I crouch beside her.
“Yes, ma’am. You sort, I screw. But if there’s a leftover piece, we shove it under the rug.”
She shoots me an amused look. “Deal.”
As we work, I glance around.
It’s a glorious disaster.
The Fit-Fluencers—Chad and Kiki—are testing the boards like gym equipment. They haven’t assembled a single thing.
Tiffany and Brent are fighting. Or rather, Tiffany is shrieking at Brent because she chipped a nail opening the box, while he’s trying to install the mirror backward.
And then there’s Joe and Sarah.
I glance at their station.
Pathetic.
Sarah bends forward in the most unnatural way possible, giving the cameras a panoramic view of her cleavage every time she picks up a screw.
“Oh, Joeee, it’s sooo haaaarrrd,” she whines, holding the screwdriver like lipstick. “I can’t do it!”
Joe is sweating. His poster-boy smile is gone. He’s forcing two pieces together that clearly don’t match, like he’s personally offended by the wood.
“Give it to me,” he snaps, yanking the piece from her hand.
“Hey! Careful! You’re ruining my shot!”
She smiles for the cameras, but I catch the vein pulsing in Joe’s neck.
They’re fake.
They’re performing.
And they’re failing.
It’s pure bliss.
Then I look over at Lucy and Lars.
Holy hell.
Lars isn’t even using the screwdriver. He’s twisting the bolts in with his bare hands. He’s already built the entire frame. Lucy passes him parts like he’s forging Excalibur, staring at him with heart eyes while his biceps flex beneath his flannel.
“Okay,” I mutter to Sloane. “Lars wins. That man is a machine.”
“He’s an artist,” she corrects, handing me a side panel. “Hold this. Don’t move.”
We’re close now.
I’m holding the heavy mirror steady while she kneels between my legs to secure the base.
Her face is right at my pelvis.
My breath stops.
She looks up.
