by Lucy Score
He made a humming sound, and she knew she wasn’t getting anything out of him.
“Have you seen Cat lately?” he asked.
Paige nodded. “We had drinks last week. She told me about the Duluth deal.”
Gannon shook his head. “My sister the model for women’s work clothes.”
“The collection is going to be huge,” Paige predicted. “She showed me a couple pictures of the samples.”
“Of the two of us, she’s cut out for this crap,” Gannon said.
“And you’d rather be on a job site or in your shop,” Paige said, understanding.
“And you’d rather be telling stories that matter.”
She bit back a sigh, and they rode in silence for several minutes. When Gannon turned down an alley.
“This isn’t your place,” she said, peering at the squat brick building before them.
He pressed a button, and one of the three industrial sized garage doors rolled up, groaning in protest.
“I thought you wanted to see what I was working on?”
“This is your shop? Your secret lair?” Paige was delighted. It felt like she’d just received an invitation to tour Batman’s cave.
“This is the back of our offices. Used to be storage. Now it’s my shop.” He pulled into the bay, closed the door behind them, and shut off the engine.
They climbed down, and Gannon unlocked the door on the back of the garage wall. She smelled sawdust and stain, scents that always reminded her of him. Paige stepped inside while he flipped a row of dusty light switches, flooding the space with illumination.
“Holy crap,” she breathed. The perimeter of the room was ringed with shelves and tables stacked high with every kind of wood imaginable. A metal shelving system looked to almost buckle under the weight of polyurethanes, stains, paints, and bins of hardware.
He had several work tables and benches, most of which bore projects in varying stages of doneness. The dining table was front and center.
“Wow, Gannon.” Paige wandered up to the table, all eight feet of it, her heels muffled by neat piles of sawdust. It reminded her of the coffee table. He’d used the same reclaimed wood, distressed by decades of use, and the same design. Two fat pedestals on either end of the table acted as thick legs joined by a long board down the center.
“Like it?” He stood with his thumbs hooked into the front pockets of his jeans.
“Like is not the word,” she said, running a hand lovingly over the satin-smooth wood.
“That’s the buffet,” he said, jerking his chin toward the next table over.
It matched the length of the table and the style of wood. A combination of yet-to-be-finished drawers and cabinets made up the base of the buffet. Its top was a long expanse of that aged and battered wood.
“Thinking about doing open shelves above it,” Gannon said.
Yes. She could see it. Rustic wood shelves with the metal piping for brackets.
“Are these for you?” she asked, eyeing him.
He shrugged.
“Because I’ve seen your apartment. You add an eight-foot table, and you’d have to get rid of your couch.”
He glanced at his watch. “We’d better go before Nonni gets antsy.”
“Oh, God. There really is a nonni, isn’t there? This isn’t just some ploy to get me to your place?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
There really was a nonni, and she lived in a sweet little two-story home tucked away on a tree-lined street three blocks over from Gannon’s apartment. Short and soft around the middle, she had snowy white hair that framed her lined face like a cloud. Her eyes, a tawny brown, held a sharpness that didn’t miss much.
“It’s about time,” she said, frowning fiercely at Gannon as she looked up from the sauce that clouded the room with the mouthwatering scents of garlic and basil. “The canapés have been ready for hours.”
Gannon was unaffected by her bluster. “I left you fifty minutes ago,” he said, dropping a kiss on her papery cheek and sneaking a crispy piece of bruschetta off of the silver tray.
She slapped at his hand in mock anger. “Where my daughter went wrong with this one, I’ll never know,” she sighed, feigning disbelief.
Gannon grinned down at her with affection. Paige caught the teasing wink Nonni sent him before she reached for Paige.
“Since my grandson has never had any manners, I am Francesca Bianchi, Gannon’s mama’s mama.” She drew Paige into a fierce hug and released her just as quickly.
“It’s lovely to meet you, Mrs. Bianchi.”
“Francesca, please, or Nonni,” she tut-tutted. “Dinner will be ready in half an hour. You both will take the wine and canapés outside and get out of my way.”
Gannon took the decanter of cabernet that Francesca left breathing on the counter and poured a healthy portion into a glass for his grandmother before scooping up the other two glasses. He nudged the tray of bruschetta at Paige and led the way out the back door onto a covered porch overlooking a garden-like oasis of a backyard.
“I love your grandmother’s house,” Paige confessed as Gannon set the glasses down on a pine table between two cushioned chairs. It looked like what every grandmother’s house should. Lived in for decades, the house had aged well, every room looking comfortable with the kind of dated furniture and rugs that had held more memories than style. “When did you redo her kitchen?”
Unlike the rest of the home, the kitchen gleamed in its modernity. A six-burner gas stove dominated one wall under a copper hood and pot filler. The countertops, acres of them, were creamy, speckled granite. A mixture of glass-fronted and traditional cabinetry in warm cherry offered huge amounts of storage.
It had Gannon’s fingerprints all over it.
