Tabitha
Iopened the backdoor to a kitchen bursting with the crew setting up their filming equipment.
Simon was wrapped in another enormous scarf, even though it was going to be a scorcher, conversing over a clipboard with Freya. Beside them, Phoebe was checking her boom, and two camera guys were discussing where to stand for the first shot. The two interns peeked through from the dining room, hovering, but clearly still with nothing to do.
Tim walked in the back door after me, presumably from his truck, with my plans in hand. He stopped short and ran a quick eye over my hair and down my new outfit and widened his eyes, appearing surprised. He grunted, seeming rattled, but he appeared to like what he saw, and I could feel the heat ofmy blush. But his reaction didn’t make sense after last night. “I would never.”
Scratching at his eyebrow, head down, he unraveled the plans on the kitchen island.
“Tabitha, got a minute before we start filming? I know these plans are finalized, but I just want to double-check something.”
His tight tone was something of a relief. He was back to his old self with me—exasperated.
“Yes, of course,” I answered.
As if in silent agreement, we half turned from the crew who were about ten feet away, chatting with the director over their equipment. Hopefully, they were too busy to listen in to this conversation anyway.
Tim crossed his arms over his broad chest, leaned a hip against the kitchen island, and held my gaze with his brown eyes that were flecked with forest-green in the kitchen light. A memory flashed from seven years ago of those green flecks glittering as he leaned in for that kiss.
I shifted, momentarily off-kilter.
“There are some changes we could make to these plans without pulling another permit. For the bathrooms, you want a floor-to-ceiling marble look. You’re proposing we match up all these random imitation-marble tiles, so it’s a pattern that emulates the bleed of marble and the room looks like one big slab of rock. That’s it, right? That’s your plan?” He took a long inhale. I nodded, and his breath hissed out through his teeth. “Do you know how many hours that’s going to take us down at the tile wholesalers?”
I blinked at him, steeling my face to be impassive, to show how calm I was. “Well, we can’t afford real marble, so this is the next best thing. And they’re large tiles, so less labor.”
He looked skeptical, and I wasn’t sure which part of my statement his furrowed brow applied to. Surely he didn’t think we could afford real marble for ten bathrooms?
“We’re doing it,” I said, in a tone that brooked no argument.
He slapped his hands against his thighs, annoyed. I noted that the thighs in question looked extra girthy this morning. Were his trousers slightly more fitted than usual?
He shuffled the pages and found the sheet for the kitchen. “Okay. Next. These dimensions for the kitchen island are way too big. I think you’ve made a mistake.”
I leaned over, propped my elbows on the page, and took a look. “No mistake. They’re exactly right. I want the island to be generous and luxurious, not piddly like this existing one.”
“It’s too big for this kitchen,” he said, throwing up his hands to the two corners of the room in front of us, a small and cramped space. “It will look ridiculous.”
“It’s just right.” I put my hands on my hips. “And remember, we’re bashing down the wall to the dining room and the formal sitting room.”
“I don’t think we should do that. That’s a big job. We haven’t got time.”
I thrust out my chin defiantly. “We own the house, and it’s not protected by any heritage organization, so we can do what we like, within reason. And, as you know, I’ve already pulled the necessary permits. The dining and sitting rooms are ridiculous and formal and never get used—they’re just gathering dust. Trystan in the dining room? That’s the first time it’s been used in decades.”
“So, we bash down the two walls between the kitchen and the dining and sitting rooms. But it’s not just going to be one big open space, is it?”
“No, that would be cavernous. We need to create small, discreet cooking, talking, or eating areas.”
“Yes, there’s the breakfast nook with a—” he gazed into the distance “—skirted banquette with a toile design. A subversion of the classic.”
He’d thought hard, as though pulling that from his memory, but I wondered if he was just taking the piss. He examined the sample of material I’d supplied. It was printed with classic pastoral scenes of couples picnicking and women on swings, but the naughty, semi-clothed version.
He did a double take. “Shit. Okay.” I clocked his realization, and a bubble of amusement tumbled through me. He gathered himself. “Then there’s the round table area, the sofas by the fire, and the rattan barstools around the island.”
“Yes, exactly.”
“So, we’re opening up the kitchen, then closing it in again with all these areas.”
Bugger.Now I saw where he was going with this. He was twisting my plans to make his point. “It’s not quite like that.”
