by Tessa Bailey
Bethany wrapped an arm around Kristin, who tried to dig in her heels, and escorted her out of sight.
“Okay.” Confidence restored, Travis lifted a pint of beer. “I just want to make a toast to my wife.” He stopped, his composure slipping again, his eyes developing a sheen. “Wow. First time I’ve gotten to say that. My wife, Georgette Castle.” There wasn’t a sound to be heard, save the wind rustling the trees in the backyard. “You made me the happiest man alive today. And I know you don’t need a single thing. I don’t, either, now that I’ve got you. But I can’t help wanting to give you everything in the world, so bear with me. Okay? Buckle up, baby girl, because we’re going to Italy. Tonight. Your bags are already packed.”
A gasp went up, followed by a loud cheer.
Somewhere outside the limelight, Kristin wailed miserably.
Wes laughed. A few minutes later, Bethany locked eyes with him across the dance floor. Slowly, some might say grudgingly on her end, they made their way back to each other, meeting in the center of the celebrants. They were the only ones who weren’t dancing, but there were almost enough sparks leaping in her eyes to qualify. After dancing with her behind the house, feeling her let go and breathe up against his chest, it was nearly impossible not to reach for her now. How could touching her be wrong when his hands felt empty without her?
“Thank you for the diversion,” she started.
He winked and it seemed to momentarily distract her. “Any time.”
“It occurred to me”—she crossed her arms at a very precise angle—“that I never asked if you were comfortable being involved in the reality show. If you want out, I’ll totally understand—”
“I don’t scare that easy.”
She inclined her head, her body sagging ever so slightly. With relief? “Then I guess I’ll see you on Wednesday.”
“I guess so.” She started to turn away, but he stopped her. “Hey, Bethany?”
“Yes?”
The words seemed to come from the dead center of his stomach. “Maybe I could be the one thing you don’t overthink, all right?”
The music faded a little around them. Wes could see the pulse at the base of her neck going a thousand miles an hour, despite her collected expression. For a few moments, they were back behind the house and she was baring her vulnerabilities to him, but just as quickly, she snatched them back up with a sly smile. “Who says I think about you at all?”
Wes’s low laugh followed her back to the other side of the dance floor. Goddamn, she was something else. He couldn’t wait for Wednesday when he’d get the honor of matching wits with her again. Hell, just being around her. Seeing her, this time with the added knowledge of how she ticked. They were going to be on the same team. It would be an understood fact, if only for the time it took to renovate the house.
Although, for the first time, the finish line at the end of his stay in Port Jefferson was obscured by a fine layer of mist. A someday as opposed to a soon. With an alarmed shake of his head, he cleared the mist and went to find his niece, calling himself ten times a fool.
Chapter Nine
Bethany got to the site early on Wednesday morning and parked on the street, as they’d been advised to do via the furious rounds of emails that had arrived since the wedding. As of Sunday, she’d had zero clue how television productions came together.
Today she considered herself a reluctant expert.
Though she’d agreed to appear on the show, she’d nearly escaped her panic by reasoning there was no way the filming of a television show could be pulled together so quickly. Surely she’d be let off the hook.
Apparently she’d underestimated a motivated producer with a flexible budget. Since Sunday night, a full camera crew, complete with director, had been pulled off an in-progress reality show called AirBn’Ballers, which had been set to film in the Hamptons. That gem having been put on hold, the crew made their way to Port Jefferson instead.
Now the driveway was reserved for the cameras, producers, director, sound and lighting crew, not to mention about a dozen production assistants—the imminent presence of whom made her want to puke her breakfast into the ratty-ass lawn.
She was equal parts thrilled for her sister’s Italian honeymoon and sad that she didn’t have Georgie’s irreverent banter in her ear. It definitely would have helped her get through demo day.
