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“Ouch!” She rubs her arm and stares out the window at the crew. “But thanks. It’s nice to know someone else believed in me besides my parents.”
“Come on,” I scoff. “You’ve never had trouble believing in yourself.”
She gives me a look, then rolls her eyes. “That was all a façade. I’m surprised you didn’t see through it.”
“Stop lying. You’ve known you’d be famous since you were six years old.”
I take Georgia’s silence as proof of what I already know.
Five years ago, she started her own channel all about design and renovation, from the bones of a house to the last throw pillow. Her career took off faster than a cat with a firecracker tied to its tail (which may or may not be a thing I know from personal experience). She’s huge across social media, she gets recognized on the street in cities like Los Angeles and New York, not just Paradise, and she has to be making bank.
Or if she’s not, she will be soon. With her as the star,At Home with Georgia Roseis going to be huge.
She reaches for her bag with one hand and the door handle with the other, but I wrap my hand around the one she has on her purse straps. “You sure you know what you’re getting yourself into?”
“Probably not. But contracts are signed, so I can’t get out now,” she laughs, and her eyes dart from my face to our hands.
Her face flushes with excitement, which is understandable. This show is a huge deal.
But I also know that when Georgia throws herself into something, she is all in, to the point of complete exhaustion. Especially because she thinks she can do everything herself. She hates asking for help. Lone Wolf is a more fitting nickname for her than Ham, but I didn’t think of that when I accidentally gave her the name that’s stuck to her tighter than a mouse in a sticky trap.
“You’ve got people to help you, and no amount of money is enough to work yourself to death. Just remember that.” I’ve been reading up on stories of other people who’ve had home reno shows. The consensus is, it’s a lot of work for not very much money. The real money comes from linking to other products.
Georgia slides her hand out from under mine and pushes back into the seat. “I don’t know any other way to work, Zach. But thanks for looking out for me.”
“Sponsorship. That’s where the money is.” I stop myself from mansplaining anymore. She knows this. “Clothing, shoes, makeup—that’s what we need to get for you.”
So maybe I don’t totally shut down the mansplaining.
Her eyes glide down to her chest then over to me, eyebrows raised. “I am not the right size for a clothing brand sponsorship. But the others, yes. Starting with this one...” She yanks her purse onto her lap and digs through it.
With an “ah ha!” she takes out a lipstick thing and looks in the rearview mirror to paint her lips red. Then she puckers them at me, and I swallow hard to once again push back the memory of kissing her.
“Sexy Lips pays me every time someone clicks their link on my account,” she purrs and shakes her hair over her shoulders. “Stella is already working on styling me to attract other sponsors.”
Now it’s my turn to raise an eyebrow. “Will you be in high heels?”
“Always.” She lifts her leg to show me the boots I’ve already noticed. They’re impossible to miss.
I shake my head. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”
“I walked to Britta’s in them just fine.” She shrugs. “Plus, they’re part of my brand. Girlie girls can do it all.”
I scoff. “You couldn’t walk here in them.”
“That was because of the cold, not my footwear.”
“You weren’t a high heels-wearing girlie girl when we blew up that wedding cake in the eleventh grade, or when we graffitied the old Voglmeyer barn.” I let my mouth slide into a grin, which Georgia meets with a smile that was her trademark even before she got famous for being the red-lipsticked woman with a drill in her designer purse.
The high heels she always wears are another “girlie-girl” addition to the red lipstick she’s adopted since leaving Paradise. She was a tomboy through and through growing up. Maybe that’s why I never thought of her as anything but a friend. Looking at her now, though, I realize she is objectively pretty. Maybe even gorgeous. Not in a conventional way—like Carly. Gorgeous in a unique way.
But Georgia’s always been unique.
“First of all,” Georgia’s smile grows wider. “Chemistry teachers in small towns shouldn’t teach their students formulas for explosives. Mr. Wallin is to blame for the unfortunate wedding cake explosion experiment.”
I laugh. “I still can’t believe it left a six-foot-deep hole in the Lovett’s field.”
“Secondly,” she continues. “Do you think the graffiti thing is the reason Darlene hates me? I mean, does she know I did it? And does she think you weren’t with me?”
