"I seriously think there are a lot of eyes around here - your crew included - who might pay too close of attention to us now. And, I don't know, I saw some of the HITV couples hit the tabloids over the past few years, grainy pictures from the paparazzi supposedly showing something scandalous. That could be us. And while - for the most part - there was never actually anything scandalous going on with these other guys, there will be for us. If they look. Watch. We can't take that chance. Your farm is riding on this. My career is too."
"Fine," he growled, shoving the rag into his back pocket.
Surly in general, he was taking it to a whole other level the past few days. In response, I had been going out of my way to try to be calm and even - the unthinkable - accommodating. Just trying to keep the peace. Just trying to keep up appearances.
"It's not that big of a deal. I promise to stay out of your way."
"Somehow, I doubt that," he shot back as he picked up his toolbox, and made his way toward the door, locking up after me.
We were done.
It should have been a happy night for both of us.
But he had to go and be a pain in the ass.
I guess he figured there was no reason to break his track record now.
"You have a guest room. I will stay in it except if I have to shower or make food. And I clean up after myself. I've had a roommate for years. I know how to do this without stepping on anyone's toes. I know you aren't used to this type of thing, but it will work out. And, I mean, we'd have to get used to it anyway since we'd be living together in the rental house."
"That's different."
Because it wasn't his space. I got that. I really did. But he was acting like I had active leprosy, and was going to rub my sores all over his possessions or something.
"You won't even know I'm there," I assured him, hating the slight hint of desperation I heard in my voice.
"I said fine, Brin. What else do you want from me? You're not getting a Welcome Home sign."
"You're an ass," I told him, throwing my purse through the open door to my car. "But regardless, I will be over around ten with some stuff. An unlocked door would be nice."
With that, I jumped in my car and peeled off before I could say anything that would make the situation worse. I was good at that - saying the things that rubbed him the wrong way. Better to keep my mouth shut as much as possible.
"You're serious?" Brent asked as he watched me walk around my room, throwing things into pieces of luggage I had stored in my closet from college.
"It's really not that big of a deal."
"Except that you hate the guy. You're going to spend enough of time with him on the jobs and staying at that rental. Why bother doing more of it?"
"Because it needs to be convincing. If someone caught me here, what possible excuse could I have for not being with him?"
"Got a point," he agreed, though hesitantly. "It's gonna be weird here without you," he admitted.
"You'll have a blissful year with no glitter stuck to you anywhere. But if you'll miss me that much, I can stop by and sprinkle some around while you're asleep at night."
"Think I'll be just as fine without it. But call, okay? I'm used to talking to you. And you'll have a lot to say, I'm sure."
"A lot to rant about, most likely," I told him with a grimace as I sealed up my bags. "It's going to be interesting," I said as I let him help bring my bags to the car. "I'll text you before bed with a list of his grievances," I promised, giving him a hug, and going off to my new life.
It wouldn't be a hardship, staying in his house. It was nicer than anything I would ever be able to afford. It would be much more favorable, of course, if he just wasn't there too.
This was a decision I made when he came out to help with my bags - something I think he did out of embedded good manners more so than actual civility toward me - and informed me that needing this many for a few nights at his place was Fucking ridiculous.
"They're not just for a few nights here," I shot back, trying to wrestle one of the bags away from him to no avail. "This is everything I am going to need for the next few months. It would make no sense to have to go back to my old place to pack again when I could just store it here in the closet."
Knowing he was wrong - and, as usual, unwilling to admit it - he stayed silent as he trudged up the path and through the house, taking me down the hallway where there were three doors. One, I imagined, the hall bath. The other two, bedrooms.
"This is the bathroom," he informed me, pushing open the first door somehow even with his arms and hands loaded down with my bags.
"Wait... where is the tub?" I asked as I looked inside, finding new-looking life-proof wooden tiles on the floor, unpainted walls, a toilet, and the guts part of a sink with no vanity. And... no tub.
"I've been remodeling for a few months. Work keeps getting in the way."
"So... I'm sharing your bathroom?" I asked, looking into the open master bedroom door, finding it too dark to make anything out, but seeing an open door to a bathroom within. At least it was just the shower. That was a small blessing.
"Yeah," he agreed, moving past his room to the only other one at the end of the hall. "I haven't gotten to this one yet," he told me as he pushed open the door, and reached to flick on the light. "This is how it was when I moved in."
It was, too.
Meaning pretty hideous.
There was old wood paneling on the walls straight out of the fifties that had been painted a cream-color which did nothing to draw attention away from it. The floor was an old gray carpet, the kind your feet almost sank into.
Which would be great.
If I didn't hate carpets.
They could never get clean, not really. I had been on far too many work sites, and seen carpets getting ripped up, watching all the filth come out of them, even when I knew that the owners of said house were meticulous housekeepers. There was just no avoiding the ick-factor there for me anymore. Unless explicitly told otherwise, I never included wall-to-wall carpets in my designs anymore.
And, I guess, the slippers I packed were a good thing, because my feet weren't touching this carpet.
