by Tessa Bailey
“You’d like me to demonstrate instead?”
I would. But don’t let him know it. “I mean.” She tilted her head to expose her neck. As in, Look, here’s my neck, by accident. “How can I answer that when I have no idea what a demonstration might entail?”
His lips paused just above her pulse. “Come closer and I’ll show you.”
“Fine. Just so I can paint an accurate picture,” she managed, heat starting to pump in places only Wes seemed capable of accessing. Cautiously, her toes pushed her up another inch toward his face.
Chuckling, Wes dropped his mouth the remaining distance to her neck, trailing up the curve—lightly, so lightly—and pausing at her ear. Oh, that was good. Too good. “Took those bulls a good long while to buck me off, baby. Think you could do it?”
“We’re not going to find out,” she breathed, her nipples tightening like bolts and making her sound like a liar. “By the way, that kind of talk doesn’t do much to dampen my belief that you’re here to get laid.”
“You love it just the same,” he rasped against her mouth. “Same way I love it when your eyes get all unfocused, like you’re trying to remember why I’m a bad idea.”
“Hey, folks!” A camera crew was walking up the driveway, Justine leading the way with a headset and a clipboard. They appeared to be . . . rolling. As in, filming her and Wes in a near lip-lock. “I had a feeling this shoot would be a jackpot,” Justine called, waving her clipboard. “Please continue to prove me right.”
Bethany took a backward lunge away from Wes. “Just discussing plans!”
Wes smiled without so much as acknowledging the camera. “I’ll say.”
Chapter Ten
Bethany stood shoulder to shoulder with Wes.
They’d both been positioned behind an animated Slade, who was taping his introduction in front of two cameras, a boom mic operator, and a lighting crew. It was crazy to witness how quickly he’d shifted from miffed prima donna to jocular construction guru as soon as the cameras started rolling. It probably helped that he was reading off a prompter.
“Greetings, DIY junkies, you’ve tuned in to Flip Off—a new drama-fueled competition show where family members flip two different houses and vie for the ultimate bragging rights. Who flipped it best? We’re coming to you from Port Jefferson, Long Island, and boy oh boy, do we have a treat for you! Although the word ‘treat’ might be pushing it, because our first featured property is quite frankly the worst home I’ve had the pleasure of seeing restored to its former glory. And that’s exactly what you plan to do here, isn’t it, Bethany?”
The camera swung in her direction and Bethany’s heart climbed until it was clogging her throat. She looked to Justine, but the producer only provided an encouraging finger roll.
“Um . . .” Come on. Pull it together. She’d gotten herself into this mess; the least she could do was fake it until she made it. And God knew, she faked having her shit together often enough that she should know the drill.
The stakes were a lot higher this time, though. She wasn’t planning a party or styling the perfect outfit. Or even going on a date and trying to represent a much more together version of herself than really existed. If a crack formed in her walls—literally and figuratively—she wouldn’t be able to hide it.
She smiled brightly. “Yes, that’s the plan!”
“Fantastic!” Slade sidled to the right. “And who are you here with today?”
“This is my foreman, Wes. He’s—”
“Folks at home, this is where things get even more juicy. See, Bethany is competing against her own brother, Stephen, who is flipping a house across town. Wes here is his former crew member. Ooooh, baby, things are going to get interesting. You don’t want to miss it. Stay tuned for this family drama on Flip Off. Next up: demo.”
“Cut!” called the director. “Did we get our before shots? Inside and out?”
“Still need to get the master!” a disembodied voice called from behind the blinding lights. “Backyard, too. Give us ten.”
“Great.” Justine made some notes on her clipboard. “We have to get across town for Stephen’s introduction, so let’s get some good demo footage. After that, we need some individual on-camera interviews with Wes and Bethany, together and separate. We’ll be doing this frequently to get your reactions.”
“To what?” Wes wanted to know.
“To everything. Construction progress, tension among the crew . . .” Justine looked around. “Speaking of your crew, do you have one?”
