I’ve spent years learning how to smile through pressure and spin hesitation into confidence. But the way he’s standing here now with a pleading look in his eyes, makes it harder to tell myself this is just a creative disagreement.
When I don’t answer, he shakes his head. “You say the porch is the first impression of a home. Well,”—he extends a hand to the space around us— “this home’s first impression is going to land someone right in the hospital with a broken ankle. If thiswas up to me…we’d start by replacing the damaged boards and then reinforcing the steps. Structure always comes first. Yes, you will need new railing. I know you want this to be the perfect farmhouse, but you need to keep it practical.”
His serious tone slaps me as if he intended to hurt me with his words, and I feel my mouth part in shock. “That’s—” I stop myself, looking from him to the camera and back to him. I cross my arms, anchoring myself in the familiar resistance. If I give in too easily, it looks staged. If I dig in too hard, it looks personal.
Under it all, there’s a quieter truth I don’t want to name.
It’s that Tucker knows where my weak spots are. Not because he’s trying to find them. But once—just once—I let him see me without the polished confidence.
I clear my throat, moving away from him and placing my hand on the worn railing that’s currently there. “I think…we should start by assessing the structure. That way, we know what actually needs to be replaced.”
“All of it will.”
“Stop exaggerating.”
Just to prove my point, I give the porch railing a light tug, barely more than a test. The wood groans in protest, and I hear a sharp snap before I can register what I’ve done. The railing gives way completely and my balance goes with it. I open my mouth to let out what I assume would be a scream as my foot slips back, scrambling for something solid.
Tucker moves on pure instinct.
So fast I barely see him. His hand shoots out, gripping my waist and I feel the air shift where his palm lands.
In this moment, there’re no cameras. It’s just the two of us frozen in place—me teetering and him with two hands holding me upright. I can see the exact moment he realizes where his hands are. His jaw is tight as his eyes trail down to where he’s touching me and then he pulls back.
I steady myself and straighten slowly.
I realize I’m still holding the broken piece of railing in myhand. Releasing a breath and averting my stare, I toss it to the ground before turning to face him again. “Okay, maybe you’re not exaggerating.”
When I clap my hands together to brush off the dirt, I expect him to have a smug and satisfied grin, but it’s the opposite. It seems as if he didn’t want to be right. There’s something unspoken in the way his eyes look distant, as if he’s lost in another world while staring at me. It feels like he’s not really seeing me. He’s seeing something else.
He moves without speaking, making his way to the railing that just broke off. He crouches down, running his hands along it as he inspects it. I feel myself hovering, watching the way his shoulders move and the way he mutters construction type things under his breath. But I can’t make any of it out because my brain is transfixed on how beautiful this man is.
I’m not supposed to think my fake boyfriend is beautiful.
If circumstances were different between us, then maybe I could.
He moves with ease—assessing and thinking before standing to full height and facing me again. “This porch isn’t the worst I’ve seen,” he admits. “But it’s not safe long term.”
“Is there anything that can be saved? It has character.”
“It has rot,” he counters. “Different vibe. Let’s try to go for safety first?” he says skeptically, raising a brow.
I tilt my head to the side as if thinking it over, but he’s right.
I know he’s right.
And just because I want the playful Tucker back, I smirk. “And aesthetic second?”
His eyes warm, and I visibly see the way his shoulders relax. The corner of his lips turn up just the slightest bit and I know it’s working. “I can build you the prettiest porch in town, babe. I just need you alive to enjoy it.”
My heart skips a beat at the way he so casually calls mebabe.
That traitorous little thing.
He reaches behind him into the back pocket of his jeans and pulls out a pair of work gloves. “Here. You can use these.”
I step over the broken railing carefully, until I’m standing in front of him. Our fingers brush when I take them, and the contact lingers longer than necessary. “Are these your extra pair?”
He shakes his head. “But you need them.”