It wasn’t as though she’d never been present during the demolition of a home’s interior. As kids, their father had brought them along to witness the gutting of houses many times. Even as an adult, she’d watched walls being ripped down, floorboards being pried up. Seen debris tossed out windows or carried to dumpsters. There was something indescribably satisfying about breaking down the old to make way for the new. That sense of exhilaration displayed by others had sparked her interest in heading her own flip in the first place. She wanted to experience that rush of pleasure.
So few things gave her that reduction of tension. Would burying a sledgehammer in some drywall leave her boneless and too depleted to think of what came next for five minutes? God, she hoped so. She was starting to worry about her inability to sit still. Was it normal? This total failure to be happy with any of her efforts or be satisfied with her accomplishments?
She hadn’t been lying when she told Wes way too much at the wedding. It had been a weak moment, nothing more . . . though she trusted that he wouldn’t use her revelations against her. She wasn’t sure why she held that trust in him, only that it was rock solid.
Bethany caught sight of her thoughtful frown in the rearview mirror and shook herself.
Since the final guest had left on Sunday night, she’d been cleaning her parents’ backyard, returning the catering company equipment, packing up the gifts and leaving them arranged just so in Georgie and Travis’s living room, so they could open them upon returning from Florence.
Everyone had left the wedding happy and loaded, as was always the hope. So why had she lain awake for the last two nights trying to pick every moment apart for something that hadn’t been perfect? There was food left over. Did that mean people didn’t like it? Should she have provided a coat check? Why the hell hadn’t she considered a damn coat check? Now those jackets draped on the backs of chairs would be in photographs photobombing for all eternity. That’s how people would remember the wedding, wouldn’t they?
Conversely, when Bethany thought of the wedding, she would remember how much of her ass cheek could fit in Wes’s hand. As in, the whole thing. She’d never had her butt gripped with such authority before—and why couldn’t she dredge up some more indignation about it? He’d lifted her dress and grabbed two handfuls and she could only work up the barest irritation. There was something definitely wrong with her. It was the lack of sleep. Definitely.
She certainly hadn’t liked it.
Or humped her vibrator thinking about it until she strained a hamstring.
Bethany slapped open the driver’s-side vanity mirror and smoothed a ridge of unblended concealer beneath her eye with the pad of her pinky. Her movements paused when she heard the crunch of gravel behind her, excitement leaping in her belly before she could stop it. That would be Wes arriving, but she wouldn’t get out to greet him. No, she’d stay locked in her car where she was safe from bad ideas.
Bethany only made it to a count of ten before tightening her ponytail and climbing out of the car. She drew up short when, instead of Wes and his dinged-up truck, she saw a very attractive man leaning against a black town car, complete with driver. The James Marsden lookalike was laughing at something on the screen of his cell phone, ankles crossed in a careless way.
“Can I help you?”
The man seemed disinclined to look up from his phone, but he finally did, performing a double take. “Oh.” He pushed off the town car. “Hello there. Did they bring in another host to replace me?”
Bethany frowned. “Sorry?”
“Well, you can’t be the homeowner.” He put his hand out for a shake, sliding it smoothly
into hers, holding. “With that face, they’d be bad at their jobs if they put you in the background, instead of front and center.”
Wow. Bethany was ashamed to admit that line might have worked on her before. This guy was so her usual type, it hurt. She tended to gravitate toward men with impeccable style. Complimentary men. Men who saw the best in her and pointed it out, rather than bring up her worst qualities constantly, like a certain someone she knew.
You look fucking beautiful tonight, in case no one told you.
Warmth flooded her stomach at the memory of Wes saying those words to her at the wedding, hasty and oddly timed as they’d been. Why did Wes’s compliments get a physical reaction out of her while this man’s praise left her totally cold?
She didn’t know. But the hiatus train rolled on.
“I am the homeowner, actually.” Bethany shook his hand firmly and let go. “And you are?”
“Slade Hogan.” His teeth almost blinded her when he smiled. “Can’t lie, I’m glad I picked today to show up early. That almost never happens.”
“Crazy.”
He laughed even though she hadn’t made a joke. “You probably recognize me from Insane Porches? It ran for two seasons.”
