Table of Contents
Blurb
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Epilogue
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Copyright
Domestic Do-over
By Kate McMurray
Can a prickly carpenter build a reality TV host a way out of the closet?
Real estate guru Brandon Chase knows what “family friendly” means in the biz, and it’s not being open about his sexuality.
The end of Brandon’s marriage is still making headlines when the Restoration Channel makes him an offer: helm a show about flipping houses in New York City’s risky market. Still smarting from the bad press, Brandon is reluctant to get involved—until he falls in love with an old Victorian.
Except the house isn’t the only thing that catches his eye.
It’s contractor Travis Rogers’s job to enumerate every way a renovation could go wrong, which leads to a lot of on-set sparring and mutual frustration between him and Brandon. But when the simmering attraction underneath boils over, the show and their relationship hang in the balance.
Travis hates the media attention that follows Brandon, and the network has a history of firing LGBTQ personalities. Like the houses Brandon makes over, this relationship has potential. But if Brandon can’t convince Travis to take a chance, their chemistry might stay on-screen only.
Chapter One
“DREAM” DIVORCE! screamed the tabloid headline. It was the first thing Brandon saw when he got out of the subway. The story was punctuated by a photo of Brandon looking distressed.
He knew he should have taken a cab.
It was a windy, late-winter day in New York, and a recent dusting of snow danced like a cloud across the 14th Street sidewalk as Brandon walked west toward the Restoration Channel offices near Chelsea Market. He tried to focus on those snowflakes instead of his recent, well-publicized divorce, especially since so much of what was being printed in the tabloids was about eight miles from the truth.
And now he’d been summoned to the Restoration Channel offices, probably to negotiate the end of his contract, because his very popular house-flipping show, cohosted with his pretty wife, had been summarily canceled the minute the word divorce was first uttered in public.
Then again, maybe getting off TV would be good for him. He could reopen his old real estate agency and parlay some of his fame into a few clients to get started. He could return to obscurity and not worry about tabloid headlines or television contracts. He could give up trying to make his marriage look like a happy union instead of the fraud it was.
He walked into the reception area and was greeted by a woman who grinned widely when he appeared.
“Oh, Mr. Chase! It’s so great to see you. I’m so sorry about the divorce.”
He nodded.
“That Kayla was a real bitch, stepping out on you the way she did. I totally understand why you wanted to end things.”
“That’s not really—” But Brandon cut himself off. It wasn’t worth getting into, especially not if the network was about to end his contract.
“Mr. Harwood is expecting you,” the receptionist said. “I’ll walk you back.”
He followed the receptionist to the office of Garrett Harwood, the head of programming for the Restoration Channel, a network that aired mostly the kinds of programming people had on in the background when they stayed in hotels. Home renovation and fashion makeover shows were the network’s bread and butter. The channel was incredibly popular, which was the main reason Brandon’s divorce was such big news. His show, Dream Home, had been a massive hit for the network… which was probably why everything crashed down on him so hard when the paparazzi caught Kayla out to dinner with her boyfriend.
He steeled himself and walked into the office. “Hello, Mr. Harwood.”
“Brandon! So good to see you. Please have a seat.”
Brandon debated making small talk first but ultimately decided not to say anything, and instead just sat in the chair across the desk from Harwood.
“Let me cut to the chase,” Harwood said.
Brandon’s pulse kicked up a notch. Here it came. His time as a minor celebrity with a show on the Restoration Channel was coming to an end.
“I have an opportunity for you.”
That was the last thing Brandon expected to hear. “You… what?”
Harwood grinned. “Here’s the deal. While I don’t regret canceling Dream Home because the show couldn’t have continued under the circumstances, you still have a lot of goodwill with this company and remain incredibly popular with our viewership. Even the Dream Home reruns we’ve been airing on Tuesday nights are getting huge ratings. So we’d like to offer you a new show.”
“Are you serious?” Brandon was so sure he was coming here today to get fired that he’d basically already planned out his retirement from television stardom. Part of him had been sad at the prospect of leaving the limelight, but another part was looking forward to it. So much of his life had been given over to maintaining his public image that he was kind of looking forward to just… living.
But no, Harwood wanted him to star in another TV show.
“Here’s the premise,” Harwood said. “Are you familiar with Victorian Flatbush?”
“That little area in Brooklyn with all the old mansions?”
“The same! Well, my daughter just bought a house there, so I was walking around the neighborhood. Some of those houses are gorgeous, but many are pretty run-down. There are, in fact, six for sale just in a four-block radius, all at bargain prices. Well, bargain for Brooklyn.”
Brandon could see where this was going. “Wait, you want to do a show about flipping Victorian mansions in Brooklyn?”
“Exactly.”