“That would be us, ma’am.”
Bethany shielded her eyes from the light, ducking down until she brought two senior-citizen men into view. One had a pair of cheater glasses tucked into the collar of his shirt; the other one appeared to be rubbing a bum leg.
Cheater Glasses waved at her, accidentally bumping his friend with a stray elbow. Which led to them griping at each other. “Didn’t know we were going to be on TV,” said Cheater Glasses. “I’m not going to be required to carry anything, am I? My back isn’t what it used to be.”
Back teeth grinding together, Bethany looked at Wes. “Where did you find them?”
He avoided making eye contact. “The hardware store.”
She stared.
“There’s a system,” he said curtly. “You’re not meant to understand it.”
“And thank God for that.”
Justine approached her, head buried in her clipboard. “Right. We’ll bring in some interns to help . . . flesh out your amazing crew. Note my sarcasm.”
Heat swamped Bethany’s face. The operation was already showing cracks, meaning she was showing them. It’s already happening. “We’d appreciate that, thanks.”
Justine sailed away, muttering something about rounding out the Grumpy Old Men franchise into a trilogy. Before Wes could introduce her to Cheater Glasses and Bum Leg, one of the college-age production assistants approached her with a sledgehammer. “Miss Castle, if you could come with me, please? We want to check the lighting on the wall you plan on demolishing first.”
She accepted the heavy tool. “Right. Which wall is that?”
The young man blinked. “You don’t have a starting point?”
“Oh, me? I have a starting point. Sure.” Bethany turned in a circle, the sledgehammer rebounding off her calf muscle. “That one?” She pointed at the water-damaged living room wall, consulting with Wes out of the corner of her eye. When he gave her an imperceptible nod, she let out the breath she’d been holding. “Yes, that one.”
“Great.”
Off went the PA, already throwing hand signals to the mobile lighting crew.
“So I’m just supposed to bury this hammer into the wall?” she whispered to Wes. “Just . . . make a mess? No exact science to it?”
“Not for this particular wall, no. There’s no plumbing, gas lines—I came through last week and marked them.” He indicated the orange spray-painted Xs in the kitchen and dining room that she’d neglected to notice until now. “We’ve got three load-bearing walls: one in the living room, one in the back bedroom, and the other in the hallway, but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”
Load-bearing walls? Gas lines? If Wes weren’t here, she could have started a fire or collapsed the roof on day one. What had she been thinking agreeing to have this process broadcasted? What had she been thinking taking on this flip at all? Bethany wrangled her runaway panic and tried to focus on the here and now. “Okay. What if I hit the wall and it doesn’t even crack?”
“Bethany, you could probably flick a rubber band at that wall and it would cave faster than my niece when I accuse her of stealing cookies.”
Still . . . “Maybe you should demo the wall.”
Wes turned, giving his back to the room full of people and blocking her from sight. “You wanted to get dirty, Bethany. Lead your own project. That’s why we’re here. Now that it’s time to get started you’ve got stage fright? Shake it off.”
Easier for the rough-and-tumble
cowboy to say. No one expected him to get through life without a single misstep. People had expectations for her and she couldn’t simply disregard her need to fulfill them. “When I made the decision to do this . . . I-I didn’t expect so many people to see me dirty.”
“Look here, darlin’. You’re the one who decided to compete with Stephen. This reality-show bullshit is on you.”
Heat wove its way up the back of her neck. “Does it really seem like a good time to remind me of that?”
“The perfect time, actually,” he said without hesitation. “It won’t hurt to be a little pissed when you swing that hammer.”
Bethany tilted her head. “That’s why you riled me up, isn’t it?” She waited but he said nothing. “You did the same thing when I was getting emotional at Georgie and Travis’s rehearsal dinner. Irritated me until I stopped tearing up—”
“I irritate you because it’s fun,” he said, chuckling. “No other reason.”