“Oh, right.” She didn’t. “I thought you looked familiar.”
“I get that a lot.” He squinted past her toward the house. “Ouch, they really think the crew can get this done in two and a half weeks?”
“Excuse me?” Bethany blinked. “Two and a half weeks?”
Slade shrugged a shoulder. “That’s the term of my contract. Being that I’m a vital part of the show—”
“The show they created on the fly three days ago?”
“Yes.” He stopped and considered her, as though deciding whether or not he’d been insulted. “Anyway, my agent tells me this particular film crew has to resume production of AirBn’Ballers in three weeks, so there is a tight deadline to film this pilot. Not to worry, though, I’m sure you’ve got a capable team.”
“Sure do.”
The sound of an approaching engine turned both of their heads and Bethany almost laughed. Of course Wes took that moment to pull up. Her unlikely foreman climbed out of his truck with all the aplomb of a gunslinger dismounting his horse. He eyeballed Bethany and Slade from beneath the brim of his cowboy hat, tucked his fingers into the loops of his jeans, and traversed the driveway with his long-legged stride. “Morning.”
“Morning,” Bethany replied, mentally berating her hormones for responding to the sight of his freshly shaven jaw, the wet ends of his hair. The morning breeze plastered his long-sleeved, paint-splashed shirt to his body and it really should have annoyed her that he’d shown up to be filmed for television in an old stained shirt. But it didn’t. It made her . . . glad to see him. For some reason. A lot gladder than she’d been to see the hot show host. “This is Slade Hogan,” she said, introducing the man when Wes drew even. “He’s going to host the show.”
Wes raised an eyebrow at Bethany.
She raised one back. Don’t you dare laugh at his name.
Wes sighed.
There was no mistaking Slade’s wince when the men shook. “You planning on pitching in?” Wes asked Slade.
“Me?” Slade laughed. “No. I only hold a hammer for promotional purposes.”
He seemed to be waiting for Bethany to laugh, so she obliged him in the hopes of balancing the awkwardness Wes was working to create. Her hostess mentality didn’t come and go at will, and there was no point in making Slade uncomfortable. Especially when it looked like they’d be stuck with one another’s company for over two weeks.
“I’m sure you’ll find something to keep you busy,” Wes drawled, taking a step toward Bethany. “Something else, that is.”
Silence landed, the men staring hard at each other.
“I’m sure there will be plenty of photo ops,” Bethany said without missing a beat, taking hold of Wes’s arm and tugging him into the scrappy side yard. “Can I talk to you?”
He was still looking at Slade. “Sure, darlin’.”
“No problem. Go ahead.” Slade’s voice was tighter than before. “I have a million calls to make.”
“Better get to it,” Wes said, tugging down the brim of his hat. “Slade.”
With her back turned away from the host, Bethany rolled her eyes like an exasperated twelve-year-old. She cast a glance over her shoulder to make sure they weren’t being watched—and then she jabbed her finger into Wes’s chest. “I am only going to say this one more time. I am not your chew toy. We are not involved and therefore you are not allowed to tell other men to back off. I make that decision! Me!”
Wes snorted. “I did you a favor. Any man with hands that soft will only steal your moisturizer.”
The urge to laugh was seriously inconvenient. “I didn’t ask you to do me a favor, cowboy.”
“Aha! So you’re admitting it was a favor?”
“No, I am not,” she enunciated. “I am admitting nothing.”
Wes contemplated her quietly for a full five seconds. “You really interested in Hammer Promo Guy, Bethany?”
She wasn’t. In fact, she was painfully disinterested. Which was alarming, to say the least. Normally, she would still be working over a man like Slade with charm. Instead, she was arguing with Wes. Again. How did she keep ending up here? And why wasn’t she doing more to avoid it?
“I don’t have to answer that,” she whisper-screeched. “But if I decided I was interested, that would be okay. I’m allowed.”
