Maggie Moves On(11)
She unloaded her laptop, tablet, camera, and phone onto the table and got to work. The contract from a new advertiser went to her attorney, and Maggie paused for only a moment to shake her head in wonder at the offer. She hadn’t started her show to build a platform of soon-to-be one million followers. Or to leverage that platform to move products for multimillion-dollar corporations. Yet here she was, getting a check and a closet full of Cat King workwear—a brand she genuinely loved.
Sometimes life was downright weird.
While the day’s pictures downloaded onto her laptop from the memory card, she rattled off a few dozen likes in response to comments on her latest Instagram post. Next, she called up her floor plan program and adjusted a few of the first-floor measurements. She needed to find space for a powder room and maybe even a full bath.
She was in the middle of creating a collage of her weirdest “finds” so far in the Campbell place when the barista delivered her dinner.
From beneath razor-sharp bangs, Jun eyed Maggie’s pile of electronics. “Need a power strip?” she offered.
“Just the sandwich and the Wi-Fi,” Maggie promised.
The door opened again on the jangle of spurs, and they both looked up. A boy in his teens sauntered in, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched in that gangly not-quite-comfortable way teenagers had. Jun raised a hand, and the boy gave her a too-cool nod in return.
Maggie hid her smile as the barista practically skipped back to the counter. Despite what Dean said, she did believe in romance. She just didn’t personally have the energy to carve time out of her schedule for it.
And why would she bother? Her life was on the road with pit stops in three-and four-month increments.
As soon as the “home” was beautiful and sellable, she was on to the next one.
No time wasted.
What man in his right mind would decide that following her from state to state and house to house would be his kind of happily ever after?
The idea was absurd enough to earn a snort. Her life suited her just fine.
She just wasn’t in a position to add a serious love interest into her schedule. Either he’d have to thrive on neglect or she’d have to stop doing all of the things. And if she stopped doing all of the things, she’d be letting down the people who depended on her. Dean. Her followers. The crews she paid. Small businesses and local artists who got a boost from her platform. And now advertisers.
She had a responsibility to them all. It fueled her.
Her stomach growled, demanding she return her attention to the food. There was a cup of pinkish sauce nestled into her mound of fries. She sniffed it and then tentatively tasted.
Not bad. She dunked a fry into it and scrolled through the comments on her YouTube channel.
YOLO14: Do you ever get tired of moving? Have you ever wanted to stay in one of your houses?
Maggie took a fortifying bite of panini before rolling out her standard answer.
Every house holds a special place for me, but they’re all meant for someone else. I’m just the lucky one who gets to play matchmaker.
Typing and swiping her way through the meal, she ticked tasks off her to-do list. It hadn’t been the most productive first day on the job. Not with the morning distractions of a mud-bogging dog and his incredibly well-built owner. Silas Wright was a distraction all by his handsome self.
Once the nearly naked man had left, she’d made a dent in the cleanup, managing to start parsing trash from treasure. The Old Campbell Place had its fair share of both. The front study alone had a complete set of A. Campbell’s hardback novels, a delicate needlepoint, an antique topographic map, and that portrait. The pheasant wallpaper had already grown on her and was most definitely staying. At least on the fireplace wall. The tiny room behind it, the one that was the most likely contender to become a downstairs powder room, was filled to head height with stacks of phone books and old issues of fishing magazines.
Anything deemed treasure got tucked into the back study for further investigation and careful boxing. The trash went straight into the dumpster or recycling bins she found in the garage.
Tomorrow would be more of the same, and the next day. Which meant she needed to keep fueled and stay organized.
Her panini was excellent, and the pink stuff on the fries really was good.
She checked the production calendar she shared with Dean. They had the last three episodes left on the beach bungalow. Then they’d start fresh and introduce fans to the Old Campbell Place. Her goal was to work her way up to six weeks of episodes edited and ready to go. More lead time meant better quality editing and a more cohesive story, and eventually she might be able to take some time off here and there between projects.
Maybe.
Truth was, she liked the work. Liked waking up with a purpose. Juggling both sides of the business. Busyness was purpose. And she appreciated having a constant sense of purpose.
Her phone vibrated on the table. She wiped her hands on her pants and answered.
“What are you doing?” Dean asked on a yawn.
“Giving myself a facial and reading that new time travel novel,” she lied, shoveling another fry through the sauce.
“Uh-huh. So you’re working late with no less than three electronic devices in front of you?”
“Four if you count the camera,” she said. “How about you?”
“I’m at a club.” He yawned again. “Met a cute librarian. We’re drinking wine and voguing.”