She narrowed her eyes at Wes’s odd tone. He seemed almost nervous over her believing there could be more to the timing of his ribbing. There was no time to analyze Wes’s reaction too deeply, however, because the director was watching them impatiently near the wall they’d designated as the first to go. “Okay, Bethany. Our production schedule is tight. Let’s make this a good take.”
Sledgehammer in hand and goggles in place, she swallowed and stepped into the brightly illuminated space. Through the refracted lens, she could see two dozen pairs of eyes on her, the stillness of the bodies making her stomach flip-flop. They were waiting. Watching her do something she hadn’t perfected. Oh God. They would be witnessing her employ untested skills for two weeks. They were going to know she was out of her element, a fraud, starting now. She didn’t have entertaining skills or the perfect outfit to fall back on. It was just her and a hammer—and two cameras capturing her every move.
When the director coughed, she turned to face the wall and ordered her arms to lift the sledgehammer. But nothing happened. Her hands started to shake on the wooden handle, her mouth losing all moisture. I’m going to be sick.
“Turn off the cameras,” Wes said.
“Excuse me? I’m not—”
“I said turn them off.” A presence warmed her back. Wes. His palm skimmed down her forearm and settled on her hand where it gripped the handle. “Hey.”
“Hey,” she whispered back.
“What’s wrong?” he asked into her hair.
Bethany couldn’t come up with a lie. It wasn’t merely the wall that had left her stalled out—it was the whole job. The whole house that surrounded them and what it meant. A test of her mettle. A barrier she would normally avoid, for fear she would run into it headfirst. It was just like her relationships with men. As soon as her past boyfriends started to become suspicious that she wasn’t Mary Make It Look Effortless, the persona she’d sold them, she started pulling back. Dodging calls, canceling dates, until they burned her by cheating or breaking up via an impersonal text.
It was almost a relief when that happened.
There was no more fear of being discovered.
She could start over again with a fresh slate and pretend like the last relationship never happened. But a house was different. It was forever. It was visible proof of her efforts and what they could yield. It couldn’t be erased by changing her status on Facebook and purging a handful of pictures.
“I’m really afraid to be bad at this,” she said now, the confession leaving her mouth unchecked. “At anything. It scares me. Like, a lot.”
“Great. Do it anyway.”
She huffed a laugh.
“If people were good at everything on the first try, they wouldn’t appreciate the journey to getting better,” he murmured against her ear, his fingers trailing back and forth across her knuckles. “Why are you really here?”
She wet her lips. “Because I want to prove I can . . . I want to know if I can do more than make things pretty. I’m getting too comfortable staying in my lane and . . . I never get a sense of accomplishment anymore. Everything always could have been better. Always. Maybe if I push and do something harder . . . I’ll feel it again.”
Somehow, she could sense his thoughtfulness. It was nice having someone shoulder her inadequacy issues for a few seconds. Even though she would surely regret telling him these personal things any time now.
“Bethany.”
“Yes?”
“Your brother fucks up constantly.”
She perked up. “What?”
“You heard me. On our last job, he didn’t measure the bathroom door’s swing correctly, so it smacked off the toilet every time we opened it. Same job, he damn near electrocuted himself putting in the basement track lighting. The man yelped like a poodle who’d gotten his tail stepped on. And how many flips do you reckon he’s done?”
“At least thirty.”
“Right. Stephen has the most experience out of anyone, but he still messes up. We will mess something up, baby, but any mistake you make on this house is one that can be corrected, okay?”
The pressure in her chest lessened, slowly but surely. Was it insane that she . . . believed him? He was so unflinching. So sure. He didn’t seem thrown off by her admissions at all. “Okay.”
“Aim and swing. Hard. Let these folks get their shots, we’ll do our stupid interviews, and then it’ll just be you, me, and two geriatrics.”
Her laugh caught her off guard, as did the loosening in her middle. He’d done it again. Thinned out her worries like cookie dough under a rolling pin. The more often it happened, the less she believed his casual heroics were a mistake. Maybe he was just . . . heroic. On occasion. “That sounds good.”