“Last year. She’d had a rough two years with Grandpa passing and the trouble with the business. As soon as we had a commitment for a second season, Cat and I conned her with a ten-day cruise with my parents and my aunt and uncle.”
“The network would have loved that as a special,” Paige said, lifting the glass and tasting the very nice wine.
“Which is exactly why we didn’t tell them about it,” Gannon said. “She cried when she saw it. We all did.”
She could see it. The gratitude, the pride, the overwhelming love. And wished she’d been there to witness it.
“That must have been a memorable reveal.”
“Speaking of,” Gannon leaned against the railing, his back to the riot of foliage spilling from raised beds and containers. “Let’s talk about your new opportunity.”
Back to business, she thought. It was probably wise. Being around him like this stirred up feelings, ones she didn’t have an interest in feeling anymore.
“Okay, let’s talk.”
“How would you feel about directing a special?”
“Directing?” Paige gripped her wine glass. “I wouldn’t be a field producer or an assistant director.”
Gannon shook his head. “Nope. Director. About three or four months of shooting.”
“Where? For who?”
“Here in the city for Welcome Home. But you’d be calling the shots,” he said when he saw her face fall. “They wouldn’t be able to mess with you on this one.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s my show.”
She was already shaking her head.
“Don’t say no yet. Just listen.”
She raised a judgmental eyebrow. “Gannon—”
“Shut up and listen.” He said it without any heat. “I bought a place—a house. I’ll be renovating it anyway, and the network was salivating about turning it into a special to air this summer. Probably five or six episodes.”
“I don’t have any experience directing,” she reminded him. Which was bullshit. She could do it. She just didn’t know if her heart could take it being around him day after day again. How could she not fall for him all over again?
“Bullshit,” Gannon said as if reading her mind. He picked up another
slice of bruschetta, popping it in his mouth. “Just because you haven’t held the title doesn’t mean you don’t have the experience.”
She sipped, considered.
“You’d pick the crew.
“Why me?” she asked. If he said it was because he wanted her back in his life, she would put down this very nice wine, say a polite goodbye to Francesca, and be on her way.
“This is going to be my home. I want someone I trust behind the camera. I don’t want to turn this into some dog and pony show. This is what I’ve been working toward for a long time, and I’m not letting anyone come in and fuck up the process, the feel of it for me. I want you.”
She blew out a breath. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to work together. It didn’t exactly go well last time.”
He ran a hand impatiently through his hair. “Princess, this is a big deal to me. I trust you to put something together that doesn’t violate me in the process, and this keeps you off the streets begging for shit jobs.”
“I don’t want a pity job.”
“Don’t be an idiot. It’s not your style.”
She didn’t bother taking offense to his brusqueness. She was used to it. She was used to him… well, working with him. But working together again? Memories of the past few months rolled through her like a cresting wave. Dark hotel rooms, longing glances, breathless kisses. She wouldn’t survive that again.
“It pays a little better than what you were making before.” Gannon gave her the number, and Paige gave herself credit when she didn’t bobble her glass. With that money, the documentary would be a go. She wouldn’t need Kings for another season. Another season of torture. Shirtless Gannon, on camera interviews, toeing the line of humiliation.
Her thoughts swirled. “Gannon—”
“Don’t say no now. Think about it. Have dinner, listen to Nonni tell embarrassing stories about me, and sleep on it.”
The subject was closed. For now.
Paige looked out over the darkening garden. “I owe you an apology.”
His eyes gleamed in the dusk. “Why?” The question was quiet, husky.
“I didn’t believe that Nonni existed.”
––—
They ate in the dining room off of Francesca’s wedding china. Between forkfuls of the best chicken cacciatore that Paige had ever had, they talked. Gannon and Francesca fired stories and memories back and forth at each other while Paige laughed and drank wine and listened.
Francesca daintily wiped tears of laughter from the corners of her eyes with her cloth napkin. “What about you, Paige? Do you have memories of your grandmamas like this one does?”
“I never knew any of my grandparents,” Paige confessed. “They all died before or shortly after I was born. It was just my mother and sister and me.”
“That sounds like a house that is too quiet,” Francesca said, eyeing her.
“My mother valued peace and quiet for our… educational pursuits,” Paige said, remembering endless hours of private piano lessons, French classes. She’d counted down the hours until she was sprung free of endless instruction, preferring to sneak off to the movies or hide with paperbacks in the back of her closet where she could read without interruption. Meanwhile, her sister Lisa had embraced the barrage of education.
“Family is important,” Francesca lectured. “Do you like children?” The hawkish look she sent Paige had her covering a laugh with her napkin.
“Uh, I suppose?”
Gannon frowned at his grandmother. “Nonni,” he said, his tone carrying a warning.
Francesca smiled innocently. “I’m only asking a question.”
“Why aren’t you asking her where she likes to vacation or what books she likes to read?” He stabbed at a piece of chicken.
“Bah! I like to ask questions that get to the heart of a person,” Francesca insisted. “What would I know about Paige’s heart if she says she likes the beach or autobiographies? I want to know who she is in here.” She pointed a gnarled finger at her own heart.
