Page 19 of Idle

Jesse claps. “What a brilliant idea. I could create squares out of molding and install them on the ceiling after painting it white. That definitely would give the illusion of depth and make the room feel cozy while expansive at the same time. Impressive.”

His praise washes over me but I flick it away. He’s only being nice. I’m his partner for the show, and he wants to have a good working relationship—and win. Besides, I never paint a ceiling white.

He rolls up the papers Quinn gave him and slaps them against his thigh. “Let’s take those photos and get back to the ViewPad, where we can kick around our ideas in comfort.”

“Sure thing.”

I open the camera app on my new phone and take shots of the bedrooms and bathrooms while Jesse deals with the remainder of the apartment. Finished, I wonder whether anything new has broken about Father in the news, so I look for the internet browser app on the phone. But there isn’t one.

Entering the so-called living room, I ask, “How do you get onto the internet with these phones?”

“Huh?” Jesse finishes scribbling something down on the papers and gives me his full attention. “Didn’t Quinn say there’s no Wi-Fi on them?”

Oh my God, she did. I let out an exhale. “You’re right.” Holding up my newcamerawith a couple of telephone numbers programmed into it, I ask, “Ready to head back? I don’t want to spend any more time in this depressing place than I have to.” This has been a long enough day for me.

He chuckles. “In six weeks, this place is going to be on everyone’s bucket list of places to live. You’re going to do an amazing job, I know it.”

While living away from my parents’ house. After the lock clicks shut, I wonder if I bit off more than I can chew.

Somehow sensing my wobbly self-confidence, he says, “You can do this. I have faith in you. This apartment is smaller than the house you flipped, so that has to count for something.”

“Yeah, less area to hide mistakes.”

“No, that’s not what I meant.” His fist connects with the underside of my chin, chucking me gently like a coach might do. “I bet things will be clearer once we brainstorm ideas.”

Since the alternative is returning to my parents’ place, I pull up my big girl panties. “You’re right. We’re going to make 1626 the apartment everyone wants.”

“Exactly.” I follow him back to the ViewPad and we stake out a workplace in the dining area, since the sofas were both claimed. We spend the next several hours trying to figure out how best to tackle the first makeover, which is the living room.

Yawning, I say, “I think we should give this a rest. Tomorrow’s a new day.”

Jesse pulls out his cell. “It’s only six. Don’t you want to keep going?”

As an answer, I stretch. “No. I want to eat dinner, watch some television, and get a good night’s sleep. We can start fresh in the morning.” The chair screeches as I pull away from the table.

Not caring whether my way-too-intense partner follows me, I walk into the kitchen, admiring the white cabinets, none of which are missing doors. Opening the fridge, I pull out a massive tray, check beneath the foil, and read the card aloud. “Lasagna.”

“Sounds good,” Bo responds.

I jump, not having heard him enter. The dimple on his right side beguiles me. I want the scoop about him and Mary Elise, so I force myself to read the directions. “It says we need to preheat the oven to three-fifty and bake this for thirty minutes.”

“Got you covered.” He heads over to the stove.

We work together, putting together a salad and some garlic bread to accompany our meal, all the while chatting about the crazy-ass state of the apartments. Others trickle into the kitchen, probably brought in by the smells of the warming lasagna. I set the huge island with placemats while Marion opens a couple of bottles of red wine the network generously provided. This is going to be great. A much-needed break from the infighting and drama of my parents’ house.

When Bo takes the main dish out of the oven, everyone “oohs” and “ahs.” That is, all but Jesse. Where is he? Feeling responsible for my partner—although I don’t know why—I excuse myself and head to the living room where he relocated after I left.

“Hey, dinner’s ready.”

Placing what appears to be a piece of wood onto the living edge coffee table, he gets to his feet. “I’ll return this to my room and be right there. Thanks.”

Curious, I ask, “What were you doing?”

His ears turn pink. “Thinking. I find whittling helps me center my thoughts.”

I try to check out what he was working on, but he shoves the wood behind his back. Whatever. “Make me a mermaid while you’re thinking one of these times.” I love mermaids.

He grimaces. “Don’t ask for something easy, do you?” When I don’t respond, he says, “We’ll see,” and disappears down the hall.

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