“Doesn’t it?” He kissed her temple so quickly, she almost thought it was a figment of her imagination. “Give that wall hell, darlin’.”
“Can we record now?” the director asked drily, not waiting for a response. “And we’re rolling in three . . . two . . . one.”
Bethany heaved the sledgehammer up onto her shoulder, rested it a second, then used every ounce of force in her body to smash the metal into the Sheetrock. It split wide open and debris flew everywhere, leaving a giant hole behind. A few of the crew members whistled and Wes boomed a laugh. But she barely heard any of it over the wild applause in her own head. It matched the fast-paced tempo of her heart. It sped and sped like a propeller until she worried it might carry her away. In search of an anchor, she turned and found Wes amongst the lighting.
He was smiling broadly at her when she turned, but whatever he saw on her face caused it to slip, his Adam’s apple rising and falling in his throat. His recovery was far from instantaneous, but he eventually gave her a jerky nod.
There was a strong—horribly conceived—urge inside her to go to Wes, to see if he’d put his arms around her, but thankfully she was stayed by the sudden putrescent smell that filled the room.
“Aw, shit,” called one of the PAs. “We’ve got a dead rat in the wall.”
“We’ll do the interviews outside. Someone get an intern to bag the rat.”
Everyone groaned and filed out of the room.
Bethany followed the flow of people, still dragging the sledgehammer behind her until Wes took it out of her hands and propped it against his shoulder. Not looking like a sexy Paul Bunyan or anything. Definitely not.
Just before she exited through the front door, Bethany turned and glanced back at the house. She’d made one hole in the wall. Only one. But she wasn’t as apprehensive as before to commence the flip—and she couldn’t deny that the man walking beside her scowling at the cameramen had a lot to do with it.
Not good. Not good at all.
Chapter Eleven
Wes watched Bethany work across the debris-strewn floor, wood and ancient drywall littering the space between them. Thanks to Rat-Gate, followed by the start and stop of on-camera interviews that had taken over an hour yesterday, they were still only halfway finished with demo on Project Doomsday.
B
ethany was avoiding him, as much as she could in a confined space where they could hear each other breathing. He supposed he was avoiding her a little, too, not that he could stop drooling over her in those dusty pink yoga pants. Where was her panty line? Would he be able to slide his hands down into those tight little things and get a hold of her butt cheeks? Would she like it?
Try not to get an erection while operating heavy destructive equipment, would you, asshole?
Besides, he was still unnerved by the way his heart had shaken like a martini when she’d laid into that wall yesterday, then turned around with that unchecked smile on her beautiful face. She’d looked right to him, dropping that happiness directly into his lap—and the subsequent squeeze between his pecs had landed like an attack. It hadn’t gone away, either. Was it . . . permanent?
Couldn’t be.
Bethany grabbed his attention when she moved to the kitchen, attempting to pry tile off the wall. When she couldn’t get one unstuck and whacked it with her crowbar in frustration, he set down his sledgehammer, fished a metal wedge out of his toolbox, and joined her. “Here.” He slid the tip of the tool in behind the tile and gestured for Bethany to hand him the crowbar, which she did. “Now you tap it. Like so.” The tile hit the floor. “The sucker’ll pop right off.”
“Oh, uh. Thanks.” She accepted the crowbar back and followed his instructions on the next one, smiling when she executed the move perfectly. “I like that. It’s clean.”
He leaned a shoulder on the wall, biting back on the urge to brush a layer of dust from her nose. “Do you like anything messy?”
Bethany narrowed her eyes at him and he held up his hands in innocence, letting her know he wasn’t trying to make the conversation dirty. Though he easily could have. Find him a twenty-three-year-old man who didn’t relate everything back to sex.
Her suspicions seemed to fade and she pursed her lips. “I allow my bun to be a tad haphazard on a Sunday morning. That’s about it.” She popped off another tile and gave a satisfied swing of her ponytail. “Don’t you like anything neat and orderly?”