I chuckle. “We can add that to the demo notes.”
The camera crews follow Andrea, setting up where needed, while I gather the tools we need.
Scottie talks to the camera for a few minutes, telling them about the progress we made yesterday and what the plan is for today, but all I can think about is how much I’m enjoying doing this with her. When we started, I was dreading how much she hated me for leaving her, on top of the fake dating scheme we’re doing for the show.
But the cameras love her.
They love our chemistry.
It’s something that can’t be faked.
When she’s done, she comes to kneel next to me on the floor. We begin by prying up the old linoleum that hasn’t been updated since disco was alive and well. The smell is…something out of my nightmares.
Scottie yanks up the first strip, lets out a squeal, and drops it quickly. “Whatisthat?”
I look down. “It looks like subflooring mixed with some glue residue.”
She wrinkles her face in disgust. “It looks like something crawled under here to die, Tucker. That’s a biohazard.”
I laugh. “You said you wanted rustic charm. Congratulations.”
She groans dramatically, throwing her head back. “This isn’t the kind of rustic charm I meant.”
I bite back a smile.
She’s beautiful in a way that shouldn’t make sense when pulling old floors up and finding possible mold underneath.
My heart slams in my chest hard enough to hurt. She catches me staring at her and narrows her eyes. “Are you seriously smiling at moldy subflooring?” she asks, using air quotes to emphasize the last word.
“It’s not the mold,” I say under my breath, and direct my attention back to the flooring I’m pulling up to do anything to keep my hands from shaking.
“What’s that?”
I clear my throat. “Nothing.”
I watch from the corner of my eye as she studies me for a beat. “You’re distracted.”
“You’re loud,” I counter.
“You like it.”
I do. More than I should.
When I don’t answer her, she turns her head to hide the blush on her cheeks and pretends to study the pry bar in her hands like that’ll keep me from noticing.
I pull up another piece of flooring, and Scottie moves to do the same. The cameras zoom in, capturing her frustration as the flooring refuses to budge. She mumbles something under her breath involving creative violence and swearing at the use of glue.
I stifle a laugh, and she shoots me a warning glare. “Don’t laugh at me.”
“You’re cute when you’re mad.”
“Don’t.” She pauses, swallowing, covering the mic clipped to her shirt and keeping her voice low. “Say things like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because you…say them like they’re true.”
They are.
