Nights Under the Tennessee Stars. Joanne RockЧитать онлайн книгу.
concrete excuse for saying no, instead of being camera shy.
Or afraid her ex would see her on television and try to contact her.
“You’re sure?” Remy straightened, his fingers pausing over the screen on his phone.
“The store expansion isn’t complete. Plus, I just committed to holding a big Dress for Success event here. It’s an initiative to help make sure disadvantaged women have help putting together a wardrobe for job interviews and transitioning back to work,” she explained. “Which means I need to really focus on that instead of finishing the store renovations.”
“You can’t get me out of your hair fast enough, can you?” Grinning, Remy pocketed his phone and slid the leather folder under one arm. “I won’t pretend I’m not disappointed, Erin, because you’ve got a really unique place here. And we could have increased your clothing drive donations by about one hundred percent.” He extended his hand to shake hers. “But I respect your decision.”
Her mind still stuck on the “one hundred percent increase” remark, Erin held out her hand before she braced herself for Remy’s touch. The warm strength of a male hand wrapped around hers made a feminine instinct quicken inside her.
Damn him. She pulled her hand back quickly.
“Good luck with your show.” She was sure he’d find another store to take her place, although her pride in her business also forced her to admit that his second choice couldn’t possibly be as good. She’d worked hard to make Last Chance Vintage unique.
He nodded, still smiling. A handsome man who could surely find dozens of store owners who’d love to invite him into their place of business for a few days. Watching him walk away, Erin wondered if she would be able to handle the guilt of knowing she’d just refused the best possible assistance for her Dress for Success event.
Double damn him.
* * *
REMY WASN’T THE kind of guy to gloat.
But he hadn’t gotten this far as a producer without knowing how to read people. And he was almost positive that Erin Finley wouldn’t let him drive away. He’d seen it in her eyes when he’d told her his show would have improved her chances of a successful clothing drive.
Erin showed the world a tough exterior with her overalls, nail guns and the inky-black dye job. But those pale blue eyes of hers were a window to a whole different woman inside.
“Wait.” She called to him just as he shoved open the front door, the welcome bell still chiming over his head.
And even though he wasn’t the kind of guy to gloat, he made sure to keep his features neutral before he turned, because he needed this too badly to screw it up now. He’d had wealth to spare at one point in his life, but he’d personally financed a manhunt and a reward for his wife’s killer. Between that and unloading their extravagant Louisiana home for well under market value simply to get rid of it, he wasn’t in the same place financially as he’d been a few years ago. Plus, with private-school bills for Sarah and college just around the corner, he couldn’t afford a failing show.
“Yes?” He hoped like hell Erin would say yes. Viewers were going to love her, and he needed that kind of ratings spike to keep the show afloat into next season. He still had two other successful shows to his credit, so he’d find a way to make things work personally. But a lot of other people counted on this show for their livelihood and he refused to let a good program fail just because his host walked away.
“You really think an appearance on Interstate Antiquer will boost the Dress for Success event that much?” She wore a long black ballerina skirt and a white T-shirt with a cartoon monkey on it.
How could he not smile at the thought of her—dressed like that—being so concerned about a clothing drive meant to put struggling women into professional business attire? She was made-for-TV perfection. He still knew what made for good TV, even if he hadn’t been flexing his creative muscle the past two years.
“I do.” He dropped his folder on the raised platform that held the store window display of an antique bicycle, vintage picnic basket and an assortment of mismatched dishes. “Shops that do this show get calls from all over the country about pieces in their stores—not just items we feature. Viewers see random stuff in the edge of the frame and decide they have to buy it.”
Erin nodded slowly. “That means I could sell a lot. How do you know people will donate a lot?”
“On one episode, we had a shop owner in a dated wheelchair who had some trouble navigating it around his inventory. He had three new chairs show up the next day and twelve more offers for upgrades by email within the week.” That show had been a turning point for Remy’s anger during his grieving for Liv. Seeing the outpouring of caring had restored some faith in humanity. “Wheelchairs are expensive and we never suggested the guy needed a new one in the show. Can you imagine the kind of support you’d get on a drive where we invite people to be involved?”
He watched her flip her phone from hand to hand, thinking it over, obviously still full of reservations. He was surprised that someone who seemed so sure of herself could be this nervous about being on television. In the era of selfies and YouTube, he didn’t meet many people who were afraid of the camera anymore.
“What about the repairs?” she asked. “Will you try not to show that my store is all torn up?” She stalked toward the front counter and eyed the heavy plastic dividing the current store from the space she was renovating.
“We can avoid shooting it if you want.” He followed her, telling himself he was only curious about what was behind the curtain. “But viewers aren’t interested in seeing perfect places or perfect people. They respond to what’s real. They relate better to people who work hard just like they do. Seeing the process of building the business can be a part of the appeal.”
“Is that so? That hardly explains why every other show on TV is about Hollywood wives or teenage billionaires.” She set her phone down on the front counter and ran her fingers over a basket of polished gemstones sitting by the register.
He picked up a smooth green gem. They were worry stones with sayings on them—luck, happiness, joy. As soon as his hand went in the basket, hers darted away.
“Erin, people don’t watch those shows to see Hollywood wives being happy and pampered, though, do they? They want to see catfights and back-talking kids. They want to see the reality behind the glamour.” His hand stalled on a stone that read “Wisdom” and fought the urge to pocket it.
He had the feeling spending more time with Erin would not be wise for him.
“There will be no catfights in my episode,” she announced, walking away from him toward the construction area. “I’m putting that in my contract.”
“I don’t imagine anyone would mess with you after they’ve seen you with a nail gun anyhow.” He followed her to the plastic sheeting. “But I’ll make a note of it just to be safe. Although you never know what might happen if two people are drop-dead set on getting the same item. Think about those wedding dress reality shows.”
“Will you be staying in town until the shooting begins for the Franklin store?” She pulled aside the curtain to show him the other half of Last Chance Vintage.
“It depends how fast I can bring on a third business to feature.” He whistled at the space she’d unveiled. “Wow.”
The adjoining room looked like a turn-of-the-century general store, the walls lined with open shelving, drawers and bins. A waist-high counter stood a few feet in front of the wall shelves, the dark wood polished to a high sheen. A rolling ladder leaned against one set of shelves. An antique sewing machine sat on a black tea cart and an ancient cash register was parked on one of the counters. A few cast-iron lanterns hung from rafters.
“Pretty cool, right?” Erin was the most relaxed he’d seen her all day. “This was the candy store when I was growing up. Well, I guess