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But if he’s judging my stuff, he definitely doesn’t show it. “Feels really homey. I can never get my place to feel like this. Mine feels…” He sighs. “Sterile.”
I raise my eyebrows. “You could always tell your designer that you want to redo it, ‘yard-sale chic.’”
He laughs, eyes flashing to my face in appreciation, but doesn’t deny that he has a designer at his beck and call. “Do you think that would actually work?”
“I mean, if they’re any good and you said you wanted something ‘cozier’ or ‘homier,’ yeah, probably.”
He looks around. “Maybe I’ll try it. I just want it to feel like a home, instead of…I don’t know. A sound stage for a movie set in a Hollywood mansion.”
“Money can’t buy you love, huh?”
“Ha, no,” he says, but his laugh sounds hollow, and our eyes meet, a flash of sympathy arcing between us. Two people who know that fame and fortune can feel as empty as that laugh.
“Uh, can I get you something to drink? Coffee, tea, kombucha, a green smoothie with kale and chia seeds?”
He narrows his eyes at me. “Are you making fun of me?”
“I’m making fun of Hollywood. Tell me I’m wrong.”
“I hate kombucha.”
“But you do drink green smoothies. And eat Buddha bowls.”
He sighs.
“I have hummus and carrots,” I say. “I could run to the store for some chia seeds.”
He groans.
“Or…” I go to the pantry. “I’ve got a couple of scones left from a batch I baked.”
“My trainer will never speak to me again if I eat one of those.”
“What they don’t know can’t hurt them,” I point out.
He laughs. “You’ve got a point there. Scones, please.”
I bring out a plate and set the scones on my coffee table, a punched metal top with reclaimed-wood legs made by a guy appropriately named Sawyer who sells upcycled wood furniture online.
“So. You want to propose.”
I say it super casually, but I’m still having moments here and there of not being able to believe this is actually my life. Shane Hott is here to plan the proposal we’re staging.
He chuckles. “Yeah. I want to propose. And I want to upstage that dick Anthony Fessa. You good with that?”
I grin. “I’m beyond good with that.”
“How did he propose?” He tilts his head. “If you don’t mind telling me. I know you said you had to be drunk to tell me about him.”
I laugh. “Not the proposal. That’s a comedy routine. First of all, he hired a band to play ‘All You Need Is Love.’”
“Very shades of Love Actually,” he says, rolling his eyes.
“And then he—” I close my eyes.
“That bad?”
I sigh. “How many Bridge episodes did you watch?”