His jaw flexed. “Let’s say the host was the female version of Slade. You’d just be fine watching me flip my hair around and flirting?”
Bethany battled a smile. “Actually, I’d pay good money to watch you flip your hair around. Can I film?”
“You know what I meant,” he growled. “Answer the question.”
She envisioned herself pulling her car into the driveway and finding Wes putting the moves on some faceless woman, all twinkling eyes and Wrangler-booty swagger. The lining of her stomach turned to acid. “I wasn’t flipping my hair,” she croaked, caught off guard by her own reaction.
Wes stepped closer and their fingers brushed. “Admit you wouldn’t like it.”
Bethany’s headshake was a little too vigorous.
Enough to carry some warmth into his expression. “What you told me at the wedding about your sex life . . . I know I promised I wouldn’t use it against you, so this is totally unrelated.”
She snorted. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist.”
“Ah, come on. It’s just the two of us standing here,” he murmured, twining their index fingers together. “If you date guys like that, it doesn’t surprise me you can’t relax and stop overthinking everything. They’re not doing any of the thinking for you.”
God help her, she actually wanted to hear his logic, because she needed all the advice she could get. She’d once had a perfect plan to find someone as driven and successful as herself. That plan hadn’t panned out. Now, she’d kind of just . . . given up. So what would it hurt to consider someone else’s opinion? Even Wes’s? Not that she would let him know she was listening to his spiel willingly. “I had no idea you were an expert on sex and relationships.”
“I’m not. But I’m guessing Slade would be overthinking in the sack, too.” He traded the Texas accent for a distinctly Hollywood millennial one. “‘Why did my latest Instagram post only hit four thousand likes? Did I remember to make my toe waxing appointment? Should I try a side part?’”
Bethany laughed and lightness filtered into her chest. It was . . . nice laughing at things that would normally stress her out, even if she couldn’t make it a habit. Wait. How long had they been holding hands? Out in the open? “Men don’t have to ride bulls to be masculine like you—”
He reared back a little, amusement written on his features. “How did you know I rode bulls?”
“I . . .” Panicking, she tugged her hand away, shoving it into her pocket. “That wa
s a wild stab. A mere example.”
“No, it wasn’t.” A slow smile spread across his face. “Speaking of Instagram, you’ve been doing a little cyberstalking, haven’t you, baby?”
Bethany took a step back, but he followed. “Hardly. I just wanted to make sure my foreman had a savory online presence.”
“And?” He winked. “Did you savor it?”
“Shut up.”
He caught her wrist and pulled her close, making her stomach flip like she was on a roller coaster. “I looked at yours, too.” She didn’t have a chance to process that before he continued. “I like being referred to as your foreman,” he mused. “It’s got a nice ring.”
“Especially compared to what I usually call you.”
“Truth. It’s a definite improvement from dickhead.” His thumb brushed over the pulse in her wrist. “Tell me you’re not interested in him, Bethany.”
Her hold on good sense slipped. “I’m not interested in him,” she murmured, shaking her head at the triumphant blaze in his eyes. “But . . . Wes, I don’t get . . . this. You’re not in town permanently. I’m not interested in a fling—and even if I was, you’ve wisely removed sex from the equation—”
“Deepest regret of my life.”
“Yeah, pretty shortsighted of you.”
“I’ll bring sex back into the equation when you know I didn’t just take this job to improve my chances of sleeping with you.”
“I—” She’d almost said I do know that now. Like a total moron. “That still wouldn’t inspire me to end my man hiatus.”
Gaze lingering on the neckline of her T-shirt, Wes licked the corner of his mouth. “Keep telling yourself that.” He considered her for a beat—above the neck this time. “I don’t have answers to all of your questions. I can’t define what’s going on between us, either. But maybe that’s exactly what you need.”
“Oh Jesus. Every time I start to think you’re redeemable, you say something so fucking stupid, I wish for a time machine so I can go back and never hear it.” She went up on her toes to get in his face. “Don’t tell me what I need.”