The bed, dresser, and nightstand were newer, obviously, and matching - all thick cherry with clean lines and not too much to take away from the natural beauty of the wood.
I didn't realize I had been running my hand over the footboard until Warren caught the motion. "Took me two weeks to get that bed right," he informed me.
"You made it?" I asked, not sure why I was shocked after the story he had told me about how his grandfather had made all his own furniture as well.
"Yeah."
"If you want, one of the weekends, I can help you finish the bathroom and in here too. I mean, I know we will be working all week long on the show and stuff, but if we find we have extra energy. It's the least I can do for letting me stay."
There.
That was nice, right?
"I'm not making you work for your keep, Brin," he scoffed, dropping the last of my bags on the bed, then stalking out.
"Ooookay then," I sighed out, doing a bit of a spin, taking in the room.
That night, I stayed in my room, deciding to be as little an inconvenience as possible since he was clearly in a sour mood about me invading his space. Which was even understandable.
At promptly five-fifteen the next morning, his blender went off. And, no, not one of the ones toted for being quiet and good for a home environment. No. This was one that sounded like it was grinding up freaking rebar and cement and diamonds.
I lay there, staring up at my ceiling, consoling my thudding heart that hadn't quite gotten the memo that there was no real threat yet, knowing it would pass. Whatever he was making, it would grind up, and he would be quiet again.
It felt like it went on forever. But silence came, letting my eyes drift closed again.
But only for two or three minutes.
Before it started up again.
"Argh," I grumbled, thro
wing off the blankets, curling up, tossing my legs over the edge of the bed, and sliding my feet into the slippers before jumping up and stomping out into the kitchen. I'd say walking, but it was truly a stomp. A half-asleep, groggy, slightly agitated stomp. "Are you blending nuts and bolts?" my voice croaked in between the churns of the blasted machine he was standing behind, back to me, hair still wet, dripping a bit onto his white tee, darkening it, yet making it transparent somehow at the same time.
My gaze was oddly transfixed on that spot when he turned, head ducked to the side, dark eyes roving over me, seeming to take me all in at once from my pink and purple striped shorts that might have been called booty by some -making me suddenly glad I was facing forward - to my black tank top that exposed my arms and a good part of my chest where the girls were held in by a blessed shelf bra, then finally up to my face that was completely devoid of makeup and my hair that was a loose - and likely tangled - mass around my shoulders.
"Thought you were an early riser," he said, almost as an apology, making me feel like a jerk for thinking murderous thoughts and growling.
"Oh, ah, to me... six-ish is early," I explained, rubbing at the goosebumps on my arms, not having adjusted yet to the temperature he kept his house at, evidenced by the three blankets on my bed that I had found in the closet.
"Good to know," he said, turning away, flicking the blender on yet again.
I don't know why I stood there until he finished; I guess I was just thrown off by his morning greeting even if I had told him to go on as though I wasn't there at all.
"Here," he said, making me jump, finding him turned toward me, two large glasses in his hands full of smoothies - one bright green, the other a strange pinkish yellow-green combination.
"You... you made me a smoothie?" I asked, confusion plain in my voice.
"Yeah. Didn't know how you felt on the green part, so I choked your spinach out with strawberry and banana," he told me, holding out the not-so-green one.
"Wow, ah, this is... thank you," I mumbled, reaching out to take the drink from his hands, shivering a little when the cold of it moved from my palm up my already cold arm.
"Why didn't you turn the air down?" he asked, making me aware that the shiver I had felt hadn't just been the inside kind.
"It's your house," I said, shrugging it off.
"And you're staying here," he shot back, watching me as though I made no sense. "If you're cold or hot, fix the thermostat."
"But you're not cold."
"Christ, woman, just go turn the air down," he said, rolling his eyes at me as he turned away.
So the pleasant part of the morning was over.
I took my smoothie back toward my room, stopping to turn down the AC once on the way. And, having no job to work on, sat down to do sketches for his guest room.
"Yo," Warren's voice made me jolt many hours later from where I was half-bent forward over his handmade dresser. I had it draped with my robe, wanting to make sure I didn't get so much as a smudge of pencil on the flawless surface as I worked on a small art project for my social media - something to use to announce the upcoming show with. Rachel had okayed it so long as I waited for them to premiere their promo first.
"Crap," I hissed as my paints flew off the dresser, tumbling to the ground. "Sorry," I rushed to say, grabbing a bit frantically at the bottles, praying they were all sealed. "They're all closed," I told him when I realized myself.
"Don't worry about the carpet. It's garbage anyway. What are you doing? I've got a whole workshop in the basement for projects. You could spread out there."
"I was careful," I rushed to explain. "I didn't get anything on the dresser."
"I wasn't worried about the dresser," he told me, making some of the tension leave my body. "Your neck must be sore as hell," he went on.
One moment harsh, the next sweet, I was getting whiplash from the constant push and pull of his emotions.
"I'm used to improvising for workspace," I told him as I cleaned up my mess. "But thanks for telling me. That will make life easier. What time is it?"
