“I do!”
“Then dress like it.”
DIARY ROOM:
Poppy: So I just talk into the camera?
Producer: Look slightly to the right. No, not that far. Just slightly. Okay, too close. Now too far. Okay, how about you try looking at my fingers? Great.
Poppy: Now what was the question?
5
“You just had to roll in it, didn’t you?” Decker said to Tater Tot, his dog. Taters was part Great Pyrenees, part Great Dane, and a certified hoover. He also identified as a cat, especially when the local female feline, Miss Peepers, came swinging her tail around, which resulted in Taters wanting to make friends and usually ended up with a face full of spray. Nothing that a little tomato bath couldn’t fix. But showing up with a pink dog when there was a lot on the line—like impressing Decker’s new boss, Jack Steel, legendary director and the guy who had Decker’s future in the palm of his hand, wasn’t the look Decker was going for.
“Today is about winning Jack over, and there is nothing winning about the faint scent of dried cat spray when standing downwind.” Which was why Decker had hosed Taters off twice and given him a quick towel dry before loading him into his work truck, with all the windows rolled down just to be sure. A little air-dry never hurt anyone.
Taters was a constant by Decker’s side ever since he’d rescued him from a job site. They were inseparable. He might look like a spotted horse, but he was also a therapy dog whohelped Decker with his panic attacks—attacks that started when he was a teen and the pressure of perfection became a constant in his life. So leaving him at home was a nonstarter.
Mother Nature was suffering hot flashes as a suffocating May breeze rushed through the cabin, a reminder that summer had arrived early on the scene. Summer was Decker’s favorite time of year. It smelled like tales of campouts, fishing with his family, riding bikes around the neighborhood until the sun went down. Although those were distant memories. Now his time consisted of swinging hammers, building firepits and porches for clients, quality time with his estranged brother, and visiting his mom whenever he had the chance.
Okay, that was a straight-up lie. He spent time with his dad when the guilt was so thick it clogged his airway until his lungs stopped functioning. It was hard to see the man who had once been bigger than life sitting in his recliner with a nurse by his side. If Decker hadn’t been a coward, then he’d be by his dad’s side, too. But whenever he stopped by the family house he felt like a roadblock in an already seamless operation.
There had been a flow to things—almost like a dance that he didn’t know the steps to. His family had worked seamlessly together to give his dad the best life possible in the time he had left. Once upon a time, Decker had been able to be a part of that—the financial part that paid for the best care money could buy. But last time he checked his bank account his balance was missing a few zeros. Which meant if this build with Castle didn’t go through he’d be of no use to his family.
Then two weeks ago, that video aired and added just one more thing he didn’t know how to fix. Everything had been stripped away from him. Just like his injury had stripped away his hockey career. Only this time he wasn’t going to let fate win. He was going to fight until he got what was rightfully his—his dad’s legacy and his family back. And nothing was going to stop him—not even a sex tape.
If it took being some talking head for a house-flipping show, then so be it. He was willing to put in the work and make the sacrifices, no matter the cost. Especially when it would help put some of those zeros back in play.
Decker made his way up the windy drive, hoping to be one of the first to arrive, a sign of his dedication and excitement about the opportunity. When he’d learned what house was being renovated he nearly started foaming at the mouth with excitement. There wasn’t a contractor or architect alive who didn’t know about the Stark House.
Built by Pierre Stark in the late 1950s, it was a midcentury modern masterpiece. It had been featured in ads, movies, television shows,Architectural Digest, you name it. And Decker was going to be a part of restoring it.
What an honor.
Whereas Brian was more of a contractor, Decker was the master craftsman and finisher of the family. Oh, he knew how to swing a hammer with the best of them. But he’d learned the art of finesse from his mom—who understood the importance of details. Building a room was one thing. Making it sing was his specialty. That was something he hoped he could bring to the table with this project.
He watched his parents’ straight-from-the-silver-screen romance, then his brother fall madly in love, and he wanted that for himself. Desperately. He just didn’t know if it was in the cards for him. That didn’t mean he was going to give up trying. He just needed to switch up his strategy, court wifey material instead of WAG wannabes.
At the wordwifeya mossy-eyed beauty came to mind and he had to smile. Damn, she’d been all honey and sugar one minute and then feisty enough to singe his nuts the next. She was unpredictable and that turned him on.
Taters let out an enthusiastic yowl that sounded more feline than canine—which was what happened when one was raisedalongside a litter of kittens. His tail wagged with excitement as the driveway straightened. In the distance the house came into view and Decker released a low whistle.
“This is the big time, boy. Our moment to take it all back. Reputation, career, family. All of it. All we need to do is walk onto that set and act as if we own the place. Just like on the ice. Domination. No distractions. No excuses.”
Yowl—rrrr!
Taters stuck his head out the window and let his tongue loll out the side of his mouth, drool splattering the back passenger side of Decker’s truck. His little wet doggie nose wiggled, taking in every scent that blew through the hot spring air.
His plan had been to get there first, have a little one-on-one time with the house and suss out the scope of the project so he could sound like a pro when he met with Jack. Which was why he was disappointed to see a parking lot full of cars lining both sides of the street.
Knowing his work truck was too big to parallel park in one of the few small vacant spots, he pulled in the drive behind the light teal and white VW bus. He threw it into park and opened the door. Taters shot out of the truck like a bullet, scaling Decker’s body like a thoroughbred at a horse race, his feet not touching the ground until he’d reached the front lawn.
He pranced around an oak tree in the front, making three passes in record time.
“Don’t even think about it,” Decker commanded right as Taters squatted in position. “Come on, man. First impressions, remember?”
Taters’s first impression was long-lasting and had Decker digging around in the back of his truck for a plastic bag and hand sanitizer. When that was handled, the two made their way up the steps and onto the landing where there was a buzz of activity.
