“Okay, now you want to spread a thin layer of the mortar mix on the wall with the flat side of your trowel. Think of it like icing a cake.”
“I’ve never iced a cake,” Trae said. “I don’t do carbs.”
Hattie rolled her eyes. “Why am I not surprised? Okay, think of it as peanut butter, which is protein, right? You have made a peanut butter sandwich at some point in your life, right?”
“No. Our housekeeper made the peanut butter sandwiches and the butler served them,” he said, his voice dripping with acid. “Yeah, Hattie. I get the picture.”
He glared at her for a moment, then flicked a glob of mortar mix at his tormentor, which landed squarely on her nose. “Is that too thick, Hattie Mae?”
23
Tool Time
They were seated in a corner booth at an Italian restaurant not far from Mo’s carriage house. Rebecca waited until after the waiter brought their drinks; an Aperol spritz for her, bourbon for Mo.
“Mo, I wish you hadn’t hired Taleetha Carr. You know how I feel about her.”
Ever since she’d texted him that she was on her way to Savannah, he’d halfway expected a confrontation like this. And one look at Rebecca told the story. Her face had that tense, aggrieved look he’d come to know all too well. He took a long sip of his drink, welcoming the icy burn that slid down his throat as he mentally plotted his response.
“Well, I wish you’d let me know you were flying out here today. You kind of threw me for a loop. Is that what this ambush is about? Leetha? She’s great at what she does. That’s what I care about. She’s established a solid rapport with Hattie and Trae, and the crew loves her. Maybe you can just forget your personal differences. For the good of my show.”
Rebecca tapped the side of her glass with her fingernail. “Ambush? It’s not an ambush. I had business in New York, and I thought, since I’m on the East Coast … Let’s talk about the show. What do you think of the chemistry between Hattie and Trae? I think it’s really working.”
“Too soon to tell. They’re already knocking heads over budget and design choices.”
“That’s great. Build that conflict. It gives our viewers something to keep coming back for. They can take sides. Anyway, who doesn’t love a slow-burn romance?”
Mo laughed in disbelief. “What are you talking about? There is zero chance these two will get together.”
“I disagree. Trae has incredible magnetism. I think Hattie is going to fall for him, and hard. In fact, I’m counting on it.”
He stared at her as the reality of Rebecca’s vision sunk in. “Are you telling me you told Trae to try to seduce her? Jesus, Becca. That’s … vile.”
“Who said anything about seduction? They’re both adults. I was just pointing out that Trae is a very attractive man. And Hattie’s cute. And single. Look, we both know this show is only ten percent about fixing up an old house. The rest of it? People love the idea of love. They’re intrigued with watching the dance. So that’s what we give them. The dance. All I’m saying is, don’t stand in the way of that. Encourage it. Play it up. If they’re bickering on camera, show that. And when the spark happens … fan the flame.”
Mo took another gulp of the drink.
“As far as I’m concerned, this show actually is about fixing up an old house. I’m a little worried about this missing woman angle. The last thing we need is for the cops to show up and shut down production. We’re already going to be stretched incredibly tight now that we’ve got structural issues.”
She listened intently while he listed all the work the house needed.
“You’ve only got five weeks,” Becca reminded him. “Marketing is already working on the promotional campaign, Mo. There’s no going back now. Does Hattie understand that the house absolutely has to be complete by the end of the shoot?”
“She gets it,” Mo said wearily. “We all get it.”
* * *
“Need a hand?” Hattie didn’t hear his car pull into the driveway, didn’t even hear his footsteps echoing in the now empty living room. She’d been concentrating on the old wall-to-wall carpeting in the living room, first scoring it with a box cutter, then yanking it away from the floor.
Trae Bartholomew had ditched his pristine white jeans and designer tee. He wore Carhartts like Hattie’s, a paint-spattered tee, and grungy tennis shoes that had lost their laces, and, she thought, he looked damn fine.