"Five," he told me, the words making my belly let out a loud grumble. "Figured I would ask before I start cooking."
"I can cook!" I rushed to say, turning back. "You don't need to cook for me."
"I'd be cooking regardless of you being here," he said gruffly, then was off, making me rush after him.
"What were you going to ask me?" I asked his back.
"If there's anything you don't eat," he answered, only turning his head over his shoulder to wait for my answer.
"Um, mayo. And lamb," I added. "I think that's it."
"Got it," he said, leaving yet again.
"One year," I reminded myself as I went back to my room.
Just one year.
I could learn to live with his weird up and down and back and forth.
Hopefully.
The next few days were much the same - me walking on eggshells, trying not to get too in his way, getting annoyed when he was a jerk, and confused when he was nice.
When it was finally time to leave and head to our new - but temporary - life, I was almost at peak stress level, feeling oddly unsure of myself, on-edge, and not at all mentally ready to take on the lie again.
"Tell us the story about your summers here," Rachel demanded after I sat in makeup and wardrobe for half an hour then met with Warren who - hilariously, in my humble opinion - had some makeup on too, and ran through promo lines for the show, doing voiceovers for the opening credits.
"I'm sorry?" I asked, trying to shake the weird electric feeling on my skin that was thanks to almost nonstop worry that every word, motion, look was possibly wrong, could give us away.
"Warren was telling us while he was getting those under-eye circles covered up about how you used to come here every summer. I think that would make a good little bit in the first episode, about how Cape May has a special place in your heart, and how the devastation the storm brought here really impacted you because of your history here."
That was really stretching it, but when these people were offering you the world, you did whatever they wanted.
So I told the story.
And then we agreed to be back the next day to do a photoshoot, and made our way down the block toward the townhouse that would be ours for the next year.
"How the hell do you chicks wear this crap day in and day out?" he grumbled as he tried to rub off the concealer under his eyes with a napkin he found in his glovebox.
"Cultural expectations help," I told him as I stuck my head half out the window to check out the row of obviously new townhouses. I didn't remember the area well enough to know, but I would bet these were just about as old as the storm, the old houses likely wiped out, the land snatched up by developers, and these beautiful eyesores got erected.
That was how I described townhouses, almost without fail.
Beautiful eyesores.
Because they were - almost without fail - beautiful things, especially modern ones. And the designs were typically clean and well thought out.
But there was just something about a row of mostly-similar homes with no land between them that was just not as pleasing to look at as standalone homes.
These ones were undeniably beachy-looking.
The row of ten homes were all raised, as was the law after the storm, made of sand-colored stucco. You saw first the garages at ground level along with staircases leading up to the main floor. There were two of them, each with a wrought iron balcony that, I would imagine, showed a view of the beach. There were a few ornate accents, as was more typical of the older, Victorian homes of the area, trying to help them fit in more.
"Copy and paste," Warren mumbled, drawing my attention over to him.
"What?"
"They're all copy and paste. No character."
"They're likely just summer rentals," I found myself defending them even though my thoughts were pretty similar. "I bet they're very pretty inside."
To t
hat, he just grumbled as he climbed out, going for the bags in the backseat as well as the cab.
"Give that to me," I insisted, grabbing a giant bag that he was trying to grab. "You don't have to get all the bags at once. And I do have two arms as well."
"My grandfather would belt my ass if he knew I was letting a woman carry her luggage," he surprised me by admitting.
"Well..." I said, putting the one bag down to grab two others. "Fine. Here. You aren't letting me carry my own baggage," I told him with a smile as I held up his bags.
"Guess that works," he allowed with a small smile as we made our way up the steps with small outdoor carpets running along the center. "They probably get wet and slippery from the seawater," he told me when I had definitely been grimacing at them.
"You ready?" I asked, fishing the keys out of my pocket, wiggling them in his face.
"Bags aren't getting any lighter," he told me, but his voice was light for a change.
With that, I put in the key, and pushed the door open to our house.
We walked right into a somewhat narrow and long living room and kitchen combo. Open and airy, everything was white from the walls to the white-wash-gray hardwood floors, the countertops in the kitchen, the carpet, and the curtains.
The living room was small and sunlit thanks to the windows and door that led out onto the balcony. The couch itself was a bright aqua blue as were the imprints of a starfish and a conch shell in frames on the wall above it.
The kitchen was behind the living room, separated only by the counter with aqua blue stools where, it seemed, we would be dining as there was no dining space. There was nothing to mark there, just white cabinets and the same hardwood floors as well as modern stainless steel appliances and a small back deck.
The stairs were toward the left of the kitchen, and we both wordlessly traveled up them, cursing and hissing a bit with the bags in our hands.
And what did we walk into at the top landing, you might be wondering.
A bedroom.
The master bedroom.
The only bedroom.
"Of course," Warren grumbled from behind me a second before I heard all the bags hitting the floor.
It was a beautiful room with a giant king-sized bed dominating it with a wide closet and a door to the master bath. The floor was more of the same from below but with a white carpet beneath. The bedding and curtains were also white, but the walls had a very slight blue color.
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