Page 91 of Mr. Fixer Upper
She raised a judgmental eyebrow. “Gannon—”
“Shut up and listen.” He said it without any heat. “I bought a place—a house. I’ll be renovating it anyway, and the network was salivating about turning it into a special to air this summer. Probably five or six episodes.”
“I don’t have any experience directing,” she reminded him. Which was bullshit. She could do it. She just didn’t know if her heart could take it being around him day after day again.How could she not fall for him all over again?
“Bullshit,” Gannon said as if reading her mind. He picked up another slice of bruschetta, popping it in his mouth. “Just because you haven’t held the title doesn’t mean you don’t have the experience.”
She sipped, considered.
“You’d pick the crew.
“Why me?” she asked. If he said it was because he wanted her back in his life, she would put down this very nice wine, say a polite good-bye to Francesca, and be on her way.
“This is going to be my home. I want someone I trust behind the camera. I don’t want to turn this into some dog and pony show. This is what I’ve been working toward for a long time, and I’m not letting anyone come in and fuck up the process, the feel of it for me. I want you.”
She blew out a breath. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to work together. It didn’t exactly go well last time.”
He ran a hand impatiently through his hair. “Princess, this is a big deal to me. I trust you to put something together that doesn’t violate me in the process, and this keeps you off the streets begging for shit jobs.”
“I don’t want a pity job.”
“Don’t be an idiot. It’s not your style.”
She didn’t bother taking offense to his brusqueness. She was used to it. She was used to him… well, working with him. But working together again? Memories of the past few months rolled through her like a cresting wave. Dark hotel rooms, longing glances, breathless kisses. She wouldn’t survive that again.
“It pays a little better than what you were making before.” Gannon gave her the number, and Paige gave herself credit when she didn’t bobble her glass. With that money, the documentary would be a go. She wouldn’tneedKings for another season. Another season of torture. Shirtless Gannon, on camera interviews, toeing the line of humiliation.
Her thoughts swirled. “Gannon—”
“Don’t say no now. Think about it. Have dinner, listen to Nonni tell embarrassing stories about me, and sleep on it.”
The subject was closed. For now.
Paige looked out over the darkening garden. “I owe you an apology.”
His eyes gleamed in the dusk. “Why?” The question was quiet, husky.
“I didn’t believe that Nonni existed.”
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They ate in the dining room off of Francesca’s wedding china. Between forkfuls of the best chicken cacciatore that Paige had ever had, they talked. Gannon and Francesca fired stories and memories back and forth at each other while Paige laughed and drank wine and listened.
Francesca daintily wiped tears of laughter from the corners of her eyes with her cloth napkin. “What about you, Paige? Do you have memories of your grandmamas like this one does?”
“I never knew any of my grandparents,” Paige confessed. “They all died before or shortly after I was born. It was just my mother and sister and me.”
“That sounds like a house that is too quiet,” Francesca said, eyeing her.
“My mother valued peace and quiet for our… educational pursuits,” Paige said, remembering endless hours of private piano lessons, French classes. She’d counted down the hours until she was sprung free of endless instruction, preferring to sneak off to the movies or hide with paperbacks in the back of her closet where she could read without interruption. Meanwhile, her sister Lisa had embraced the barrage of education.
“Family is important,” Francesca lectured. “Do you like children?” The hawkish look she sent Paige had her covering a laugh with her napkin.
“Uh, I suppose?”
Gannon frowned at his grandmother. “Nonni,” he said, his tone carrying a warning.
Francesca smiled innocently. “I’m only asking a question.”
