Dream Home – A Small Town, Reality TV Romance
Scottie Monroe knows her projects are perfect…if only she believed in herself the same way.
On camera, she’s the confident DIY influencer who can transform forgotten spaces into something beautiful. Off camera, she’s still trying to prove to her mother that what she does is more than a hobby.
When Scottie lands a reality TV renovation deal centered around her late grandmother’s abandoned house in Bluestone Lakes, it feels like the opportunity of a lifetime. A real show. A real renovation. A real chance to prove she’s enough.
There’s just one problem.
The head contractor for the show is Tucker Daniels—the reckless one-night stand she had the night before her big audition. The same man who slipped out before she woke up.
Tucker hides behind easy smiles and sarcastic one-liners, but beneath the humor is a man who doesn’t let anyone close, especially not someone who sees straight through the cracks he works so hard to hide.
When the producers decide the show needs a little extra chemistry, Scottie and Tucker are forced to fake date for the cameras. But as demolition begins, the line between staged romance and something real starts to blur. The more they tear into the house, the more they find long-buried secrets and emotions neither of them are ready to face.
But when sparks fly, nothing stays the same.
And sometimes the past has to burn to ashes before you can finally build your Dream Home.
excerpt:
Reaching down, I grab hold of one of the doors, ignoring the tremor in my hands. I can’t keep letting him throw me off balance like this because everything needs to go perfectly—the show, the house…me.
If everything comes together perfectly, I’m safe.
If I succeed in this project, people will trust me and see me as a professional.
If I do this right, my parents will—
The cabinet door slips from my grip, and the pointed corner slams down right on top of my foot. “Shit,” I hiss, hopping back.
Tucker is behind me instantly. “Are you okay? Let me see.”
“No, it’s fine,” I protest, sitting down on the ground and waving him off even though the tears sting the edges of my eyes.
Not from pain, but from humiliation.
“Scottie,” he says, his voice so low that even the cameras won’t be able to pick it up. He places his palm on my thigh, and my body burns, in a good way, from the contact. “I’m here. Let me help.”
The softness—God, the softness in his voice disarms me more than the pain.
When I no longer protest, he crouches low, lifting my foot gently into his hand and removing my sneaker with his other hand. His thumb sweeps over the top of my foot. The contact sends a sharp pulse through me that has nothing to do with pain. My breath catches and I clamp my jaw shut, because if I don’t and allow myself to react, I’m not sure I’ll ask him to stop.
My eyes track the way his fingers assess the red mark, then up to his face, where I see worry etched in every feature.
“I don’t think it’s broken, but you’re going to get a pretty nasty bruise.”
“Great,” I mutter. “Maybe the bruise will distract me from my embarrassment.”
He laughs under his breath. A warm, rumbling sound that pulls something buried deep inside of me. He reaches a hand down, and I look from his face to his hand, and then back to him before I accept his help to get off the floor. He lifts me effortlessly, using one hand on my upper arm to brace me.
We stand inches apart. His gaze drops to my mouth, and I feel it like a pull. I tilt my chin up without thinking, drawn forward by something stronger than reason. He inhales sharply and stills, like he’s hit an invisible wall that I’m glad is there. Instead, with his free hand, he reaches up, brushing his fingers through my hair to get it out of my face before his fingers trail down my neck over the pounding pulse.
“You have to stop looking at me like that,” I whisper, letting my eyes flutter closed.
He leans in, lips hovering over the shell of my ear as his voice drops low. “Like what?”
I swallow, before I pull back as our gazes lock again. “Like I’m yours.”
The corner of his mouth ticks up, and that look—fuck, that look. It sends my pulse into overdrive. I want to take back the words, and I feel myself bracing for whatever his next words will be.
“That’s because you are, Scottie.” He winks, bringing his hand under my chin to force me to level with him. He swipes his thumb across my lower lip, and I swear my insides combust on the spot. “You just haven’t caught up yet.”
I swallow hard, stepping back to put some space between us. I cannot let him know the effect his words have on me. I cover my hand over the mic clipped to my shirt. “Jesus, Tucker. Yes, we’re faking this thing between us. But…” I whisper. “Tone it down, Romeo.”
“I’ll try, but I don’t think my charm comes with volume control.”
A throat clears behind me. I turn around to see Andrea behind the camera, pointing at her clipboard. “Back to the cabinets,” she whisper-shouts.
When I turn back to face Tucker, neither of us move. Because Tucker still has his eyes on me. He looks at me like he’s trying not to do something incredibly stupid.
And I’m looking at him like I might let him.
