2
The Proposal
Hattie looked down at the guy sprawled on the kitchen floor. Some women might have found him attractive. He wore black designer jeans and a black open-collared shirt, which told her he wasn’t local, because nobody with any sense wore all black in the sweltering heat and humidity of a Savannah summer. Currently he was splattered with muck and scowling up at her like she was the intruder instead of vice versa.
Cass prodded Mo’s leg with the toe of her boot and glanced over at Hattie, who was brushing chunks of gunk out of her hair. “Doesn’t look like my idea of a scrap metal thief.”
“You’re right,” Hattie said. “For one thing, it looks like he’s got all his own teeth. For another, he’s dressed too nice.” She played the flashlight over Mo’s ruined tennis shoes. “Day-um, girl. Check it out. These Nikes cost like, six hundred dollars.”
“Maybe he stole them,” Cass mused.
“Cute,” Mo said, suppressing a groan as he got back on his feet. “Hilarious. You two must be a smash hit at the comedy clubs around here.”
He glanced down at himself and sighed. Both arms sported jagged, bleeding scratches. His clothes were filthy and the Nikes were caked in mud. Or something like it. He groped the back of his head with his fingertips and felt a knot raising. Maybe he was concussed? It was that kind of day.
“The front door was standing wide open,” he lied. “How was I supposed to know this place is a death trap? I could sue you for maintaining a criminal nuisance.”
“And we could call the cops and have you locked up for trespassing,” Cass shot back. “Right, Hattie?”
But Cass’s best friend was studying the guy’s face. She’d definitely seen him before, the dark hair brushing his shirt collar, the olive complexion that went with the hair and eyes, aggressively thick eyebrows, and one of those trendy not-beard beards. He’d been staring down at his phone, but she was sure he had been listening to her conversation with Tug.
Hattie snapped her fingers. “Hey. You were sitting at the table next to ours at Foxy Loxy this morning. And obviously eavesdropping on my conversation.”
“Not eavesdropping,” Mo insisted. “Minding my own business, having breakfast. Not my fault that you talk so loud everyone in the place could hear you.”
“Hmm. And then you show up here less than an hour later. At this house we were just discussing. Obviously a coincidence.”
Mo made another snap decision.
“Okay, not a coincidence,” he said. “I did overhear you and—your dad?—talking at that café. And I was intrigued.” He reached into his hip pocket and brought out a slim leather case. He plucked a business card from the case and handed it to her.
Hattie’s eyebrows drew together as she read the card. “Mauricio Lopez. President, executive producer, Toolbox Productions.” She handed the card to Cass. “This doesn’t tell me why you followed me over here, and then trespassed on my work site.”
“Toolbox is a television production company. I create original reality shows, currently for the Home Place Television Network. While I was biking around the historic district this morning, I got an idea for what I think could, potentially, be a new reality show. So, what, you and your dad are flipping this house? And I gather it’s not going well.” He looked pointedly around at the gutted kitchen, then down at the man-size hole in the subfloor.
Cass and Hattie exchanged a look.
Hattie flicked the card back in the direction of Mo’s chest and it fluttered to the floor. “First off, Tug is my father-in-law, not my dad. Secondly, not that it’s any of your frickin’ business, but the house is coming along just fine.”
Mo shrugged. “So you’re not over budget? The banks actually do want to loan you enough money to finish? And you were crawling around under this house just for shits and grins when this rotted floor collapsed beneath me?”
Hattie’s face blushed a dull red. “You should go now, before you really piss me off.”
“Do not piss her off,” Cass warned. “Seriously, dude, just go.”
“Don’t you even want to hear my idea?” Mo countered. “An original, unscripted show. You and your crew would be the stars. Rehabbing an old house as a flip.”
“Oooh!” Cass deadpanned, nudging Hattie with her elbow. “He wants to put us in the movies. Hollywood, here we come.”
“Not the movies. Television. And not Hollywood,” Mo said. “That’s the point. Savannah is the perfect setting for a reality show. All this history, these old houses. Plus, labor and material costs have gotta be way cheaper down here. What did you have to pay for this place, anyway?”