Fucking hell.
I rush to my room, reach for a random T-shirt and pull it on while I hop to the kitchen with one flip-flop on, the other off. I grab my car keys and am out of the house in seconds.
It’s only five minutes to the barn, but at the speed I’m driving up the dirt farm track to the road, I’d give Aunt May a panic attack. At least she got rid of the chickens a few years ago, otherwise there might have been a casualty.
Once on the public road, I slow down. Speeding isn’t my thing. Still, I pull up with a screech in the open lot next to the new barn, because something isn’t right. There’s the red maggot, but there’s also a minivan and two guys leaning against it, having a smoke. For a moment I take in the logo on the van and decipher it. That sinking feeling I’ve been trying to shed since yesterday pumps back with a massive pound in my head.
It’s the freaking TV crew from the Home Makers channel and they’re a good hour early.
I haven’t showered. I reek of beer. For a split second, I toy with the idea of bolting back to the boathouse and getting cleaned up, but I’m already screwed. One guy is stomping out his cigarette and another is taking what I recognize as that last drag.
And there she is, coming out of the barn with a person who looks like he is the presenter and in charge of the TV crew. She looks in charge. Her blonde hair is up in a high messy bun. She’s wearing a white tank top that some guys on site would casually refer to as ‘check-out-my-tits’ in low mutters. There’s a wide brown belt cinching her tiny waist and a pair of ‘kiss-my-pussy’ khaki shorts. Legs to die for stretch all the way to some wheat-colored steel toe boots, and I swear those shoes never knew they could look as sexy as that.
Cash McGraw would lose his shit if he saw this siren strolling around a site like this…meaning of course that her hard hat is missing.
Georgiana meets my gaze as I eyeball her through my windshield. She is livid. And that look? She’s spared it for me. She tears her gaze away from mine and smiles at the man by her side, all sweet and docile, but I know better. She gestures with her head in my direction, and I have no choice now. I get out of the car as the other two guys move closer.
“Here he is. Raiden Logan,” Georgiana says. “Man of the moment and designer of our tiny house entry.” She holds the other guys off with a raised hand and with wide strides comes up to me.
“Where the hell have you been?” she hisses under her breath. “I’ve been holding the fort here for the last thirty minutes. These guys are on a schedule and still need to drive to another construction site three hours from here.” She curses under her breath and then gives me an inspection. “You couldn’t even bother to shower?”
I purse my lips, ready to get the word out, but she swears again before I can stumble into an explanation.
“Listen, I’ve got whatever we’re filming all set up. I’ve gone through the whole thing with the presenter. Did you know we have a production schedule? I was about to call you but realized I don’t have your number.” She leans in a bit and takes a whiff. “Really?” She clenches her teeth and rolls her eyes. “Whatever you do, don’t be yourself, okay? Try to act like someone totally…likeable.”
She walks off and I close my eyes. The continuous rollercoaster loop of fuck-ups I find myself in can spit me out already.
I raise a hand in defense, meaning to say something, but I can’t get the word out.
“Raiden.” The presenter steps forward and the next thing I know, my hand is in his. He lets go and I get to rake my hands through my bedhead before I shake hands with the other two guys. They grin at me with that look that tells me everything—they think I’m hung over as all hell and am pissing around with this, but they can totally relate. They think I got it on with my intern too, by the look that passes between them, me, and Georgiana. I can practically read their minds…she’s pissed off at him now, but the make-up sex is going to be phenomenal.
“So, Georgiana here has set us up inside. We’ve got half an hour to shoot this, so can we get cracking? I’m not keen on any retakes, as we’ve been told to keep it natural, low-key and unscripted.…uh…you know what I mean.”
I have no clue what he means. I’ve never done this before. Unscripted doesn’t even exist in my vocabulary. Whenever I can, I rerun everything I say through my head at least three times before I say anything, especially to strangers. Natural as possible sounds like my worst nightmare. I cup my hand over my mouth and run it down my jaw, feeling my stubble’s scratch. I rolled out of bed twenty minutes ago, so I’m as natural as a man can be. Maybe they’re getting everything they’ve asked for, right here, right now.
“They start outside, and we’re in here,” Georgiana says as she leads the way into the barn.
I follow and notice that the one guy already has his TV camera on his shoulder and is making moves to switch it on. The other guy is aiming his lens and has been taking photos all the way.
For a moment, I’m alone with Georgiana in the barn and she twists on her heel and stares me down. I freeze on the spot next to a workbench where she’s placed my tiny house model.
“Listen, we’re talking about the model and about what we’re building this week, so, unless you have something earth-shattering to say, don’t interrupt.”
I’ve lost all my words. Behind me, there’s movement and then a voice as the producer walks into the barn—conversationally, naturally, unscripted—with the cameraman filming him.
“…where in Vermont, Raiden Logan and George Wess are building their tiny house. Raiden’s entry into the contest surprised us all. He didn’t enter any drawings, but instead he dropped off his replica of what he’ll be building at the competition’s headquarters in Boston. We’ve been fawning over the model ever since, and to our delight, he’s made another one that we can show you today.”
The cameraman has his lens turned to me and I open my mouth to say something—anything—but there’s nothing. My eyes widen, a flustered blush invading my cheeks, and then Georgiana is there, her warm arm brushing against mine as she leans into the model.
“Raiden’s tiny house has all the charm of his original competition entry,” she says. “If you look here,” and with a seemingly practiced move, she lifts the roof off the building, “you can peek inside and see everything to scale. It’s like a dollhouse.” She looks up and smiles at the camera. “Only real and better, and soon to be replicated larger than life.”
For the next five minutes, the cameraman focuses on Georgiana as she walks them through the details of the house, from the skylights to the farmhouse kitchen sink, to the high ceiling above the king-size bed, which is a feature I insisted on. I don’t have to speak a single word, and although the stress is still shredding my stomach, I’m a bit less freaked out now that the camera isn’t pointed at me.
When the producer turns to me and asks what material I used to create the houseplants I added for a touch of hominess, I only need a moment to meet their expectant gazes. “Polymer clay, I made it with.”
Ugh.
The camera turns back to Georgiana, who shoots me that frown I’ve gotten to know intimately since I met her less than a day ago. She shrinks away from me and the loss of the warmth of her skin against my arm leaves me cold. I didn’t realize I found that subtle touch comforting, not until she pulled away. I don’t think I would have managed two words without the heat of that connection.