN
“What the fuck are you doing?” Clay came to a stop outside the door of the bedroom he’d chosen as his.
The guy from the production company twisted atop the six-foot ladder to glance down and answer him. “Installing the camera.”
“In my fucking bedroom?”
“Yes. They said every room except the bathroom gets one.”
“Fuck.” He’d known that. He’d discussed that there would be cameras in every room except in the bathroom with Tasha before he signed the damn contract almost a month ago.
So why hadn’t he grasped the full ramifications of there being one in his bedroom?
Because this was all new to him. And all these Hollywood types were wheeler dealers who threw a seventeen-page contract at him knowing he wouldn’t be able to understand half of it.
He’d been trying to save money and didn’t want to hire a lawyer. Tasha had signed hers and said it was all standard stuff so he hadn’t worried too much that they were trying to screw him.
Now he realized he should have sucked it up and spent the money.
Shit. He spun and almost crashed head-on into the other camera and Greg, the man operating it.
Unable to get over the fact he’d be monitored as he slept, he turned back to glare at the workman mounting the camera on his wall. “Why the fuck would they want hours and hours of me sleeping?”
The man turned his head to shoot Clay a look. “Sleeping? Yeah, that’s what they want to catch on camera in your bedroom. You sleeping.” He let out a snort and turned his attention back to the device as realization hit Clay.
He let out a laugh. “They think she and I are going to have sex in here?”
Jesus, these producers really were stupid, because that wasn’t going to happen, and it sure as fuck wasn’t going to happen while cameras filmed it.
Were they nuts? He wasn’t a porn star. Not to mention his parents—shit, his grandmother too—were all going to be watching this, along with his teammates and the rest of the country.
Fucking lunacy.
As he stalked out of the room, he realized since the closing on the property that morning, and the subsequent move-in of the crew an hour later, he’d said and thought some variation of the word fuck a good thousand times.
Good. He hoped he cussed so much they had to bleep every other word. Maybe then they’d give him some damn privacy.
But more likely, with his crap luck, they’d sue him. Breech of contract for reasons of obscenities.
Clay shook his head and strode down the hall, only to be stopped dead in his tracks when he saw another ladder set up in his guest room. Or, for the next month, Tasha’s bedroom.
He dared to look up and yeah, there was another guy installing another camera aimed at her bed.
“Fuck.” He turned and—again—narrowly missed the ever present cameraman who was practically up his ass. “Five feet, dude. Can you at least give me that? Just five fucking feet? Please!”
Greg pressed his lips tight and nodded.
No fun yelling at someone who wasn’t allowed to fight back.
Clay continued in his path to the living room, but what he found there wasn’t much better. Tasha, sitting in a director’s type chair, getting her hair and makeup done.
“What the fuck is this?” he asked.
“Problem?” She glanced at him past the make-up chick.
“What are you doing putting on make-up and wearing that—dress.” He did his best to not notice how hot she looked in it.
The dress was cut low in the front and slit high up the side. The whole thing was ridiculous. Who remodeled a house while wearing a formal gown and heels?
He knew this show was going to be a bunch of bullshit, but this was pushing even the low bar he’d set.
“It’s just to shoot the opening sequence. I’ll change later.”
“Into what? Semi-formal attire instead of formal wear? Do you even own a T-shirt?” he asked.
She opened her mouth to answer.
“And not a designer one that cost a fortune and you’re afraid to get dirty,” he cut her off with that condition.
When she closed her mouth again, he knew he’d been right. She owned no work clothes and the chances of her doing anything around the house except annoy him were slim to none.
He’d rather do it all alone anyway, but as per the contract she was going to have to be there for this stupid show. No doubt she was going to be in his way the entire time, flouncing around in fancy dresses and complaining about getting dirty.
“You’re going to have to shoot your part for the opening sequence too, you know. You might want to do that before you get all dirty.”
He shook his head. “Nope. They can edit something together from all the hours of shit they’ll have. And speaking of getting dirty . . .You better go to Wal-Mart or something and get yourself some cheap Fruit of the Loom T-shirts because I’m not doing all the work by myself just because you’re afraid to mess up your fancy Rodeo Drive clothes. I’m going to start scraping the popcorn off the ceiling today.”
The director rushing toward him had Clay turning to see what fresh hell she brought.
