Once we crack it open and I get a good look at it, Scottie does a happy dance when she sees it’s the exact one she wanted.
I do think the color will be right.
Mostly because the truth is, I would forego every neutral paint swatch in existence if it meant she stayed this happy.
We set up the drapes and rollers, and start painting.
Once we get the first coat on, she stands back to look at it.
“I love it,” she whispers under her breath.
Yeah, well,I loveyou.
“Oh, you have more paint on your cheek,” I say, reaching up and brushing it again. But this time, the paint on my hand rubs all over.
“You did not.”
“I did,” I admit with a playful smile.
“You’re dead.”
She lunges at me, and I catch her around the waist before she can tackle me into the baseboards. Her laugh rings through the air but I don’t put her down. I hold her there, in my arms, because she fits here.
“Put me down,” she huffs.
“No.”
Her eyes flick to mine over her shoulder, heat sparkling there, and for a second, the cameras don’t matter. Nothing except her matters.
“Yes, Tucker!” Andrea calls out. “That’s it. That’s the shot we’ve needed all season. Look at her like you’re obsessed with her.”
I don’t have to fake that.
Scottie’s cheeks flush, and she realizes it before she wiggles out of my grip, swatting my chest. “Focus.”
I grip her chin in my hands, letting the crew see just how obsessed with her I am. “You should already know you make it impossible to focus on anything when you’re in the room.”
She rolls her eyes and steps away enough to reach for a paintbrush. She dips it into the teal paint can.
I step back, hands up. “If you ruin the floors, it’s on you.”
She lunges forward, smearing a tiny streak of paint on my forearm. I freeze, slowly looking down at the paint and back up to her in a dramatic fashion.
Scottie gasps. “Oh no.”
“Oh, yes.”
She backs up. “Tucker, don’t. I didn’t mean it.”
I dip my fingers into the paint with deliberate slowness, never breaking eye contact. “You times now you’re declaring battle.”
“I did not start a?—”
I streak teal across her chest and she shrieks, stumbling backward into the front doorway, laughing so hard she can barely breathe. When I reach again, she steps through the door and onto the front porch.
“Not my front porch, Tucker!”
She backs up, down the steps, and onto the grass. I chase her, paint on my fingers, and we both laugh openly, bright and wild. Her face lights up in a way that makes me love her that much more.
