Page 1 of Restored By You

One.

Shea

“Michelle and I have eloped,” my father says from across his office as if we’re discussing the weather.

I blink, lifting my gaze from my phone to stare at him. He hasn’t bothered to even shift his eyes away from his computer screen while dropping yet another bombshell.

Typical Daniel Winton. If a conversation seems even the slightest bit difficult, he avoids, avoids, avoids. It’s a wonder he’s gotten this far in life.

“Congratulations,” I say flatly. This is my father’s…fourth marriage, I believe, since my mother passed nineteen years ago. At first, he took a page out of my best friend’s father’s book and focused on me, his only daughter. Only child. Until that got to be too much and his attention strayed toward my nannies. Yes, plural.

I shouldn’t be surprised at how he’s announcing marriage number four so casually, but I am a tiny bit hurt for a few reasons. One, I wasn’t invited. And two, I have yet to meet this woman.

“Thank you,” he replies, gruff with an uncomfortable shift in his seat. His dark complexion catches the beaming California sun from the floor to ceiling windows and highlights the tick in his jaw, telling me there’s more. “I would have liked for you to meet her sooner, but she’s quite busy, as are you.”

I hum, dismissing his boast that this woman could possibly be anything more than another young gold digger jumping on the gravy train. Not that I blame her in today’s economy. “I can’t wait to meet her.”

Dad checks his watch, a blinding gold Rolex—his prized possession and the first purchase he made when he officially netted over a million dollars from his famous ski resorts currently spread across America.

It should be noted that my father is an awful skier.

“She should be here shortly,” he announces, standing from his chair and striding around his massive mahogany desk. “There is, however, something else I’d like to speak with you about.”

Called it.

“Same,” I tell him, beaming with excitement over my news. It’s last minute, a bit of a long shot, and a little crazy on my part, but I haven’t felt this called to do something since grade school when I started making Halloween costumes for myself and all my friends.

We won first place for most creative.

Dad lifts a single black brow. It’s rare I come to him with life events, or favors, but…today is proving full of surprises. “Oh? And what’s that?”

I take a breath and stand to mirror his posture. “I’m pitching a television show.”

Dad’s brow furrows slightly. “What kind of show?”

“Home restoration. Not flipping, but restoration. Bringing back the original character of vintage homes instead of gutting them.” The words tumble out faster as my excitement builds. “All these mid-century and Victorian styles are having a renaissance. People want authenticity again, not another grey and white farmhouse.”

He leans against his desk, arms crossed. “And you’d be hosting this?”

“Hosting and directing. I already have connections in fashion who are moving into lifestyle content, and my design background gives me credibility.”

“Have you written a treatment? Developed a budget? Identified your target demographic?” His questions fire like bullets, each one making me feel smaller.

Breathe, Shea. You got this.

“I’m working on all of that, but Dad, you always said you need proof of concept first.” I straighten my shoulders, trying to reclaim my confidence. “So I bought a house.”

His dark eyes widen. “You bought a house?”

“In Whitetail. It’s a 1920s craftsman that needs complete restoration. I’ll document the entire process, create a pilot episode—”

“You bought property, sight unseen, for a television show that doesn’t exist yet.” His voice is flat, that familiar tone that makes my stomach clench.

“I know how it sounds…”

“It sounds reckless.” He moves to the window, hands clasped behind his back. “What’s your timeline? Your budget for these renovations? Do you even know what you’re walking into with this house?”

Heat flushes my cheeks. “I’ve budgeted for three months of work, and I have contractors lined up.”