The Homewreckers(46)

“Who said anything about seduction? They’re both adults. I was just pointing out that Trae is a very attractive man. And Hattie’s cute. And single. Look, we both know this show is only ten percent about fixing up an old house. The rest of it? People love the idea of love. They’re intrigued with watching the dance. So that’s what we give them. The dance. All I’m saying is, don’t stand in the way of that. Encourage it. Play it up. If they’re bickering on camera, show that. And when the spark happens … fan the flame.”

Mo took another gulp of the drink.

“As far as I’m concerned, this show actually is about fixing up an old house. I’m a little worried about this missing woman angle. The last thing we need is for the cops to show up and shut down production. We’re already going to be stretched incredibly tight now that we’ve got structural issues.”

She listened intently while he listed all the work the house needed.

“You’ve only got five weeks,” Becca reminded him. “Marketing is already working on the promotional campaign, Mo. There’s no going back now. Does Hattie understand that the house absolutely has to be complete by the end of the shoot?”

“She gets it,” Mo said wearily. “We all get it.”



* * *



“Need a hand?” Hattie didn’t hear his car pull into the driveway, didn’t even hear his footsteps echoing in the now empty living room. She’d been concentrating on the old wall-to-wall carpeting in the living room, first scoring it with a box cutter, then yanking it away from the floor.

Trae Bartholomew had ditched his pristine white jeans and designer tee. He wore Carhartts like Hattie’s, a paint-spattered tee, and grungy tennis shoes that had lost their laces, and, she thought, he looked damn fine.

“Really? You came back to help?” She straightened and stretched out her aching back.

“Why wouldn’t I?” He looked around the living room. All the old furniture and the piles of debris were gone. The dated seventies brass chandelier that had hung over the dining room table had been pulled down and work lights now illuminated the cavernous living and dining room spaces.

“Man. You and Cass managed all this?”

“Cass called a local company and they sent out a couple of college kids to haul away all the furniture and junk to the dump. We never could have done it without them.”

“Where’s Cass now?” he asked, looking around.

“Pizza run. We ordered from Lighthouse, but they’re slammed and we’re starved, so she went to pick it up.”

“Wish I’d known,” Trae said. “I would have brought something from town.”

She eyed him warily. “Really? Why would you do that?”

He laughed. “You mean, why would a snooty, demanding L.A. designer lower himself to actually act like a decent human being?”

“Well, yeah.”

“I’m not really an asshole in real life, Hattie. I just play one on television. We’re in this together, you know. If this project isn’t amazing in every way, and Homewreckers tanks, my career and reputation go with it. Now, tell me what you need me to do.”

She pointed at the dining room, where the carpet had already been removed. “If you’re serious, all that nasty carpet padding was so old and damp, patches of it stuck to the floor. We’ll come back and sand everything later, but first we’ve gotta scrape up the rubbery patches, plus pull up all the tack strips. You up for that?”

“Let me just grab my tool belt,” Trae said.

“You own a tool belt? For real?”

“I’m a man of many talents,” he told her.

By the time Cass returned to the house with a large pizza and a six-pack of beer, Trae was using a putty knife to pry up the last of the tack strips in the dining room.

She set the pizza box on the work table they’d dragged into the living room. “What’s he doing here?” she said, nodding in the designer’s direction.

“I came back to help,” Trae said. “Why does everyone find that so hard to believe?”

Cass popped the top on a bottle of beer, ignoring him, and handed it to Hattie. “Maybe because he’s been acting like a dick so far?”

“He’s not as bad as we thought,” Hattie said, taking a long pull from the bottle. “Plus he has his own tools.”

“I’m standing right here,” Trae protested. “Come on, ladies. Cut me some slack.”





24

Little Girl Lost




Makarowicz was sitting in his cruiser, looking over his notes when Dawna Gaines, the TPD dispatcher, radioed him. “Hey, Mak, there’s a girl been calling here all afternoon, asking to speak to you about that article in the newspaper. Her name’s Emma Ragan.”

“Give me her number, please.” He grabbed his phone and typed the number into it as she called it out. “Any other calls?”

“Just the usual assorted wingnuts,” she said cheerfully. “I left their numbers on your desk, but this girl sounds legit. And frantic.”



* * *



“Hello?” She picked up on the first ring.

“Miss Ragan? This is Detective Makarowicz, at the Tybee PD. I understand you’d like to talk to me.”