Page 62 of Mr. Fixer Upper
Malia released Gannon from the hug and skipped toward Paige. “Hi Paige! I’m gonna go find Mama!” she announced cheerily.
“I think she’s upstairs,” Paige told her with a wink.
Gannon yanked the ever-present red bandana from his back pocket and swiped it over his eyes.
“Could have pocketed five K,” he said, shoving the bandana back in his pocket and leaning back against the scarred folding table.
“How did you know about that?” Paige demanded.
“Eventually Cat finds out everything everyone ever said or did and she blabs to me about it whether I want to hear it or not,” Gannon complained.
“I wasn’t ever going to do it.” Paige said defensively.
He shook his head. “Didn’t say you were.” He paused, working his way through the lingering emotions. “Why didn’t you?”
She gave him a small smile. “Because, on the off chance that you did prove to be human, I didn’t think it would be nice to exploit that.”
“It’s not that I don’t care,” he said, searching for the right words. “It’s that it’s hard to connect with people through all the layers of production. I’m supposed to feel something for people that I meet very briefly and have coached, sometimes scripted, interactions with. That’s not how I work. That’s not how life works.”
“You need a more authentic environment to make a connection.”
“Yeah,” he nodded. He stretched his arm out to encompass the site. “We’re putting on a show. At the end of the day, that’s what we’re doing. Maybe we’re helping someone, but what it all boils down to is we’re selling some advertiser’s product. It’s hard to drill down from that and find actual human beings.”
“I know,” she nodded, crossing to him. They’d both turned in their mics to Felicia an hour ago, and with no audience, Paige felt safe sliding her arms around his waist.
She felt him tense against her and then relax. He rested his chin on top of her head. His arms banded around her, holding her tight.
“I wasn’t ever going to try to collect on the bounty,” Paige told him again. She needed him to know that.
“I know. You’re not like the rest of the suits.” He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “What are you doing with your days off?”
“Laundry and sleeping,” she smirked. “You?”
“I was thinking maybe you’d like to do your laundry and sleeping at my place.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Gannon’s place was a one-bedroom fourth-floor walkup in a squat brick building two blocks away from the factory his family had renovated into King Construction headquarters and three from his beloved nonni’s house.
“This isnotwhat I expected,” Paige announced when Gannon shoved the key in the lock of the heavy wood door. She was nervous, which embarrassed her.
“Don’t knock it,” Gannon smirked. “It has a bed and laundry facilities.”
“I don’t mean that. I mean why don’t you live in some concrete and glass loft somewhere downtown?”
“My family’s here,” he said, giving the door a shove.
The apartment was small, but Paige could see touches of Gannon everywhere. He made much better use of the space than she and Becca did in their crappy little apartment. A battered leather couch faced the massive flat screen mounted to the wall. It was flanked by custom built-ins that housed a sparse collection of books. The coffee table was obviously a King original with its thick wooden top and hefty metal legs.
The kitchen was no bigger than a medium-sized closet with a skinny L of countertop. Pocket doors painted a glossy black led to the only bedroom. There were no plants, no homey touches or pictures.
“Are you a minimalist?” Paige teased, crossing her arms and studying the view through the three windows in the living room.
He gave the pocket doors a shove and dumped her bag on the serviceable navy spread on the bed.
“Smart ass,” he said without any heat.
“I don’t like to have to worry about a bunch of crap when I’m on the road so much of the year,” he shrugged.
