And even though he wasn’t the kind of guy to gloat, he made sure to keep his features neutral before he turned, because he needed this too badly to screw it up now. He’d had wealth to spare at one point in his life, but he’d personally financed a manhunt and a reward for his wife’s killer. Between that and unloading their extravagant Louisiana home for well under market value simply to get rid of it, he wasn’t in the same place financially as he’d been a few years ago. Plus, with private school bills for Sarah and college just around the corner, he couldn’t afford a failing show.
“Yes?” He hoped like hell Erin would say yes. Viewers were going to love her, and he needed that kind of ratings spike to keep the show afloat into next season. He stillhad two other successful shows to his credit so he’d find a way to make things work personally. But a lot of other people counted on this show for their livelihood and he refused to let a good program fail just because his host walked away.
“You really think an appearance onInterstate Antiquerwill boost the Dress for Success event that much?” She wore a long black ballerina skirt and a white T-shirt with a cartoon monkey on it.
How could henotsmile at the thought of her—dressed like that—being so concerned about a clothing drive meant to put struggling women into professional business attire? She was made-for-TV perfection. He still knew what made for good TV, even if he hadn’t been flexing his creative muscle the past two years.
“I do.” He dropped his folder on the raised platform that held the store window display of an antique bicycle, vintage picnic basket and an assortment of mismatched dishes. “Shops that do this show get calls from all over the country about pieces in their stores—not just items we feature. Viewers see random stuff in the edge of the frame and decide they have to buy it.”
Erin nodded slowly. “That means I could sell a lot. How do you know people will donate a lot?”
“On one episode, we had a shop owner in a dated wheelchair who had some trouble navigating it around his inventory. He had three new chairs show up the next day and twelve more offers for upgrades by email within the week.” That show had been a turning point for Remy’s anger during his grieving for Liv. Seeing the outpouring of caring had restored some faith in humanity. “Wheelchairs are expensive and we never suggested the guy needed a new one in the show. Can you imagine the kind of support you’d get on a drive where we invite people to be involved?”
He watched her flip her phone from hand to hand, thinking it over, obviously still full of reservations. He was surprised that someone who seemed so sure of herself could be this nervous about being on television. In the era of selfies and YouTube, he didn’t meet many people who were afraid of the camera anymore.
“What about the repairs?” she asked. “Will you try not to show that my store is all torn up?” She stalked toward the front counter and eyed the heavy plastic dividing the current store from the space she was renovating.
“We can avoid shooting it if you want.” He followed her, telling himself he was only curious about what was behind the curtain. “But viewers aren’t interested in seeing perfect places or perfect people. They respond to what’s real. They relate better to people who work hard just like they do. Seeing the process of building the business can be a part of the appeal.”
“Is that so? That hardly explains why every other show on TV is about Hollywood wives or teenage billionaires.” She set her phone down on the front counter and ran her fingers over a basket of polished gemstones sitting by the register.
He picked up a smooth green gem. They were worry stones with sayings on them—luck, happiness, joy. As soon as his hand went in the basket, hers darted away.
“Erin, people don’t watch those shows to see Hollywood wives being happy and pampered though, do they? They want to see catfights and back-talking kids. They want to see the reality behind the glamour.” His hand stalled on a stone that read “Wisdom” and fought the urge to pocket it.
He had the feeling spending more time with Erin would not be wise for him.
“There will be no catfights in myepisode,” she announced, walking away from him toward the construction area. “I’m putting that in my contract.”
“I don’t imagine anyone would mess with you after they’ve seen you with a nail gun anyhow.” He followed her to the plastic sheeting. “But I’ll make a note of it just to be safe. Although you never know what might happen if two people are drop-dead set on getting the same item. Think about those wedding dress reality shows.”
“Will you be staying in town until the shooting begins for the Franklin store?” She pulled aside the curtain to show him the other half of Last Chance Vintage.
“It depends how fast I can bring on a third business to feature.” He whistled at the space she’d unveiled. “Wow.”
The adjoining room looked like a turn-of-the-century general store, the walls lined with open shelving, drawers and bins. A waist-high counter stood a few feet in front of the wall shelves, the dark wood polished to a high sheen. A rolling ladder leaned against one set of shelves. An antique sewing machine sat on a black tea cart and an ancient cash register was parked on one of the counters. A few cast iron lanterns hung from rafters.
“Pretty cool, right?” Erin was the most relaxed he’d seen her all day. “This was the candy store when I was growing up. Well, I guess they sold cards and drugstore stuff, too. But all those shelves were full of candy jars.”
Her eyes sparkled at the memory, as if she had come alive. He could see what drove her work on the renovations. Maybe what drove the whole passion for antiques.
“Sounds like kid heaven.” He followed her across the polished hardwood floor that looked recently refinished. Or maybe it was just the scent of wood stain that still hung heavy in the air.
“We would spend half a Sunday afternoon debatinghow to best use fifty cents.” Smoothing a hand along a countertop, she spun to a sudden stop.
“We?” He paused right behind her, close enough that the top layer of her ballerina skirt brushed against his leg.
“My brothers and sisters and me.” She propped her elbows on the counter and watched him with a steady gaze.
“How many would that be?” He pulled open a shallow drawer under one of the countertops.
“Five in all. Two brothers, two sisters and me. But, er—here.” She popped open one of the bins on the front of a shelf, her shift back to neutral topics an obvious scramble away from anything personal. “I’m going to use some of these spots for the smaller architectural pieces—cabinetry hardware, vintage doorknobs, keys and switch plates. Modern home owners love stuff like that.”
They stood close together to look at the drawer, close enough for him to catch a hint of Erin’s fragrance. Amber… The realization distracted him from the conversation and took him back to Liv’s studio where she had developed her own perfumes. Half the reason he’d bought that mammoth new house in the middle of nowhere had been to accommodate her plans to expand her business. She’d been so happy with the workspace in a separate building at the edge of the property…
“Remy?” Erin’s voice tugged him back to the present. “Everything okay?” She frowned at him. “I have spinach stuck between my teeth, don’t I?”
Her comment surprised a laugh out of him, her easy diffusion of the moment a welcome relief even if it didn’t chase away the weird guilt that came with this heightened awareness of her. His own wife had once told him that a woman’s scent acted on a man’s sexual desires even when she was nowhere around, so it bugged the hell out of himthat he couldn’t stir up a sense memory of Liv, although he could probably recite the damn chemical recipe.
