“NTT for Estelle Winters,” Steve announced.
“Come on in.”
The door buzzed, and we headed up to apartment 210 with a small filming crew following close behind.
I glanced at Joel, our best camera man.
He was the one who followed the action, and he was the coolest dude I worked with. We weren’t great friends, but he went with the flow and laughed at my jokes, even when I gave him shit about his ’70s porno ’stache. I’d tried to convince him to shave the thick mustache at least a dozen times, but he wouldn’t budge.
Joel hoisted the large camera on his shoulder and gave me a thumbs-up, signaling that he was ready.
Then I knocked.
The white door opened a crack, only about six inches or so, and the person peering at us through the small gap took me by surprise.
I wasn’t looking at an old lady. She was a blond-haired bombshell. Tiny thing, about five foot two. The curled ends of her hair hung around her collarbone, and the scoop-neck shirt she wore displayed a good amount of cleavage and tanned skin.
She gazed up at me with big, doe-like eyes the color of molasses, framed with smoky eyeliner and dark lashes.
Those eyes.
They got wider, flaring with recognition—something I was used to. They also held a hint of lust, pupils dilating as they roamed my face. Women looking at me like that wasn’t uncommon, but usually my body didn’t respond to the attention.
It was responding now. My cock twitched. My heart beat faster.
I glanced down at her lips, pink and shiny from lip gloss. Button nose. High cheekbones. Her face was stunning, somehow managing to be cute and elegantly beautiful at the same time.
I looked at the numbers over the peephole again. We were definitely at the right address. Did the hoarder have a granddaughter?
“We’re here for Estelle Winters?” I spoke up, sounding as confused as I felt.
“You’re lookin’ at her,” the bombshell replied.
Holy shit.
The twang in her voice did something to me. I’d grown up with that drawl, so it shouldn’t have affected me the way it did. Hell, I used to talk that way too, but I’d forced myself to lose the accent for the show.
I’d heard people talk about this moment. When they were so captivated by someone, time seemed to stop.
That happened to me, right there in the middle of the hallway.
The whole world would get to witness the first time I ever felt weak in the knees from one look. One simple sentence. One set of perfect plump lips.
I just hoped Joel had the decency to avoid recording the stiffy I was suddenly sporting.
Estelle was still staring up at me, but I couldn’t speak. It felt like the wind had been knocked out of me and I had to remind myself to breathe.
Apparently, she didn’t have the same effect on Steve.
“Are you going to let us in?” he snapped impatiently.
Whipping my head in his direction, I glared. Who pissed in his Cheerios? Putting up with his crankiness had become second-nature for me, but lately he’d been on another level.
Frowning, Estelle replied, “Sorry. One of the cats is a runner and I don’t want him to get out again.”
“It’s not a problem.” I gave her a reassuring smile. “And that’s good to know. We’ll definitely want to hear about that soon.”
“Can you give me a minute?” She glanced at the crew behind me and all the equipment they had to bring in. “I’ll put the cats in their room so they won’t be in the way while you’re setting up.”
Ignoring Steve’s huff as he made a big show of looking at his watch, I nodded. “Sure thing.”
A minute later, the door opened wide and Estelle smiled.
The apples of her cheeks were round and rosy, making her appear even more youthful. Her black shirt had shoulder cutouts and when she turned away, I caught a peek of a large tattoo on the back of her right shoulder blade. Colorful roses and other various flowers burst together, and I saw the words ‘at a time’ in the tail-end of a script woven through the design.
I followed her into the kitchen, which was just a few steps to the left of the entrance. The aroma of breakfast sausage filled the air and my stomach rumbled, unsatisfied with the bagel I’d grabbed from the hotel.
“I made breakfast for y’all,” she offered, motioning toward the kitchen counter.
Y’all. So fucking cute.
A cast iron skillet on the stove was filled to the brim with steaming gravy, and a basket of biscuits sat next to it. Paper plates, plastic silverware, and a stack of napkins completed the elaborate spread. My mouth watered.
