CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
“The princess shirt,” Gannon said, digging into the to-go container between Paige’s legs helping himself to the pad thai. “You come out in these tiny shorts and this tight, white t-shirt. I went hard so fast I thought I was going to pass out.”
Paige laughed, covering her mouth and leaned back against the headboard of his bed. “You’re such a guy!”
“Honey, with a body like that, there was no way I was going to not want you.”
Paige rolled her eyes. “Well, you’re going to feel like a shallow asshole when I tell you that the first time I had non-professional feelings for you was when you finished that dining room table.” She wrinkled up her nose, pulling the information from her mental files. “Episode four, the Ratakowski family.”
“Right, right. The brick bungalow.”
“You worked on that table for hours, and when you were done, I thought it was the sexiest piece of furniture I’d ever seen, and you’d created it with those two very talented hands.” She tapped one of those hands with her foot. “I wanted that table bad and would have taken you too to get it.”
“Do you even have space for a dining table?” he teased.
“God no. Becca and I would have to give up our couch… and probably take down a wall. But someday, I’ll have a home with a dining room worthy of a Gannon King original.”
“What kind of home?” Gannon asked, biting into an eggroll.
She shrugged and he nudged her with his bare foot. “Uh-uh, princess. You don’t do anything without a crystal clear plan in your head.”
Paige chewed, debating. “It’s way out of my league, but I’ve always wanted one of those big three-story brownstones. The kind with a fireplace in every room and all these crazy nooks and crannies, sky-high ceilings, space for an incredible kitchen, which would force me to learn to cook. And some kind of backyard space, an oasis with trees and grass and a patio.”
“Big dreams,” Gannon commented.
“What about you? I know this place isn’t your style.”
He lifted a shoulder. “I haven’t given it much thought. With my grandfather’s business tanking, it’s been a frantic couple of years.”
“And now that you’re coming out on the other side?” Paige prodded.
“It’s probably time to start thinking long-term. Something with history, character. Something close to my family and the office because I do not plan to do TV forever.”
“Will you go back to building full-time?” She dug into the sweet and sour chicken.
“Probably.” He paused. “I’d actually like to do custom furniture.”
The way he said it, without meeting her gaze and focusing intently on the cardboard container in his hand, told Paige this was the first time he’d put it into words.
“Want to know what I think?” she asked.
He raised his gaze, arched an eyebrow. “Sure.”
“You’d be insane not to. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you’re kinda talented.”
“Oh, I’ve noticed,” he said, smirking.
“Good thing your bedroom has pocket doors, otherwise you might not fit that noggin through the opening,” Paige quipped.
“No one likes a field producer with a sense of humor,” Gannon said, pinching her with his chopsticks.
She yelped.
“Bruises are fading,” he commented, reaching for another little packet of soy sauce.
Paige nodded through a mouthful of noodles. “Feeling more normal every day.”
“I saw the footage,” Gannon said, watching her carefully.
“Mmm.” She hadn’t, except for what was in the season teaser, and didn’t care to. Not only did she not want to relive it, she wasn’t part of the show and had no desire to be. She hated knowing that she’d be crossing the line from behind the camera to talent this season.
“You were very brave. Maybe a little stupid, but definitely brave. It’s amazing you weren’t hurt worse.”
She frowned, focusing on the food. “It was the perfect storm—ha—of unforeseen circumstances.”
“Something you deal so well with,” he smirked.
She rolled her eyes. “I like being organized and planning ahead,” Paige reminded him primly. “It’s smart to know what’s next.”
“And what’s next for you is one more season.”
She nodded, fiddling with her chopsticks. “I’d hoped to pick up a special or something between seasons, you know, pad the bank account. But I’m afraid I’m going to be untouchable after this season. No one’s going to want an on-screen field producer who slept with her talent.”
“Paige, stop being so hard on yourself. Hell, you make it sound like this—” he pointed between them with his chopsticks, “ruined your career.”
“I guess we’ll see,” she said morosely. “I just hate feeling like a puppet.”
“Join the club,” he said, raising his beer. “Now stop pouting. Just because something isn’t going to plan doesn’t mean it’s a disaster.”
“Look who’s Mr. Pollyanna all of the sudden.”
“It’s hard to be pissed off about anything from where I sit.”
Paige cocked her head. “Hmm, well maybe I should sit where you are.” She slid one long leg across his lap and straddled him. She shuffled food containers to the nightstand and put her hands on his bare chest, enjoying the thud of his heart as it sped up.
“I do like the view from here.”
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They took a break from bed and laundry and takeout. While Gannon had dinner with his grandmother and a couple of cousins, Paige went to her apartment to make sure it was still standing and stock up on fresh clothes for shooting in the heat of summer. He’d invited her, even enticed her with meeting his nonni, but she’d declined. Whatever they were together was so fresh, so new, she wasn’t prepared to open their circle. And she didn’t want to do anything that would fuel the rumors that had spread again since Kings of Construction released the season teaser.