Paige smiled. Francesca Bianchi was a woman she could understand.
––—
Paige felt nerves vibrate over her skin. It was dark and the air cool by the time Gannon pulled up in front of her apartment building. It wasn’t the end of a date but, to her anxiety level, it felt like one. Only she knew exactly what it would feel like if he leaned over and laid those warm, hard lips on her, spread those callused hands over her.
That awareness of memory, of anticipation, crawled through her veins until she was desperate for air, for space.
She wanted to speak. To thank him for dinner and introducing her to his grandmother and then slide out of the truck and forget about the evening. Or did she want those lips and hands cruising over her until she was desperate for more?
Finally, it was Gannon who spoke. “Promise me you’ll think about the offer.”
Still she was silent, weighing words and consequences.
“Paige. Promise me.”
“I promise.” The words left her mouth on a reluctant sigh.
He was watching her, and the cab of the truck felt small, confined. The air was too warm inside. There wasn’t much protecting her from his raw appeal. Nothing but the console that divided the front seat.
“Thank you for dinner. I loved Francesca,” Paige breathed out, keeping her tone light.
“She’s the center of our entire family,” Gannon said, a half-smile on his shadowed face.
“It must have been very hard to lose your grandfather.”
His hand skimmed over hers where it rested on her leg, squeezed. “It was a nightmare,” he admitted. “No one’s ever ready to say goodbye but especially not us Kings.”
“I imagine he’d be very proud of you, Gannon.”
He squeezed her hand again and then released it. “Thanks. That means… a lot.”
She took a deep breath. “Listen. Whether or not I take this job, thank you for the opportunity.”
He looked like he wanted to say something, was fighting the urge to say it.
“Now who’s censoring themselves,” she teased lightly.
“Take the job, Paige. I won’t hurt you again.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
The ruffled red throw pillow hit Paige squarely in the face.
“You’ll think about it?” Becca shrieked.
“Ouch! Geez, Becca,” Paige tossed the pillow on the floor out of her roommate’s reach.
“Let me get this straight in my addled brain,” Becca insisted. “Gannon offers you a promotion and a raise that will not only give you directorial experience and enough cash to launch the docu early, giving you the opportunity to say ‘fuck off’ to Kings next season, and you tell him you have to think about it?”
“In a nutshell.”
“Why wouldn’t you say yes and then jump him in gratitude?”
“Uh, I don’t know. Maybe because he lied, ripped my heart out and stomped on it, and let me be humiliated on TV twice by his fake girlfriend?”
Becca scrubbed her hands over her face. Her earrings, tiny bells on thin silver wire, jingled in frustration.
“Babe. I know you don’t blame Gannon for the production company amping up the drama quotient.”
“No, of course not. But I could have been better prepared for it if he’d been honest,” Paige pointed out.
“I’m going to say this because you need to hear it. The bad guy here is not Gannon King. It’s those assholes at Summit-Wingenroth and the damn Welcome Home Network. From where I sit, they played Gannon by setting him up with that shitbag blowup doll, and they played you. All you two did was have real feelings for each other.”
Paige squeezed her eyes shut. “Okay. Maybe it’s more because I can’t trust myself around him. You ever think about that?”
She opened her eyes, her confession stretching out the silence.
Becca crossed her arms, tapped her fingers on her upper arms.
“I just spent thirty minutes in the c
ar with him, and all I wanted to do was climb over the console. How am I supposed to work with him for months on a very personal project for him and not get sucked back into that world?”
Becca raised a questioning finger. “Would it be so bad if you got sucked back in?”
“Bec! I wouldn’t survive that again. He’s so… intense and raw and overwhelming. How can I concentrate on anything when I’m being consumed like that?”
“You think a relationship with Gannon would keep you from pursuing your dreams?”
“I don’t know.” Paige heaved herself off the couch and stormed into the kitchen for a bottle of water. “I don’t feel steady when I’m with him. He’s so… much.”
She shook her head. “No. There’s no way I could go back to him and start everything up again.” She’d be too vulnerable, too scared about losing him again. She’d make decisions based on him, his plans, his goals. Arrange her life around him and do it all gladly. And then one day, she’d wake up and see that she wasn’t her own person.
She was a St. James, and St. James women didn’t organize their lives around a man.
Her mother hadn’t let a relationship stand in the way of her career. She’d known what was important to her, what would get her there, and what would take her further away from it.
But was Leslie St. James happy? A little voice inside Paige asked the question. Was happiness the same as success?
Becca took a deep breath. “Look. I didn’t want to go here, but now I have to. Paige, this documentary thing? It’s not just you in it. It’s me, too. And if you don’t take this job, when are we ever going to start it? You can’t wait this out and go back to a show that’s humiliating you for sport. A show that, according to a friend of mine in post-production at Welcome Home, is blackballing you.”
“What?” Paige’s knees went weak.
“Don’t you think it’s weird that no one is willing to even talk to you about a job? They’re making noise about your non-compete. They want another season of you and Gannon sparking it up on screen.”