“Thanks, but we hire caterers,” Steve rudely declined before walking away to bark an order at one of the assistant producers.
Looking at all her hard work, Estelle’s face fell, that perfect mouth turning down at the corners.
Fuck him. No way in hell was I missing out on homemade biscuits and gravy.
“I’ll have some,” I said.
She smiled and my heart gave a hard thump. “Just help yourself. I’m pretty sure I made enough to feed an army.”
Grabbing a plate, I piled a massive amount of food on top of more food. Meanwhile, Rhonda and one of the sound technicians hooked Estelle up with a mic.
Pretending to fiddle with a napkin, I watched out of the corner of my eye like a dirty perv, waiting for a peek of her skin as they connected the wires under her shirt. Much to my disappointment, I only saw a two-second sliver of the curve of her hip.
It was a good two seconds, though.
After they were done, the second wave of the crew came through to set up the permanent cameras. Estelle and I moved off to the side in the kitchen, which seemed to be the only area of the apartment that wasn’t pure chaos.
I still hadn’t taken a bite of my breakfast yet.
I couldn’t take my eyes off Estelle as I tried to wrap my head around the shock I was still experiencing. She was supposed to be old. Not… this.
She didn’t fit the profile at all.
There was something about her that screamed innocence and sweetness, all while projecting an air of badassery. Her graceful movements were confident, her hips swaying and shoulders squared as she fussed with the breakfast no one else wanted.
As she pointlessly rearranged the napkins for the third time, she surveyed the activity around her with curiosity instead of nervousness, which was unusual for people who were about to be filmed.
“Let’s get set up over here,” Steve said to Joel, stepping into the living room. “We’ll do the interview on the couch. Get the lighting guys to put spotlights here and here.”
Tuning him out, I turned to Estelle. I needed to say something. Anything. It was unlike me to be tongue-tied, especially when I was supposed to be making the client feel at ease.
“Hi,” I said lamely, then I wanted to slap myself.
That’s the best you could come up with? Get it together.
Her lips tipped up. “Hi.”
“Your name is Estelle Winters?” I asked, needing clarification again.
“Yes. And you’re Emery Matheson,” she stated, holding out her hand.
Balancing my full plate in one hand, I placed the other against hers, trying to ignore the softness of her skin and the fact that I didn’t want to let go.
“You’re a seamstress?” Fighting the urge to keep touching her, I took a bite of my breakfast. I groaned, closing my eyes as I tasted the best thing I’d had in years.
Estelle was talking a mile a minute, but I didn’t even hear it because I was too busy having a foodgasm.
“I’m sorry,” I interrupted her, my mouth half-full. “But this is so good, I think I just blacked out for a second. What did you say?”
She laughed. “I said, I do a lot of sewing at the costume shop I own. And that’s my great aunt Estelle’s recipe, so I’ll be sure to tell her it was a hit with at least one person.”
“Great aunt Estelle,” I repeated slowly, still confused.
She nodded. “She passed the shop down to me before she retired and moved down to Florida to live out the rest of her life as a beach bum. She taught me everything I know about sewing and sausage gravy. She’s the original Estelle.”
The puzzle pieces finally fell into place. She wasn’t the old woman who smelled like lemons. She was her niece. Her young, hot niece.
“How old are you?” The curious question escaped before I could stop myself.
“Twenty-three.” A knowing grin spread across her face. “You thought I was my aunt.”
“Yeah,” I confessed, shrugging. “I knew her, sort of. I used to go to Estelle’s every year for my Halloween costumes. Did you know I grew up here?”
Nodding, she admitted, “I might’ve done some Google searching on you.”
I grinned, unable to hide how flattered I was by her mild stalking confession. “And what else did you find out?”
“You went to Remington-Central High, where you played on the baseball team and you were nominated for homecoming king, but you didn’t win. After that, you worked at the vet clinic where I take the cats, and now you live in Chicago.”
