Maggie Moves On(29)

White subway was a classic for a reason, but this room, this house, called for something with a little extra personality. She lined up the tiles on the folding table that was acting as a makeshift countertop and studied them.

Too simple.

Too busy.

Too green.

“Maggie, what have you drilled into my head from day one?” Dean stormed into the room and tossed his iPad case down onto the end of the table.

She sighed and turned her back on the samples. He was going to be dramatic about it. “That it’s not my house,” she said.

“Would navy cabinets be spectacular in this kitchen? Yes. No doubt. Would anything less be a travesty? Probably. Is it in the budget to upgrade from a nice, reasonable stain to paint? No, it is not.” Dean, the ever-responsible dream killer, marched down the list.

She scanned the room and pictured it. Not with the walls missing the cabinetry that had already been ripped out and were on their way to a local nonprofit. But with the clean quartz countertops with the gray veining. The bright punch of navy cabinetry with glass fronts was exactly what this room needed.

“Mmm. Yeah. I think I’m gonna do it anyway,” she said cheerily. She grabbed her thermos from the windowsill. Outside, the siding guys took measurements. She could hear the electricians debating fuse box placement in the basement.

A week into the job and things were already starting to look less bad inside and out.

“I know you are.” He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose in theatrical frustration. “I don’t know why I bother opening my mouth. You never listen to me anyway.”

“I listen to you,” she argued, taking a swig of water. “When you’re right.”

“Look, all I’m saying is we just started bringing on some serious advertisers. They and your followers expect the Maggie Nichols formula.”

“Which is?” she asked, eyeing the wall space where the new cabinets would end and a single full-light door would open onto the terrace. Double would be better. French doors with the built-in screens would bring in more of the view and make for easier access to alfresco dining.

“You buy a crappy house with potential no one else sees. You do the necessary renovations without overimproving the property. And then you sell it quickly for a very nice profit,” he explained with strained patience.

“Why do you think I’d deviate now on this house? We doubled our return on the last place.”

“It was ocean block on one of the nicest beaches in Oregon. You were selling the literal American dream. Who the hell is going to pay seven figures—which is what you’re going to have to list this place at—for some million-room Victorian monstrosity on a hill in fucking Idaho?” Dean’s strained patience cracked and then shattered. “God. You’re giving me flashbacks to our marriage.”

Maggie used a bandanna in her pocket to wipe plaster dust off her face. She hadn’t told him, her best friend and partner, why this place. Why she’d been waiting what felt like a lifetime for this opportunity.

She tucked the bandanna back in place and put her hands on his shoulders. “You’ve spent the last year talking me into leveling up. We’re knocking on a million subscribers. We’ve got real advertising dollars coming in. The finale for the last place hasn’t aired yet, but when it does, it’s gonna be big. I trust you to handle the leveling up. But you have to trust me to make the calls that I know are right when it comes to the work. That’s why we work as partners.”

He looked tired, defeated…uncaffeinated.

“Did the café accidentally switch you to decaf?” she asked with a frown.

Dean sighed. “It’s not the coffee.”

Now she was worried. “What is it?”

“Will.” The name came out with equal parts pain and annoyance.

“What about Will? Did he call?”

He shook his head. “Worse. He’s engaged.”

She winced. Will had been Dean’s longest relationship, beating their own marriage. “Oh. Shit,” she said. “I’m sorry. You’ll meet someone. Someone great.”

His laugh was bitter. “How? We’re on the road practically year-round. You expect us to work around the damn clock and give me shit every time I take a day off. I’m not going to meet someone who is either willing to stay home and wait for me to drop by once every two months or someone who is happy to tag along on the road. Neither are you.”

“I guess that’s why you and I work so well together. We like the road, the unroutine.” She said the words lightly but inside felt long-buried anxiety stirring up. Like he was about to tell her something that was going to change her life all over again. If she could just keep him from saying the words, maybe they both could pretend everything was fine.

Dean took a breath, and she fought the urge to put her fingers in her ears.

“I don’t know if I still like the road,” he admitted. “Maybe I want routine. Maybe I want to wake up in the same bed for more than a few weeks in a row.”

“Okay. What are you saying?” she asked cautiously.

His shoulders jerked toward his ears. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m just tired. Or maybe I’m jealous or worried about missing out. Either way, I don’t know how much longer I can do this.” He didn’t actually say the words, but she heard them all the same. He didn’t know how much longer he wanted to do this with her.