by Roxy Mews
His head jerked up. Why was he referring to that tiny shanty as home? This woman was messing with his head.
Her laughter made its way to his ears again, and Brandon found he couldn’t be mad at her for it. Some people just drew others to them. Some people had a gift for making others feel welcome and wanted. In all his years dealing with the general public, Brandon had never mastered the technique. If he was honest with himself, he’d never even tried.
“Are you the bet?”
Brandon turned and looked in the eyes of a beautiful blonde. Her hair was smoothed down and locked into place by some powerful styling products. She looked up at him with her baby blues and normally Brandon would have started thinking of ways to ask for her phone number. Career woman, busy schedule, banging body, and a job that carried the motivation to keep it that way—she was exactly his type.
But this time, he noticed something else. Her eyes didn’t shine with excitement like Felicity’s did. This blonde was one who was using her beauty to get what she wanted. Brandon saw the fire in her eyes, and it wasn’t for him—it was for a story. She was sneaking around Debbie’s back for a new angle. Brandon didn’t particularly care for the “Debbie Digs” show at this point, but he was scared of the woman with the bun.
And fear was enough to let him push back against this woman, who had her hand in a jacket pocket. Brandon had no doubt there was a recorder there. It wouldn’t be ethical to record him and use it for a story, but she’d most likely have an “anonymous source” if he spilled anything.
“I’m just here to get out of the house. I believe this is Deborah’s show. You might want to defer any questions to her.”
The blonde didn’t give up. “She always makes the people she doesn’t like call her Deborah. She makes us all call her that too.”
Finding something in common with your mark was a technique scam artists used. Brandon had trained himself to spot it when he’d first started giving out loans with his company’s money. When a competitor was robbed blind by a scammer, it looked good to remind the boss you’d turned that same person down. Apparently, it was also good training to have with reporters.
“I already knew Deborah wasn’t fond of me. But I respect her, unlike other reporters I know.”
The gleam in the reporter’s eye brightened. “Really? How many reporters do you know?”
“Two.”
It took her a minute to realize what he was saying, and once she did, Brandon was finally left alone.
Or so he thought. The laughter he heard next wasn’t from Felicity, but from around the back of the publicity tent flap behind him.
Deborah walked out and dropped the cigarette he smelled to the ground. She squashed the butt with the point of her heel before slapping him on the back.
“She’s a gossip reporter. Journalism is a loose translation for what she uses her even looser morals to report.”
“She was about to do something unethical. I’m not about that.” He eyed the cigarette. “Didn’t know you smoked.”
“You never got close enough to me to smell me. I stink of it when I’m stressed. The rest of the time, I have quit.”
“Why are you stressed? This thing seems to be getting a lot of attention.” He pointed to where Felicity was being asked questions by another reporter. One of Deborah’s assistants was moving the people into place to ensure her billboard was in the camera shot, no matter what the poor cameraman tried to do.
“Attention is good, but follow through is better. Are you going to give her a loan?”
“I still think it’s dumb, but my district manager has this idea that it will be good for community morale, and we’re going to write it off as a charity project.” He shrugged. “Either way, you’ll get your story and she’ll get her money.”
“She’s going to repay you even if you tell her she doesn’t have to.”
“Sorry to destroy the happy ending to your story, Deborah, but when you give people free money, they don’t give it back. And no one is going to buy one of these houses to live in unless they are destitute, and that’s not going to make for a very good story.”
“I’m going to live in one.”
Without any explanation, the one news reporter he respected hopped on the crazy train and began her trek over to the reporting tent. She woke her phone and started talking into it. Walking into the competing local news’ shot, Deborah made sure she was getting her free advertising even as the other station’s cameraman tried to avoid her billboard.
That woman was going to live in a tiny house? How would it contain her ego?
Chapter Nineteen
Felicity took the bottle of water and swallowed the whole thing in one long series of gulps. She was surprised she had a voice left. After the second interview, she was starting to feel a small scratch against her throat. By the fifth one, she was sure she sounded more like Kathleen Turner than herself. Not a bad image to mimic, but uncomfortable, that was for sure.
Usually, after getting to talk about herself and her idea, Felicity was hyped up and ready to go into the world and take it on. This had beaten the enthusiasm out of her.
She had planned on taking Brandon through the local farmer’s market and getting enough food to grill some kabobs. The tuck away outdoor kitchen was one part of the house she hadn’t shown him yet, and thought it would be a nice surprise—and an excuse to be outside and get some space.
After this, she was thinking about taking a nap instead.
“You did great,” Debbie told her with a slap on the back.
Felicity nodded and raised another water bottle in salute.
“Ready for my wrap up interview now?”
The look of horror in Felicity’s eyes must have been pretty dramatic. Debbie held up her hands and laughed.
“I’m kidding. I know you’re beat. Besides, you are giving us the exclusive. Do you really think I’m going to run the same bit as every other channel?”
Felicity was grateful.
“No way. I’m going to interview the bankers that turned you down today.”
