Page 15 of Mr. Fixer Upper
Production for the last episode had gone perfectly—an unheard of feat in reality television—and at the end of the week Gannon and Cat were able to turn over the keys to a completely renovated Craftsman bungalow to a tearful Joy and Teagan.
Gannon had had a mysterious talk with some of the higher ups at the network and the stipulation that the Kings visit an Interiors at Home for every episode was magically lifted. As a compromise, Cat was ordered to include mentions and pictures of products in her behind-the-scenes blog, but Paige considered it a victory for the integrity of the show.
The whole crew was flying high from a good week, and Paige considered it a blessing since the next shoot was going to be gut wrenching.
Single mom Carina was an exotic-looking beauty with dark hair and bronzed caramel skin. She’d raised one-hundred thousand dollars through crowd funding for the children’s hospital that treated her daughter for brain cancer. Malia, now six years old, had just suffered a relapse after nurses at the children’s hospital had applied to the show on the family’s behalf.
The odds for remission the second time around were starker, less favorable, and Paige knew it would be tough on everyone involved. But the story was ready to be told, and she would do her best to be as sensitive to the family’s needs as possible.
Sensitive wasn’t exactly Gannon’s middle name, and she hoped he’d behave himself as he had on the last set. But she knew better than to put money on consistency when it came to his temperament.
She felt a body ease into the seat next to her and opened her eye lazily. She usually sat with Sam or Louis because neither of them liked to talk in flight. They didn’t mind a seatmate who was usually sound asleep before beverage service came through coach. But it wasn’t Sam’s pearly smile or Lou’s bony shoulders that she recognized. It was Gannon’s golden brown eyes filled with amusement.
Paige straightened in her seat. “You’re not sitting with me.”
“You’re grumpy when you wake up,” he said, cramming his frame into the seat and settling a book in his lap. He was wearing jeans and a navy t-shirt that hugged every bulge of muscle in his chest and arms. A savvy traveler, he’d opted for flip-flops to make it through security faster.
“I’m not grumpy, and I didn’t just wake up,” she grumbled, proving his point. “I meant to say, why aren’t you up in first class?”
It was one luxury that Gannon didn’t complain about given his tall frame. The legroom of first class was a necessity. His knees were already spread wide to accommodate the length of his legs. Gannon’s left knee was unapologetically encroaching into her space.
“I thought Sam would enjoy the leg room for once.”
“Sam is a good three inches shorter than you,” Paige argued.
“Ah, but Sam has something I don’t.”
“And what’s that?” Paige asked dryly.
“A crush on my sister.”
Paige smirked. “So a PA has a crush on your sister, and you’re magnanimous enough to give up your first class seat to spend the next four hours crammed into coach with me?”
“What can I say? I’m a giver.”
He grinned at her, and she felt her stomach do an involuntary somersault. She let her skeptical eyebrow raise do the talking for her.
“You know, I used to think you were stuck up,” he began conversationally. “Then I thought you were some kind of network puppet spy.”
“Oh, really?” she asked, pulling her book from the seatback pocket as if she had no interest in their conversation.
“But I was wrong.”
She gave him a dry look. “I’m sorry, I think I misheard you. It sounded like Gannon King just admitted to being wrong.”
He held up his hands. “Bear with me. I know it’s a lot to take in.”
Paige wished desperately for a pair of ear buds to drown out her unwelcome seatmate.
“I’ve been watching you.”
“Just because you look the way you do…” she let her gaze travel down his body and back to his face, “doesn’t make that statement not creepy.” Though she was certain there were legions of women around the world who would turn into puddles of lust if Gannon King admitted to watching them.
“Not in the creepy stalker way,” he corrected her. “I watched you work this week, and I came to an entirely different conclusion.”
She sighed, telling herself not to bite, but she was already asking the question. “And what did you conclude?”
“You’re an observer.”
