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I almost choke on my sip of Pepsi. “W-What?”
He cackles with laughter, the sound pleasant enough I instantly forgive him. “You should see the look on your face. Do you have something against strippers?”
“No,” I grumble. “Ugh. Why are you so difficult?”
“It’s fun watching you squirm.”
I roll my eyes and take another refreshing sip of my drink. “If you absolutely must know, I’m a social media content creator. I have over a million followers.”
“Be for real.”
“I am being for real.” I pull out my phone and access my main account to show him. “See. Million-plus.”
He peeks over at my phone at the next stoplight. “They pay you to do what?”
“The followers don’t pay me anything,” I explain, trying not to bristle at his insinuation that it’s for something sinister. “Because of my reach and my original content, I’m approached by many brands to help me advertise for them. If the brand’s products align with my values and aesthetic, I entertain doing a collaboration with them. It has to be a good fit, though, and something I can easily incorporate into my usual content or I won’t do it. Before we met up, I signed two contracts for two grand each.”
Two gapes at me, not moving when the light turns green. Someone honks, zapping him out of his stupor. “Two thousand for what?”
“One is for a hair mask. They sent me some freebies to try. I absolutely loved how it made my hair feel. We’ve negotiated that I’ll do an ad for their product on my page and I’ll be compensated for it.”
“Two grand for a hair mask.” He shakes his head, voice filled with awe. “This is a legit thing? They’re not scamming you? Or are you scamming them?”
I snigger. “I’m not scamming anyone. And yes, it’s a legit thing. Welcome to the future, Two. So glad you could join us.”
He scratches at his cheek with his middle finger, which makes me grin. Though he’s still a complete asshole most of the time, I’m learning to navigate the treacherous depths of Two.
Our conversation is cut short when he pulls into a long driveway that takes us to an updated-looking farmhouse. I wish it were daylight so I could see it properly.
“My workshop is around back. We have to be quiet.”
We get out of his car with our food and drinks, and I follow him into the darkness on the side of the house. The moon illuminates a decent-sized shed. He has me hold his drink while he fiddles with the door.
“Ignore the mess,” Two says as he flicks on the light. “I do.”
As soon as I can see inside the shed, I’m in awe. Shelves line the walls and are covered with various tools, boards and textiles, and stacks of old magazines. There are several worktables, but one in particular seems to be the one that gets the most use as it’s the cleanest and has a model in progress sitting on top. Two leans over the table and flips on a space heater before returning to take his drink back from me.
“This is Cedarwood Mansion,” he says, motioning to the model. “I was in the middle of wallpapering when you texted.”
I set my drink and our food bags down on a clear spot on the table so I can take a closer look at the replica. The high level of detail on such a small thing instantly captivates me.
“Holy shit,” I murmur as I take it all in, “this is so cool.”
“Ideally, I’d have liked to repurpose materials found in Cedarwood for the replica, but the owners wouldn’t let me.”
“Rude,” I tease.
“That’s what I thought.” He picks up a thin piece of wood from the table. “Most of the material I use is leftover stuff from when my dads remodel places. They have a ton of stuff in their shop. Dad uses a lot for inspiration when he’s coming up with design ideas.”
The pride with which he speaks about his parents softens me toward him. I may complain about my family, but I love them dearly. They mean everything to me. It sounds as though he feels the same about his parents too. It makes me like him a little more.
“Do you think Paula will let us use stuff from Hemingford Hall for our replica?” I ask, turning to look at him.
He’s crouched near me, also taking in the sight of the model, so our faces are close—so close I notice flecks of dark green in his chilly gray eyes.
“We’re going to ask,” he says with a crooked grin. “And if that doesn’t work, we’ll beg.”
We both grin before turning to inspect the piece some more. He goes through each part, showing me tiny details like the brass doorknob on the front with the initials CM carved on top.