That would be a hard no from Brandon. Flipping houses in New York City was just too risky, an incredible financial investment that probably wouldn’t pay off. Even if one could get the house cheap, the labor and materials cost more than in most other parts of the country. It was why he and Kayla had usually flipped houses in the distant suburbs. Not to mention those old houses often had all kinds of hidden problems and would have to be brought up to code, which could get really expensive. The odds of him turning a profit on a house like that were pretty small.
“I can see you’re hesitating,” Harwood said. “We could expand out of the neighborhood in the second season and work on brownstones, or make over houses in the outer parts of Brooklyn. But I think the New York angle is key. Show the world that the city is more than just big apartment buildings.”
“The financial risk—”
“We’ll up your per-episode salary from what you were getting on Dream Home, and the network will go in on every house you buy to help shoulder some of the risk. That’s how invested we are in making this work.”
That did change the equation. On Dream Home, although they’d received a salary, the financial risk of actually flipping the houses was entirely on Brand
on and Kayla, meaning they’d often had to compromise to make a profit. Nothing dangerous; Brandon had always thought an important part of house flipping was to give buyers a place to live that was safe and welcoming. But it meant laminate instead of hardwood in some cases, or not removing load-bearing walls, or buying backsplash tiles on clearance instead of the more expensive ones they liked better—that sort of thing. Kayla had always had a good eye for a bargain and could tweak a design if it was more cost-effective to do so. After they had the requisite fight about the design on camera, of course.
They’d both had roles to play. On the show Brandon was the frugal one who wanted to keep the design practical and attractive to a wide range of buyers. Kayla liked things a little splashier and was willing to spend more on great design even if it meant narrowing the pool of potential homeowners. The reality was that Kayla wanted the profits more than anything and usually introduced something wild and then caved to show that they were willing to compromise.
That they were a loving couple working together on projects they were passionate about. That was the whole story of the show.
“We’re calling the new show Domestic Do-over.” Harwood held up his hands, miming a marquee. “It’s good, right? I love alliteration.”
Brandon almost laughed. Harwood was fairly new to the network. His predecessor had only retired about a year before, so Brandon hadn’t worked with Harwood much. Brandon supposed Domestic Do-over was a pretty clever name for a show about home renovation.
“Okay,” said Brandon. “What about Kayla?”
Harwood shook his head. “What about her? You’re not working together anymore.”
“No, but… I mean, she still has a contract and….”
“We’re buying out the rest of it. This would be a show hosted just by you.”
“I know, but—”
“Look, we gave this a lot of thought. We tried to keep Hip Houses on the air after John and Melinda got divorced, and no one wanted to watch it. Our viewers aren’t here for our hosts’ interpersonal drama. They like happy couples, not bitter exes. But what they do like is a good design challenge. These old houses are bound to have issues. They’ll need electrical and plumbing upgrades, probably some structural work, all of that stuff. It adds a plot twist.” Harwood lowered his voice a little, mimicking an announcer. “Is Brandon in over his head this time?”
Brandon pursed his lips. He wasn’t pleased that Kayla was being left out. They’d been partners for a long time, and he wasn’t sure he was interesting enough to carry a show by himself. Although, of course, a divorced couple wasn’t good for the Restoration Channel brand.
“If it helps,” said Harwood, “we’ve been talking with a local contractor who specializes in restoring old homes, and he’s interested in coming on board. Great guy. Lots of sex appeal, but a little rough around the edges. I think the viewers will love him. We’re committed to this project. We just need a host.”
“In other words, you’re doing the show with or without me.”
“Well, yes. But we want you. You’d be a fantastic host. You know this market well, you know how to flip houses, and the audience loves you.”
“I don’t know. It’s still a huge financial risk.”
“Tell you what. We’ve got our eye on a house right now. It’s been on the market for almost four months now, so the asking price is negotiable. Go take a look at it. I think you’ll fall in love with it. If you don’t, then that’s fine. We can find another project for you.”
“Or buy out the rest of my contract.”
“Or that, but let’s keep an open mind here. We’ve got you through the end of the year, right?”
“July.”
“A few more months, then. Still, you know we love you. We want to keep you as part of the Restoration Channel family. We’ll find something for you to do. But I think you’ll see this house and love it on sight. Here, let me give you the information.”
Harwood turned around and rifled through a folder on the credenza behind his desk. Turning back, he handed Brandon a piece of paper. It looked like the printout from a real estate website.
The photo of the house made it look haunted. Several windows were boarded up, the paint was clearly peeling badly, and the front door looked like it had been knocked off one of its hinges. According to the data on the paper, the house had been built in 1917. Five bedrooms, three bathrooms, about 3,000 square feet. The asking price really was a bargain, less than a million dollars in a neighborhood of $3 million homes, and if it had been on the market for four months, it was likely overpriced, even at that.
