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Annabelle drew in a sharp breath. "Oh. Him." Her expression soured.
"Do you know Mr. Whitewood?" I suddenly realized I might be able to enlist some help if I could find someone in town who Callan Whitewood might listen to.
"No," the older woman shook her head. "I just can't believe this town let someone like that buy our grandest home. That place holds half the history of Singletree. The town was practically born there. The man who built Singletree Manor—Mr. Joseph Calvin—planted the tree in the town square that gave our town its name."
I called up a quick mental image of the town square I’d driven past yesterday, and remembered the large tree around which the rest of the square seemed to be arranged. Then my mind fastened to the other thing Annabelle had just said. "What do you mean, 'someone like that'?"
Annabelle leaned over the counter, her voice dropping to a whisper. "A playboy. A sports star." She scowled, looking like someone had just eaten one of the cookies she'd set out for Santa.
I felt my eyebrows climb. Callan Whitewood was a sports star? He'd practically tripped going down the stairs, and though I’d never point it out, the man had a very pronounced limp and a terrible attitude. What sport could he have played? Maybe he played horseshoes or some other sport most people didn't follow. Like shuffleboard. Or sheep rolling. I’d heard that was a thing in the tiny island country of Durnland. “Is that right?"
"Word is he's retired now, but he made plenty of noise and trouble when he was a big important soccer star."
Soccer. I thought back to the solid presence of the man I’d met—he wasn't especially tall, but he did look strong. I had tried to focus on the work of convincing him to let me use his house for the show, but that hadn't stopped me from noticing the soft dark hair tousled on his head or the soulful chocolate brown eyes. Now that I thought about it, I felt like maybe I had seen him before. My mind ticked and whirred, and suddenly I could picture a billboard standing over the 405 Freeway, one I passed most days on my way to work. When I brought it up in my mind, I realized it was Callan Whitewood's moody gaze and bare muscled chest under which I had driven every single day. It had been a year or two ago, and another player had replaced him there recently, but I remembered those eyes. "Huh," I said, understanding clicking into place as I recalled him saying something about knowing who he was. "Kind of full of himself, maybe."
"Most likely," Annabelle agreed with the sentiment I hadn't meant to speak out loud. "Those types always are. His brother is nice enough, though."
"You know his brother?" I found it hard to fathom there could be another man from the same gene pool that had produced someone as handsome as Callan Whitewood.
"He lives here too. He's a quiet type though, family man. He's the reason that playboy came to town, though, so my opinion of Mr. Cormac Whitewood has dropped a bit."
I nodded. Maybe I’d just been given a new way to approach this problem. "Thanks, Annabelle." I turned and headed for the stairs, purposely forgetting the gingerbread monstrosity.
"Don't worry about the gingerbread house," Annabelle called after her. "Andrew can bring it up to your room for you,"
"Great," I called over my shoulder, hoping Annabelle didn't hear the flat note of sarcasm in my voice. I climbed the stairs and entered my room, preparing for a quick round of Google stalking on the Whitewood brothers.
* * *
I was just settling in with my laptop on the table before me and a hot cup of hotel-room coffee in my hand when my phone rang. I checked the screen and my stomach dropped upon seeing Uncle Rob’s name on the screen. I set down my coffee, took a deep breath, and pressed the speakerphone button. "Uncle Rob!"
"Hey April, just checking in. How's Appletree?"
"It's Singletree, actually, and things are going well." My voice held a bright note that sounded false and foreign to my own ears. I hoped Uncle Rob wouldn't notice.
"Right. Singletree." I heard the clack of a keyboard and realized Rob was distracted. Which was normal. "So you've got all the homes on board? The production team arrives in a couple more days to get started staging and filming."
"I'm working my way down Juliann's list," I said, planning to check in with the last two homeowners in the next day or two and make sure they were on board.
"And we're all set with the feature spot? That big plantation Jules was so excited about?"
I leaned back in my chair, pulling my long hair into one hand and dropping it over my shoulder. "That house has recently been sold," I said. "I visited with the new owner, but he'd barely moved in. He didn't think he'd signed the contract, and I'm not sure he's very interested in—"
"I'll stop you there. We're not inviting the guy to prom, April. He doesn't have to be interested. Someone signed the contract and we're paying this guy—handsomely, by the way—for the use of his house for a couple hours. Get him in line. Without the plantation, there's a lawsuit ahead of us and no show in Silvertree."
"Singletree."
"No show. That house is the anchor. There’s a whole hour ofHouse or Spousereruns queued up in case this goes off the rails." His voice was dark, and I felt the threat percolate in my stomach. No show meant no job. No job meant I would likely be done working in television. For good.
"I'll get him," I promised, Callan Whitewood's dark eyes flashing through my mind. I would get him. I had to. I just had no idea how.
4
Hanging with Elves
Callan
When the front gate buzzed, I cursed my ankle and the size of this house. It took me a full five minutes to get from the master bedroom upstairs down to the front door to answer the buzzer and open the gate. Luckily, I figured, I probably wouldn't have many visitors since I didn't know anyone in town. I could share the gate code with Cormac. If I could remember it. Seven-six something? I wasn't sure, but since I hadn't left the house since getting to town, it hadn't mattered.