“Clay.”
“Yes, Maria.” He somehow mustered patience he didn’t know he had and answered her civilly.
“You have to avoid saying any name brands on camera.”
“What?” What the fuck was she talking about?
“Wal-Mart. Fruit of the Loom. They’re not our sponsors so you c
an’t mention them on the show or our paying sponsors will get angry you’re plugging the other companies for free on Hot House.”
So now he had to walk on eggshells and watch what he said? How many times a day would he normally have drank a Mountain Dew or eaten a Subway sandwich, or said he needed to run to Home Depot for something?
A fuck ton, that’s how many.
The other part of what she’d said struck him. Clay frowned. “Wait. Hot House?”
She nodded. “That’s the name of the show.”
In his contract they’d referred to this debacle as a cable network home renovation show, title to be determined.
Hot House. Stupid House, more like. But the name of the show wasn’t his decision so he moved back to the more pertinent issue—their trying to muzzle what he said on camera.
“Who are our sponsors? Who am I allowed to mention?” he asked.
Clay supposed his luck wasn’t good enough to have Budweiser as a sponsor so he could drink a nice cold beer in front of the cameras while he worked. Or even better, have Anheuser-Busch deliver a truckload of free beer to the set.
“Um, they’re mostly, female products.”
“Aw, jeez.” He was going to be on a show sponsored by a douche company or some feminine itch product. Lovely.
“There is one sponsor you might be happy with,” she continued.
“And who’s that?” He could only imagine.
It had better not be some erectile dysfunction medication. As it was the guys were never going to let him live down that he had agreed to be on this damn show to begin with.
“Iron Man XXL Condoms,” Maria said.
He considered that for a moment. Yeah. He could be on board with that particular sponsorship.
“All right.” He nodded. “Have them send over a couple of boxes.”
Her brows rose high as she looked a little too pleased about his comment. “All right. I’ll get some here right away.”
Clay realized his mistake immediately. The condoms. The bedroom cameras. Maria’s excitement he’d asked for free condom samples . .
They truly were hoping he and Tasha were going to get busy. On camera. To be aired countrywide to anyone with cable.
Fucking unbelievable, delusional, sick motherfuckers.
He shook his head and stomped out of the room. He’d sold his soul and his dignity to these Hollywood devils for this house. But what was done, was done.
All he could do now was get to work on making it perfect—and ignore the cameras while doing it.
As the cameraman scrambled to get out of his way while he strode down the hall, Clay realized that was going to be easier said than done.
A horrible idea struck him and he stopped and turned to the cameraman, who narrowly avoided plowing into him. “Are you going to be living here too?” he asked.
Greg pressed his lips tight again, unwilling to speak. Clay stood his ground willing to wait him out until finally the cameraman said, “No. The crew goes home at night and only the installed cameras are on.”
Thank God for that. At least this guy wouldn’t be hovering over his bed as he slept. Only the night vision camera would be doing that.
Jesus—what the fuck had he gotten himself into?
ELEVEN
Hot House Renovation Day 1
I hate him! It’s like living with a caveman!! A stupid, mean one.
Pen poised in her hand, Tasha pressed her lips together and considered what else to add to her show diary.
What she’d written probably wasn’t what Maria had in mind when she suggested Tasha keep a journal during the production.
They’d want fun anecdotes about what she was feeling and thinking during the shoot. Entertaining things they could talk about on interviews while promoting.
Crap. Interviews. She’d forgotten that part.
Her internment in this hell wouldn’t end with the shooting of the final episode. They’d have to promote too. Talk show appearances. Interviews. Promo spots.
If Hot House hit big, promoting the show could involve travel and national appearances all over the damn country. She could be joined at the hip to Clay for another month or more.
She drew in a breath. If today had been any indication, they’d be scratching each other’s eyes out by then.
The orders he’d barked at her during the few hours of work he’d actually done on the house was enough to make her want to pick up a hammer, all right. But not to use on a nail.
A shovel might be even better. Right up side the head—
Jeez. She never realized she had such a violent side. Apparently it took Clay and his nastiness to bring it out.
Stay out of my way.
Go sit down before you ruin it.
Then the most hurtful—the two words he’d mumbled beneath his breath—fucking useless.
That one was just plain mean.