“They agreed to be on camera?” Felicity was shocked. When the story first broke, Brandon’s bank was the only one where their calls made it past a secretary.
“They work in a public institution and high profile companies that our tax dollars bailed out not too long ago. I learned their schedules. I’m going in with a camera, a hidden camera, and a voice recorder.”
“Isn’t that an invasion of privacy?”
“My show isn’t called ‘Debbie Digs’ for nothing. I even got a new wig for the segment.”
Felicity went over a few more bits of information with Debbie, but she was pretty sure she would have agreed to give the woman her kidney, left arm, and first born by the end of it.
Felicity stuck her arm in and dug to the bottom of her bag. Pushing aside at least five dollars in change and quite a few mint wrappers, she got hold of a hair tie. She wound her hair up in a ponytail and then into a quick loop to keep the strands at least a little off her neck. After she grabbed one more water bottle for the road, Felicity held it underneath her hairline and walked over to where Brandon was waiting for her.
“I think this is the first time I’ve seen you look tired when you were talking about your shacks.”
She was too beat to argue with him even after that dig. “I’m going to take a nap. Think you can entertain yourself for a bit?”
The man looked at her like she was crazy. In the short time she’d known him, it was the face she saw more often than not. This time she was taking it more to heart than she should have.
All of that talking, and all of that explaining, had made her look at her story a little differently. Hearing the playback from some of the crews, she’d sounded like she was reading a fairy tale. Her story wasn’t very realistic at times, and she knew the reporters were painting her as a dreamer.
Reality was never something that turned out as well as her dreams. When she was the person who was telling peo
ple she could do something, when she was telling them all how great her ideas were, she could rock it. She could fake it. She could fool them all. Now that she was getting the chance to make it a reality, it was starting to scare her.
This was exactly what she wanted. One of the reporters had asked her to stop by their station, because people were dropping off donations and letters, and a lot had accumulated. Another reporter told her a viewer had set up a GoFundMe page for the project.
So many people believed in her and her idea. She hoped it could hold up.
This whole project had been put together to help others. But more than that—it would allow her to live like she wanted. Simply. And as a bonus she’d be surrounding herself with people who valued the same things she did.
It was changing now. It was becoming something bigger than herself. Before, if she hadn’t gotten this off the ground, she could just disappear. Not anymore. Now she was a human interest story. She’d thought she could handle the spotlight if it got her where she needed to go, but the light felt anything but warm and happy. Just like the life she’d run from, the brightness burned.
Climbing into her truck, both she and Brandon were quiet. He hadn’t questioned her need for a nap—he’d just grabbed a water bottle himself and waited while she and Deborah put the next interviews into their calendars.
Her truck bounced as it made it over a pothole in the grassy area around her trailer. She ignored her passenger and went inside.
Unfortunately, he was done enjoying the quiet.
“I am thoroughly confused. You had a fantastic media day, and you’re practically moping about it.” He eyed her coffee press and reached his arm out for it before pulling it back.
“You can make more coffee if you want,” she told him.
Felicity flipped the air conditioner up a notch. The room was comfortable, but she was in the mood to wrap herself in a blanket and she needed the temp to drop a few degrees before she wouldn’t sweat to death underneath one.
“I can’t remember how your contraption works,” he grumbled.
Felicity kicked her shoes under the bench and heard the thunk as they slid into place and out of sight. Her bare feet felt better than anything else. She was in the mood for tea and a nap. She wasn’t in the mood to cater to someone who she had to coddle.
“Then go buy some. That’s what you used to do anyway, wasn’t it?”
He grumbled something and shoved his hands in his pockets.
She pushed him out of the way as she walked behind him and grabbed her favorite tea mug off a wall hook. “What did you say?”
“I like your coffee better. There’s no bitter aftertaste like there is from the fancy coffee place. I’ll pay you to make me another one.”
She rolled her eyes and set up a teakettle full of water.
“Not everything is about money.”
“I’ve got money and I’m pretty strong. So if you don’t want money, how about I move your trailer away from the gravestones?”
Felicity’s mind painted an image of Brandon in his pajama bottoms and one of those horse bits pulling her trailer around with his pecs straining.
She tried to let herself not think about it as she waited for the teapot to whistle, but when she looked at him, his pecs pumped under his shirt, and she found herself licking her suddenly dry lips.
“I’m perfectly happy with my current neighbors. They are quiet.”
Had he actually laughed at that?
“Whatever you say, but it still gives me the creeps.”
He typed away at something on his phone after flipping through the screens, and Felicity let him. She took her own device and started making notes about the different stops she had to make to the stations to pick up the mail and ever-growing piles of donations. She was still stressing about it. Something inside her didn’t want to take Brandon with her. She didn’t want anyone rooting for her, and having an idea so remarkable that she could even change Brandon Halston’s mind about it… It was too much.
Then she saw Brandon grabbing something off her shelf. She had been happy to let him in. She’d brought new things into her house to accommodate someone other than herself. She’d tolerated a lot of jokes and sarcasm from him. But as he picked up the tiny dented thimble, she felt her blood pressure shoot up.
