Nothing in this room can be fixed with cosmetics.
This room needs reinforcement.
I glance at Scottie, who’s still talking to Andrea with her hands out as if painting a picture. I can tell by the brightness in her face that she sees potential for this room.
I fucking hate that all I see is risk.
“Light floors and clean walls to go with the soft lighting,” Scottie says. “Nothing a little love can’t fix.”
I run my eyes along the ceiling and baseboards. “It needs more than that.”
She glances at me, amused. “You always say that.”
“And usually, I’m right.”
“Usually.”
I circle the room again, taking in every single inch of it—surveying and assessing. My skin crawls with everything this room needs. “We’re gutting this room,” I announce after a few minutes.
Scottie’s smile falters. “Tucker?—”
“This room is full of water damage, likely an issue with the roof, which is something we need to check out as soon as possible.” I fucking cringe as the words leave my mouth because the last thing I want is these producers to think they won by making this season a fail. “The subflooring is uneven, and I don’t trust what’s behind those walls regarding the electrical work that will be needed,” I say, feeling my fingers tingle, eager to reach for the pry bar. “We don’t half fix rooms like this. We go all in.”
She studies me for a moment. I see the disappointment in her face. But when I lock eyes with her, I beg her to read what I’m saying without any more words. I beg her to trust me on this.
She nods. “Okay, I trust you.”
That shouldn’t hit as hard as it does, but I’ve never been more thankful to hear it.
“Is that going to take more time?” Andrea asks.
My eyes snap to her, anger bubbling. Because when she asked us if there were any big changes we anticipated, my brain immediately went to the feeling I keep having when Andrea is around—shewantsto see Scottie fail.
I won’t fucking allow it.
This is going to work and be done on time.
“Nope,” I answer her, popping theP.
My crew moves around us effortlessly to remove all the old furniture left in the room. It wasn’t much—an old bedside table, a rusted metal-framed bed, and a chair in the corner that smelled of mold. Even with the little that was left, the room already feels bigger.
Scottie steps back in first, hands on her hips, surveying the room. “Okay. Do we think this room will fight us?”
I scoff. “Everything in this house does.”
“Figures.” She laughs and then shoots me a wicked grin. “Good thing I like a challenge.”
“I’ve noticed,” I say, watching her move toward the closet.
She waves a hand in acome heremotion. “Try to keep up, Tucker.”
I shake my head and make my way to her.
I couldn’t stop myself if I tried.
We get to work without a plan beyond instinct. She peels back the trim while I score the seams. When the first section of drywall gives way, it comes down in a rough chunk, and we both step back at the same time.
“Nice catch,” she says when I steady the falling edge before it falls on her.
