Page 58 of The Homewreckers
“I can’t wait!” the woman said. She produced a menu and a pen. “Would it be rude of me to ask for an autograph?”
“I’d consider it rude if you didn’t ask,” he said, scrawling his name across the menu. “Now, how about a photo?”
“Oh my God!” she trilled, and nodded at Hattie. “Would you?”
“Of course,” Hattie said, but when she stood up, instead of inviting her to pose, the fan handed her the phone.
Trae got up from the table and draped his arm across the woman’s shoulders. “Say ‘Homewreckers’!” he prompted, beaming down at the stranger.
Hattie clicked off three or four frames and handed the phone back.
“That was awkward,” Trae said, when the woman returned to her friends. “Sorry. Sometimes these hard-core fans can be pretty insensitive.”
He picked up the menu. “What’s good here?”
“Locally caught seafood,” Hattie said. She looked over her shoulder at the table of women, who were chattering and pointing toward them. “Does that happen to you often?”
He grimaced. “Now and again. ThatDesign Mindsshow was shotthree years ago, but it lives on in the world of reruns. Which means that I get to keep reliving the fact that Jovannah, a dog-groomer-slash-designer from Terra Haute, beat me out of the fifty-thousand-dollar grand prize.”
“Ouch,” Hattie said.
“It’s okay. They gave her a show and only aired six episodes before the network pulled the plug. That’s showbiz, right?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Hattie said. She leaned forward with her elbows on the table. “What do you think the chances are that our show will do okay?”
“I think we’ve got a winning combination,” Trae said. “Mo and Leetha are good at what they do. The house is gonna be fabulous when we get done with it.” He winked. “And you can’t deny our chemistry.”
Hattie blushed and sipped her wine.
“Listen. Rebecca Sanzone wants our show to work. There’s a reason they gave us that Wednesday night slot, and I’m not just talking about Krystee Brandstetter’s twins. Not to sound like an immodest jerk, but I’ve got six hundred thousand fans on social media, like that lady and her friends at that table over there. So just between us—we’re a lock.”
“Really?” She swept a strand of hair behind her ear as she considered the ramifications of having a hit television show.
Trae reached over and touched her hand. “Cheer up. Maybe we’ll tank. Or the house will burn down. Or we’ll find that schoolteacher’s mummified body in the attic.”
She yanked her hand away. “Not funny.”
“Sorry.” He shook his head. “You’re right. Bad joke. Bad taste. Blame it on the jitters.”
Their server appeared. “Why don’t you order for us?” Trae suggested. “Seafood sounds good.”
Hattie ordered the crab cake appetizer and crispy fried flounder for both of them. And another glass of wine.
“Jitters?” she said, when the waiter was gone.
“Yeah. You know, boy-girl jitters.”
“Oh, please. Save that kind of flattery for your fans,” she said.
“I’m being completely honest with you,” he insisted. “Trying to win you over isn’t an easy task.”
“Why do you feel the need to win me over? We got through a whole segment today without me wanting to brain you with the sledgehammer. I call that progress.”
He laughed. “Is it that you don’t like me, or don’t trust me, or both?”
She felt the heat rising in her cheeks. “I like you just fine.”
“‘Fine’ is not a ringing endorsement.”
