He looked over at Mo Lopez. “You’re kidding me, right? We’re going to restore this thing? To what? It was hideous when it was built, and now it’s hideous and decrepit.”
Mo’s smile was tight. “Think of the inherent drama of the before and after. Think of the beyond-belief OMG moment during the reveal in episode six. Most importantly, Trae, think of a Wednesday night prime-time slot. Didn’t Design Minds air on Saturday mornings?”
Trae’s oversized, mirrored aviators slid down his outsized nose as he reconsidered. “It’s a good-sized lot.”
“Waterfront lot,” Mo added.
“And maybe it’s just as well that people haven’t been mucking it up with a lot of unfortunate eighties additions.” He tilted his head to the right. “Okay, I’m getting some clarity. And I’m dying to meet my costar.”
“She’s dying to meet you too,” Mo lied.
* * *
Hattie’s “trailer” was really a rented Winnebago. She’d been pacing around for an hour, alternately annoyed and nervous about having to deal with this celebrity designer. She’d Googled Trae Bartholomew, seen the splashy Architectural Digest layout on his ski lodge project, and other magazine pieces about his less well-known projects.
Finally, there was a light knock on the trailer door. “Hattie? You decent?”
“Come on in,” she called.
Trae Bartholomew filled the doorway. He was taller than she’d expected, probably six-four. Separately, his features weren’t extraordinary. He had toffee-colored hair, startling, deep-set blue eyes, a golden California tan, a long face, and a pronounced, square jaw that was bristling with just a stylish eighth-inch of stubble. But taken together, he was startlingly, head-turningly gorgeous.
He wore white jeans and a silk shirt stretched across a chest so taut and muscled that Hattie instinctively tucked in what little tummy she possessed.
“Hattie!” he exclaimed, stepping forward and taking her hand in both of his. “At last!”
“At last,” she murmured. “So nice to meet you.”
“I can’t wait to see this house of yours,” Trae said. “Mo’s been telling me all about the potential.”
“It’s got potential, all right,” Hattie agreed. “Along with lots and lots of problems.”
Trae rubbed the palms of his hands together. “Let’s go.”
He stood in front of the house, studying it. “Kind of a weird little place, isn’t it? I mean, is it even two thousand square feet? I find it odd that it takes up so little room on what’s obviously a very large, waterfront lot. The first thing I’m seeing is wings, jutting out from either side of this porch, maybe with some board and batten siding. Then, on the second floor, we’ll do some dormers.…”
“No.” Hattie shook her head. “Absolutely not.”
“But it’s so dinky and stunted. So … insignificant,” Trae protested. “It’s crying out for some kind of grand gesture.” He whipped a pen and a rolled-up sketchbook from the back pocket of his jeans and began drawing.
“Did Mo mention that we’re on an incredibly tight budget?” Hattie asked, an edge creeping into her voice.
“Yes, but…”
“Grand gestures cost grands. Hundreds of grands, and we don’t have that kind of money. Plus, we’re operating under strict historic preservation guidelines. We can’t expand the house’s footprint. At all.”
“We’ve only got six weeks to shoot,” Mo added.
“Guidelines,” Trae said dismissively. “They’re just that. A guide. I’ve never met a set of regulations that I couldn’t ease around.”
“Code enforcement officers are gonna be watching us like hawks,” Hattie said, bristling. “If they catch us ‘easing around’ their regs, they could shut us down.”
“If they catch us,” Trae said.
She led him through the house, trying not to take his criticisms personally.
“Well,” he said, standing in the living room, “at least the proportions in here are workable.”
He stuck his head in the doorway of the downstairs bedroom. “A king-size bed won’t fit in here. And what’s with that toy sink in the corner?”
“This is typical vernacular beach cottage architecture of the twenties, when the house was built. The sink’s there because there’s only one bathroom, so folks could brush their teeth and wash up before bed,” Hattie told him.