Hot angry tears pricked at the back of her eyes at the memory. Joanne and Maria had said they liked the banter between them at the bar. To Tasha it had felt more like bickering than bantering, but the decision was theirs to make.
But now he was just being cruel.
Stupid, obnoxious—grrr! He made her so mad.
Tossing down the pen, she stood. She didn’t need to write down her thoughts or feelings from today. She’d never forget them.
She stalked to one of her two suitcases.
Living in a construction zone was going to be challenging enough. Living in this tiny bedroom out of a suitcase on the floor and sleeping on a rollaway bed because there was no furniture in this damn house was going to make it even worse.
But having to be here, in a one thousand square foot bungalow with a man who’s overinflated ego and bad attitude could fill a mansion—that was going to take every fiber of strength she had in her.
Pawing through the clothes she’d brought, she searched for her toiletry bag so she could brush her teeth before he hogged the one bathroom they’d have to share.
There was no cable or even a television in the house. She might as well try to get some sleep.
Meanwhile, she owned a beautiful condo with the full HD cable package including premium channels and a large screen TV. That would sit empty while she had to rough it here with the Neanderthal.
Why couldn’t she just drive home each night and back in the morning? She’d suggested it, more than once, and had been shot down in no uncertain terms.
Stupid producers.
As she pawed through the clothes with more vigor, her hand struck something long and hard and she froze.
Tasha had forgotten she’d packed that.
Somehow when she’d been flinging things into her suitcases she’d had the foresight that at some point during the four-week production she might need to relieve some stress . . . of the sexual nature. She certainly was stressed now, thanks to him.
A nice orgasm might help calm her down so she’d actually be able to sleep.
She glanced up at the camera mounted in the corner. She definitely couldn’t do it here. Not with that camera running twenty-four/seven. The bathroom was a safe zone, however.
Glancing again at the camera, she moved in front of the suitcase, blocking the view with her body as she tried to shove the vibrator into her already overstuffed toiletry case.
It didn’t fit.
Fine. On to plan B. She found her pajamas, rolled the vibrator in them, grabbed her toiletry case and carried the whole bundle across the room to the door.
It would look perfectly normal that she’d change for bed in the bathroom, given the camera situation.
In hindsight, she probably should have fought to make the bedrooms a no camera zone too. But she’d been too busy acting like the experienced professional and making Clay feel like an idiot for expecting there not to be cameras everywhere.
She hated that he’d been right to be angry. The bedroom cam was intrusive and, at the moment, damned inconvenient.
Four weeks. She repeated the mantra to herself fo
r what had to be the dozenth time today. She only had to get through four more weeks.
TWELVE
He’d been hoping for a nice long shower, because lord knew he needed one. From scraping the ceiling, he had shit in his hair that might take three washings to get out. He felt dirty and gritty and covered in dust everywhere, including his damn teeth.
But, nope . . . no shower for him because just as he was grabbing his bar of soap and his towel, about to head into the bathroom, he’d heard the door snap shut.
That had been over ten minutes ago.
What the hell was she doing in there? It wasn’t like she’d done any work today to get dirty. What kind of nighttime beauty ritual did she go through?
Diva—
A buzzing sound had his head whipping up. “What the hell?”
Shit. The last thing he needed was for something to be wrong with the electrical. Though if there were something wrong, best to find out now rather than later.
The wiring was old. Who knew what kind of shit was happening in the walls where he couldn’t see, something that could possibly burn down the house.
An electrical fire—Clay didn’t even want to consider the possibility.
Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he stood and padded barefoot across the cool wood floors and toward the hallway shared by the two bedrooms.
Clay glanced at Tasha’s closed bedroom door. He wondered if she’d booby-trapped the entrance to keep him out while she was in the bathroom.
The way she looked at him, he wasn’t sure if she hated him, feared him, or both.
Didn’t she know he could get in any place at any time if he really wanted to? He not only could, but had, during his years on the team.
Quick and quiet, or with a big boom, depending on the situation, they’d breeched more doors in more countries than he could count.
No, she probably didn’t know that since he’d never told her what he’d done while in the Navy and he didn’t plan on it.
It wouldn’t be hard to avoid the topic. She obviously wasn’t at all interested in actually talking to him about anything more than her bitching over the construction.
Though keeping his past from the producers once they really started to promote this stupid show might be more difficult.