Maybe her stalking levels were a little beyond mild. She would’ve had to dig pretty deep to get back to my high school days.
And she wasn’t even guilty about it. Chin up. A small smile on her lips. She was owning that shit.
“But you’re not from Remington,” I stated. It wasn’t a question. Unless she was homeschooled, there was no way I wouldn’t have at least heard of her before. This city only had three high schools, and with sporting events and other social activities, kids in the same age bracket crossed paths at some point.
“No,” she confirmed. “Chesterville, born and raised. I even went to college there.”
I knew of the place—about an hour away, with a population that ranged from middle-class to downright wealthy. The private college within the town wasn’t cheap. Because of the quaint shops and restaurants in the area, it was a tourist attraction. Many of the historical plantation houses had been turned into bed and breakfasts. I’d heard a rumor once that if you wanted to live there, you had to go through the mayor just to get permission. I didn’t believe it, but the exclusivity made the town even more attractive as a getaway destination.
“What happened to the man bun?” Estelle blurted out, gesturing toward my head. “I’m a fan. Of the show, I mean. And your hair…” Her confession tapered off and her cheeks pinked, some of her boldness slipping away.
I raked my fingers through the strands on the top of my head, and they got caught on all the mousse and gel.
“My producers got a lot of requests for me to chop it off. It’s a pain in my ass, though. Too short to tie up, but so long that it falls in my eyes. They said keeping it longer gives me ‘animalistic appeal,’” I said, putting air quotes around the words.
Estelle laughed and agreed, “That it does.”
“I had long hair for years, so now I just feel naked without it.”
Swaying closer, Estelle’s eyes flitted down to my chest before going lower, lingering below my belt. A subconscious action. Was she picturing me naked?
I resisted the urge to fidget, because I was getting hard. Again. If she kept staring at me like that, she was going to notice the bulge growing behind my zipper.
She was less than two feet away from me now.
During our conversation we’d slowly gravitated toward each other, and I caught a whiff of something flowery and sweet. Like Jasmine and honey. I wondered if it was coming from her.
If I buried my face in her hair, would the scent be stronger? If I licked her neck, would I be able to taste it?
Steve clapped his hands, jarring me from my inappropriate fantasy and saving me from scaring off our client before we even got started. The room went quiet as he spoke.
“All right. We’ve got a long day ahead of us. It’ll take about two hours to get all the permanent cameras in place. We’ll start things off with an interview now, then we’ll get a tour and meet the cats.”
Finally showing a hint of nervousness, Estelle nibbled her lip as she glanced around. “I want to thank everyone for coming here and giving me this opportunity. I’m just way in over my head, and I’m so grateful for your help.”
Such heartfelt praise was enough to warm even the coldest of hearts, but all she got from Steve was a sharp nod as he said, “It’ll make for good television.”
“You’ll do great,” I reassured her. “Just pretend we’re all friends who are very interested in your cats. Forget about the cameras.”
Giving me a grateful smile, she blew out a breath. “Thanks.”
After getting situated on the middle cushion of her yellow and white striped couch, a calico jumped up onto Estelle’s lap and made herself comfortable.
“This is Alice.” She scratched the top of the cat’s head. “I must’ve missed one when I was putting them away. Is it okay if she stays out? She’s a sweetheart and it might help me to be less nervous.”
“Sure.” Steve gave a non-committal shrug.
On the wall behind her, there were nine yellow picture frames in a zigzag pattern. Each one held individual portraits of the cats. Now that I looked around, I noticed splashes of yellow all over her apartment, brightening up the drab white walls and beige carpet.
My attention was drawn to a gray vase full of Yellow Jasmine on the white end table by the sliding glass door that led out to the balcony. It was the South Carolina state flower, but also toxic to cats if ingested.
Concerned, I leaned down to sniff them, recalling the flowery scent from earlier. But they didn’t smell like anything. When I touched the trumpet-shaped petals, I was relieved to find that they were fake.