It was the first time they’d been apart for more than a few hours since spring. Even now, she had a low-grade urge to text him, which she brushed off.
She let herself into the apartment, wrinkling her nose at the stale air. Becca was on a movie shoot in Vancouver and hadn’t been home in three weeks.
Paige lugged her suitcase over the threshold and down the narrow hallway to her tiny bedroom. Home. Yeah, right. This tiny, crappy apartment had never been home. Just as her childhood home had never laid claim to that title either. Had it been home to anyone within its walls?
She wondered briefly about her father. About the kind of man who had allowed Leslie St. James to cut him out of the family home and the lives of his daughters. An astrophysicist, he’d been given the opportunity to teach in Germany. Her mother hadn’t deemed Germany good for her own career, and neither wanted to sacrifice, so they quietly divorced. Paige had been five, and Lisa three.
St. James women weren’t supposed to become dependent on men. It was a lesson drilled into their heads from childhood. A lesson that had actually stuck with Paige, unlike the dozens of others she’d ignored such as dinner party etiquette and dressing to impress.
Her mother was deeply disappointed in her career choice, and Paige could only hope that Leslie St. James would see a sliver more worth in documentary filmmaking. Though she wasn’t holding her breath over it. It would probably be regarded as yet another rebellion, a topic that would have her mother clucking into her wine glass in disbelief that a child she raised could be such a disappointment.
Well, the disappointment was mutual as far as Paige could see. Who raised children to be further extensions of a parent’s own success?
Her phone buzzed, and she saw the text from Carina with a picture of Malia sound asleep under pink covers and pillows in her princess bed.
A few more nights in our perfect house before heading to New York for the drug trial! Dr. Singh is almost as excited as we are!
Paige grinned and texted back before she shoved her phone back in her pocket. She had a good feeling about the trial and Dr. Singh.
Enough stalling, she decided and opened her bag on the bed that hadn’t been slept in for two months. She swapped out coats and sweaters for tanks and tees and, thinking of Cat and—okay—Gannon, added two sleeveless sundresses.
Repacked in less than ten minutes, Paige flopped back on the mattress and stared up at the ceiling. On a whim, she took out her phone and dialed Becca’s number. Her roommate answered on the second ring, surprising and delighting Paige.
“Holy shit, do we have so much to talk about,” Becca announced.
“Are you busy? Can you talk?” Paige asked, enjoying the energy she heard in Becca’s voice.
“I’ve got ten, probably more. We’re resetting for a big action sequence that is sucking the life out of all of us,” she said, not sounding the least bit discouraged. “How are you feeling? Healing well?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” she said, glancing down at the yellow, mottled bruises on her legs.
“You sure? I saw the teaser. It looked pretty rough.”
“You know how TV works. Gotta make it look worse than it really is,” Paige said glibly.
“I can tell you don’t want to talk about it, so I’ll be an awesome friend and change the subject. Are you really dating Gannon King?”
“Can we go back to the injuries? I’d rather talk about that.”
Becca squealed. “I knew it. I just knew it. When you took me to the wrap party last season, didn’t I tell you he looked at you like he was into you?”
Becca had indeed insisted to Paige that Gannon looked far more interested than disinterested. “Yes, you told me, and if there is something going on there, I’m not ready to talk about it yet.”
“Fine, fine. I’ll pretend to respect your boundaries, but I’m dying to know where Boobalicious Traxx fits into all this.”
“From what Gannon says, they were never a thing.”
“You believe him?” Becca asked.
“Yeah. I do. He’s got no reason to lie, and it does sound like something the network would do to drum up attention for a new series.”
“And now they’re drumming up more attention by making it a love triangle,” Becca hypothesized.
“Yeah. Okay, enough on that topic. Where are you and what are you up to?”
“No time for that. Let me get to the good stuff. We’ve got Sarah Holden.”
“For what? The movie?” Paige asked, flexing her feet at the ankles and wondering if she should pack another pair of sandals.
“Nope, the doc.”
Paige sat up, her feet hitting the floor with a thump. “Our doc? The documentary you and I will be producing?”
“One and the same. She’s on set doing a cameo, and I told her I read her piece she wrote in the New Yorker on pay standards. I may have gushed a little and then told her what we’re working on.”
“And what? You tied her to a chair and threatened her until she agreed to be a part of it?”
“No! I didn’t have to. She was all over it. Gave me her email and her agent’s number so we can stay in touch. And get this—”
“There can’t be more.”
“Oh, there is. Our pal Sarah is friends with several of TV’s most acclaimed stars, and she hinted that she may have a few more ladies willing to chat with our cameras.”
“I am totally in love with you right now, Becca.”
“I know, right?” her roommate laughed. “This is going to be bigger than we hoped, babe. I can’t wait to start.”
“One more season,” Paige sighed. It would be like waiting for Christmas morning.