“All right, I’ll go look at it.”
“I knew I could intrigue you. We really want you for this project, but no pressure. If you’re really done, we can negotiate the end of your contract the same way we did with Kayla.”
“Then let me look at the house and sleep on it.”
“Great!” Harwood stood, signaling that the meeting was over. “I look forward to hearing from you, Brandon.”
THE HOUSE was on Argyle Road, a few blocks south of Prospect Park in Brooklyn. Brandon had known this neighborhood of old houses was here but had never been to it before. He walked down Church Avenue from the subway station until he got to the road he was looking for. Six-foot-tall brick pillars with stone flower boxes on top signaled the start of Argyle Road, so Brandon turned.
And was suddenly transported.
Church Avenue was a bustling thoroughfare clogged with buses and cars, with crowded sidewalks, people rushing between the shops or running toward the subway station. It wasn’t pretty, as such. Although the neighborhood had historical significance, the section of Church Avenue between the subway station and Argyle Road was mostly big discount stores and bodegas, crumbling brick architecture, and the occasional empty storefront. Brandon had walked by a shop proclaiming “fresh fish” on a big neon sign, but it smelled like some of those fish had been sitting out in the sun for a few days.
Then he turned onto Argyle Road, and it was like he was in an entirely different universe. It was quieter, for one thing. There were fewer people, and trees everywhere. Before him was an entire street of large detached houses, well-maintained lawns, and vintage streetlights. It looked more like a wealthy suburb than Brooklyn.
The houses were amazing.
They were a mishmash of styles. A tall Tudor house sat across from a Queen Anne, which was down the block from a Greek Revival home with columns across the front, and there was even a Japanese-style place that looked like a pagoda. Some of the houses were breathtaking in their size and beauty, painted a variety of colors—navy blue, white, yellow, mint green—and some looked like they should have been condemned years ago. Albemarle Road, which intersected Argyle, had a row of landscaped islands through the middle, green space in a borough where space was a premium.
Brandon cursed. How dare this neighborhood try to charm him! He’d wanted to resist this so much. The brown street signs indicated he was now in a historic district—which meant getting permits for renovations from the city would be a unique challenge, yet another reason not to do this—but man, he’d love to live here.
Then he arrived at the house, and it did indeed look like something out of a horror movie. But he had the code to the lockbox, so he punched it in, took out the key, and let himself in.
The inside of the house was… pretty bleak, actually. The front door opened into a narrow hallway and a staircase. There was an archway to his right, which led to an empty living room. The brick around the fireplace looked like someone had already taken a sledgehammer to it, and the ancient wallpaper was peeling. The rest of the house was more of the same. The layout inside was boxy and compartmentalized, the hardwood floors on the first floor were stained and scarred, there were mouse droppings in the kitchen, and the beige carpeting that covered the entire second floor smelled like dog.
And yet.
Brandon could see what this house had once been. The metal grate over the fireplace was an ornat
e piece of ironwork. The swirls in the wood used for the bannister on the stairs to the second floor were unique—Brandon hadn’t seen anything like it in a long time. The wallpaper was actually kind of neat in the places where it wasn’t a peeling, discolored nightmare, and Brandon could imagine what the main living areas had once looked like. The crown moldings, the wainscoting on the second floor, the archways…. No one made houses like this anymore. The kitchen had clearly been renovated sometime in the late seventies, but even that had a certain kind of charm, from the orange tile someone had chosen to the boxy design of the cabinets.
Before he knew it, Brandon was mentally making over the space, deciding which walls he’d remove, trying to determine if the floors were salvageable, imagining what a modern kitchen could look like with a few touches—light fixtures, tiles—that would nod back at what this house had once looked like.
Shit.
Brandon wanted this project. He knew all the hazards. He’d have to pay for an exterminator to fumigate the bejesus out of the place first. The walls likely held asbestos, outdated electrical systems that would have to be brought up to code, and pipes that needed to be replaced. But the structure seemed sound. The floors creaked in a few places, but Brandon knew how to fix that. He could make this house into something spectacular and sell it for twice the current asking price.
He pulled out his phone and called Garrett Harwood. “I’m at the house,” he said when Harwood answered the phone.
“And?”
“I love it. I’m in.”
Chapter Two
TRAVIS ALREADY had regrets.
It wasn’t that he had any particular aspirations to be on television, but he’d gotten the phone call inviting him to consult on a TV show about restoring old mansions, and he’d been so excited to have the conversation that he’d said yes without thinking it through. A half-dozen meetings later, and somehow he’d agreed to be the project manager for a home renovation project that would air on the Restoration Channel.
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