Page 64 of (Not So) Famous in Paradise

“As it so happens, my son Lyle is in charge of permits for this area of Paradise,” she says this with a straight face. As though whatever she’s about to tell me next isn’t exactly what she came for in the first place. “I’ll bet he’d be willing to turn a blind eye for a few days if his restaurant were a little busier. For example, if the crew here ate somewhere besides the Garden of Eatin’ and Britta’s.”

And there it is. The thing she’s been angling for from day one. Free advertising for her son’s brand-new hamburger joint.

Georgia’s already made it clear she doesn’t want to promote Lyle’s hamburger joint. Not just because she doesn’t like Darlene, but also because she doesn’t want to play favorites—other than with my family. And, I suspect, because Lyle’s called her Ham one too many times.

“Are you asking me to bribe Lyle, Darlene?”

“No.” Darlene’s face goes dark. “I’m asking you to allow his business to get the same benefits of having this crew here as your family’s businesses.”

“I don’t tell them where to eat.” I match Darlene’s smooth tone with the same threatening undercurrents. “They just like good food.”

The wrinkles around Darlene’s upper lip grow close and tight. “People are starting to talk. It seems the rest of the city is supposed to bear the burden of Georgia’s project while the Thomsens reap all the rewards.”

I search for a stinging retort but come up empty. Because she’s right. It doesn’t look good for my family to be the only ones benefitting financially fromAt Home With Georgia Rose.

“Okay, Darlene, you’ve got a point. Georgia doesn’t want anyone in Paradise to think she doesn’t appreciate our hospitality.” I hate giving into her, but fair is fair, even if her manipulations aren’t. “How about I bring in lunch for the whole crew from Lyle’s tomorrow? And I’ll take care of the paperwork right away.”

She smiles, and it’s almost genuine. “I knew we could come to an agreement. Thank you, Zachary.” She wiggles her fingers and walks away, calling over her shoulder, “You’re going to love Lyle’s food!”

She passes Georgia in the open doorway and says, “Hello, dear.”

“What’s this about food?” Georgia replies, suspicious.

“Zach will give you all the details,” Darlene answers and gives her the same wave she gave me.

“What’s that all about?” Georgia asks as she limps toward me in her construction boots, her giant purse weighing her down.

“Nothing. I’ll explain later.” I take her purse from her, my hand brushing hers as I do. My pulse quickens, and not because I don’t want to tell her what Darlene just conned me into.

“Okay, but you don’t need to protect me from Darlene. I can handle whatever it is.” She walks past me, still limping, toward the kitchen. “You ready for this today?”

We’re starting with the actual renovation part of our project. Everything until now has been shooting the pilot and planning for what we’re going to do to the house. Now it’s go-time.

Not just with the house, but with Georgia and me too. Today is the day our “relationship” begins. Maybe that, more than anything, is the cause for the excitement swirling in my chest.

My eyes graze over her as she takes off her coat. They hover where her sweater has slipped, exposing her bare shoulder and black bra strap. The juxtaposition of the dark fabric against her fair skin dotted with freckles makes my breath hitch. Somehow seeing a peek of skin is more intoxicating than seeing more.

Georgia turns, and I quickly drop my gaze to her feet. That’s when I see what her construction boots are: Heels. At least three inches high.

They’re thick rubber, with plenty of tread, but still. I stare Georgia down and shake my head. She responds with her big smile made bigger by bright red lipstick.

“I should have known you’d find a way to wear your stupid high heels,” I say, still shaking my head. “Now let’s see you walk in them.”

“Not a problem.” She takes three steps, proving me right when she winces with each one.

The folding table filled with our coffee orders from Britta’s is four feet away, and that’s as far as she makes it. She pretends not to need help as she grabs her cup, but when she turns back to me, she still leans against the table for support.

“They’re the only high-topped shoes I own.” She takes a sip of the Americano I ordered for her, gazing at me through thick lashes. “So I had to wear them. They cover my ankle and keep it stable. I’m totally protected.” She sticks out her foot to show me the proof, clutching the table while she turns her foot side to side.

“Is it still swollen?” I can tell it is. The laces are stretched tighter over her injured foot than they are on the other boot.

“A little.” Her eyes dart to the side. “But these boots are so sturdy, there’s no way I can twist my ankle again.”

“Uh-huh. So I guess you don’t need this, then.” I jut out my arm, elbow bent, for her to hold onto. Because I know she needs it. She can only limp for so long.

“No.” She pulls back her shoulders, then puts her arm through mine and wraps her fingers around my bicep. “But I’ll take it anyway.”

I help her to the chair Amber has set up in the corner for makeup. Mine is already done. The trailer would have been a warmer place to do it, but Amber wanted to get the shade right for the lights set up in the house.

---