“Put that down.” She wasn’t even remotely nice about it.
Brandon, like every other time the last couple of days, didn’t seem to care to listen to what she was telling him. “You sew?”
Felicity walked over and grabbed the thimble from him and closed her fingers around her treasure. “I do repair my own clothes, but this isn’t for that.”
Brandon stared at her expecting her to share a story, but her mind just took her back to her childhood without bothering to drag her roommate along for the ride.
She’d been six or seven. The tutor had left for the day and Felicity was doing what she always did, following her Nan around the house. Both of Felicity’s parents had been working late as usual, and she didn’t even mind much. Felicity could relax around her nanny far more than she could around the people who forced her to refer to them as “Mother” and “Father”.
“Nan,” she’d begged, “you promised me you’d show me how to sew this week. Could we learn now?”
Nancy Ringwald was her nanny, but Felicity had always called her Nan. The woman had been short and stocky with gray hair peppering the pin curls she’d spend hours letting set in the morning.
“I have to get your clothes laid out for tomorrow. Does anything you have need fixing?”
Felicity had thought about it, but couldn’t think of anything that had a hole. She was disappointed that she couldn’t work on her own clothes, but every time she damaged a garment, her mother insisted it be thrown out.
“No.”
Nan had patted her shoulder. After a quick trip to the laundry room, she’d pulled a basket from the top shelf. “I have plenty, dear girl. Let’s pick some of the items with smaller holes first.”
Felicity had been so excited to learn to sew that it hadn’t occurred to her until years later that Nan had repaired all of her own clothes, while Felicity’s parents bought new. It was just something she thought Nan did to hold onto the pieces that mattered. Because everything had a story for Nan. The shirt she pulled out first was what she’d worn when she won the award for best cherry pie. There was even a small stain on it at the hem that she refused to clean because it was made from award-winning cherries.
Nan had sat down and taught her how to thread a needle that day, and how to look at the fabric to note the strongest places to put a stitch. They’d both gotten so lost in the process, neither heard her parents come home.
“Miss Ringwald, what on earth are you doing with my daughter?”
At the sound of her mother’s voice, they’d both jumped and Felicity’s previously steady hand had slipped and stabbed the needle into her thumb.
“And now she’s bleeding. Please get her dressed for dinner. Did you forget we have company coming this evening? Felicity, you need to be on your best behavior. Please make sure you shake hands with your left hand. We can’t have you getting blood on your father’s guests, now can we?”
Felicity had frowned as the drop of blood pooled where she’d stuck the needle. “I’m not a very good daughter,” she mumbled to herself.
“You are a wonderful child. Here.”
Nan had dabbed the blood off her finger and pulled a small tube of ointment from her kit. Felicity was curious about everything, and usually had some kind of scrape or bruise by the end of the day. Nan carried a first aid kit with her everywhere. But instead of a Band-Aid, she’d topped the wound with a shiny silver thimble.
“What’s this, Nan?
“That’s yours now. You learned something new today. My momma gave me that thimble when I learned how to sew.” Nan had leaned in. “I stuck myself with a needle that day too. Momma said sometimes we need a little armor against things that sting.”
Nan looked to where her mother had gone and frowned as she leaned back in. “Sometimes people sting way more than a stitching needle. Keep that close and remember that Nan knows you’re capable and strong.”
And she had. The thimble had traveled with her everywhere. When she’d left everything behind and entered her tiny house, her thimble was the first thing she’d placed on the shelf.
Now Brandon was putting his grubby, non-caring hands all over her armor.
She felt the pressure of the situation close in around her. The hand on her arm made her jump.
The tea kettle was whistling loudly. Steam billowed out in front of her face. She grabbed the thimble and placed it on her thumb for a second before she put it back in the little dish on her shelf.
“You were really lost in your own thoughts there.” Brandon used his hand to pull her away from the steam and press her into the chair he’d unfolded and put in front of her table.
He might not be able to work the coffee press, but at least he’d remembered the chair and table. Felicity didn’t want anyone to take care of and she was grateful for his minor display of self-sufficiency.
“I still can’t work your coffee thing.”
Sort of self-sufficient.
“I’ll get it in a second.”
Brandon watched her. “You don’t keep your thimble in your sewing kit?”
“No.”
Brandon frowned again.
“It was my Nan’s.”
“Your grandmother’s?”
“No. My Nan’s.”
Felicity wasn’t going to share that with him, and she must have made it crystal clear by her tone, because he dropped the subject. She hoped he’d keep his hands off her armor from now on, but it didn’t seem likely. The man kept touching things.
Felicity pulled out a sliding rack from the half-wall and dug to the back where she kept her stress food. She knew it wasn’t healthy to have a stress stash, but she needed the freaking trans fats on days like today.
Ice cream was okay, but give her a jar of Nutella and some dark beer pretzels and she was in heaven. She dipped a ring into the chocolate and popped it in her mouth. Nom. She did it three more times before she went for the coffee press.