As if Estelle read my mind, she offered, “They’re plastic. I know better than to own real plants. Can’t keep them alive for anything. Plus, they’re poisonous to cats.”
I was proud of her. “You’ve done your research.”
She smirked. “It’s a good thing I don’t have the same problem with animals as I do with plants.”
“Ready,” Joel announced, throwing a thumbs-up from behind his tripod.
Steve sat on the metal folding chair on the other side of the coffee table. Looking down at his phone, he started asking questions.
“Estelle, can you tell us a little bit about how you came to own so many cats?”
“I didn’t mean to become a crazy cat lady.” Laughing, she held up her hands. “It all started a little over a year ago when my boyfriend broke up with me. We’d been living together for several months when he had a quarter-life crisis and suddenly changed his mind about us, about his job, about everything. One day I came home to find him packing, and he told me he was moving to California to become a professional surfer.” She scoffed. “The guy couldn’t even put his pants on without falling down, so it was quite the surprise—”
Steve loudly cleared his throat. “We really just want to know about the cats.”
“Well, I was getting to that before you interrupted me.” She gave him a sweet smile that contradicted the edge in her voice, and I had to stifle a laugh behind my hand. “Anyway, within two hours, he was gone. I’d always had a roommate in college, so I was living alone for the first time in my entire life. I was lonely.”
“So, the cats…?” Steve prodded.
“Some asshole in 102 abandoned Alice.” Estelle’s nostrils flared and cute little wrinkles formed between her eyebrows as she scowled. “He was going to get evicted, so he moved away without a word. She was pregnant and he left her in that fucking apartment for days with no food and—”
“Try to keep the swear words to a minimum,” Steve cut in again. “We’re already in enough trouble with how many times we say ‘pussy’ on this show.”
“Sorry,” she drawled, not looking all that sorry. “I have a bit of a potty mouth sometimes, especially when it comes to motherfuckers who leave knocked-up cats to die alone.”
Maki
ng a sound of distress, Steve waved his hand. “Please continue.”
Estelle shrugged. “I begged the landlord to let me keep Alice. It saved him a trip to the shelter, so he agreed. But it didn’t take long for me to figure out she was pregnant with how big her stomach was. And two weeks later, kittens started popping out. Eight kittens, to be exact.”
Distracted by a text, he didn’t look up as he asked, “Why didn’t you take them to a shelter? That would’ve been the easiest thing to do.”
A horrified expression appeared on her face. “And let them sit in cages for months waiting to get adopted? Or even worse, risk them getting euthanized? No way. I love them. I’d keep them all if I could.”
Finally looking up at her, he sighed. “So why are we here then? Why don’t you keep all your cats and live happily ever after?”
Estelle’s face flushed again, only this time I could tell it was from anger, not embarrassment. Seemed her nerves had been replaced with feistiness.
Good.
Pursing her lips, her eyes narrowed, and I got the feeling we were all about to find out just how much of a potty mouth she really was.
“Why don’t you let me conduct the rest of the interview, Steve?” Giving him a pat on the shoulder, I didn’t wait for him to respond before grabbing a nearby folding chair and sitting on it backward.
Client interviews weren’t part of my job criteria, but Steve’s rude comments were pissing me off. He thought he ran this show—and technically, he did—but that didn’t mean I was going to sit by and watch him be an ass. He didn’t understand southern hospitality. Politeness was a way of life here, but that charming drawl could turn into a quick-witted bite at any moment, manners be damned.
And we were here to help Estelle, not piss her off.
Leaning my forearms on the back of the chair, I grinned. “So, Estelle. You were saying…”
Biting her lip, she fought a smile at the way Steve sputtered in disbelief beside me.
“I guess he’s right—I could’ve brought them to the shelter. But like I said, I was a little lonely. I don’t like being alone,” she admitted quietly.
I was reminded of the questionnaire she’d filled out. One of her biggest fears was ending up alone. I hadn’t thought much of it because that’s not an unusual fear.
Untamable Page 3