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Ember had devoted her life to building love for others. She never counted on Booker knocking her over.
Constructing Love is the first reality show to combine home improvement with romance. Ember Woodhouse can’t wait to cast her matchmaking magic while charming America as she designs the interior of an abandoned autumn resort. Harriet Smith is an adorable country bumpkin in desperate need of Ember’s help to win the entire show. Everything goes perfectly to plan…until Ember finds herself partnered with the infuriating deadweight that is Mr. Knightley.
Booker Knightley is exhausted with the show, with the producers, with life and particularly with his partner. He thought his construction background would make winning this easy. No one told him he was also expected to woo a woman who drives him mad. Miss Woodhouse is flighty and stubborn, ignoring reality in favor of her delusions of romance. He couldn’t care less about love, much less the impossibility of finding it while cameras document his every breath. Booker has his own reasons for being on this show, reasons that are in jeopardy thanks to Miss Woodhouse and the scheming producers.
As the autumn leaves fall and the days grow shorter, Booker and Ember have a choice to make. If Booker doesn’t learn to work with her, he’ll lose his last opportunity to bring justice to his family. If Ember can’t figure out how to agree with him, her fledgling design business will crash before it takes wing. One thing is certain—Miss Woodhouse will never, ever care for Mr. Knightley.
Reader advisory: This book contains mention of injury, a car accident, and implied sexual assault.
General Release Date: 10th October 2023
“I’m Ember Woodhouse, and I’ve been blessed with beauty, intelligence and a blissful life.” Ember jumped in her chair, her arm extended so the gold and diamond bangles nearly snagged the mike. Steadying her chair, she looked to the shadow behind the massive lights. “How was that?”
“Good. Do you want to mention your father?”
“Oh, how could I forget?” Ember flicked her freshly tipped nails against her forehead, doing her best to not smear her makeup. “The Woodhouse name isn’t traffic stopping. I mean, we don’t have a yacht and there’s only the one summer home. We’re not rich, merely well off.”
“Uh-huh.” The producer—who’d taken Ember under her wing—rolled her hand for more.
Narrowing her eyes, Ember could just make out the producer with a hand pressed to the side of her headphones while staring at a tablet. “Why don’t you tell us why you tried out for this show?”
Again?
The second she felt her smile dipping, she cranked it to eleven‚ then lowered it to an eight. The last thing she wanted was to come across as insincere. “Well, I’m pleased as punch to be on Constructing Love, the only DIY and romance show.”
“Yeah, that’s… That’s fine.” Producer Sam scooted forward in her chair, knocking into the three-hundred-watt light that’d been beaming directly into Ember’s eyes for the last twenty minutes. “But why pick this show? Is it because your family made their money in lumber? And please answer by including the question.”
Smiling to show off her new veneers, Ember straightened her back. “While my daddy’s lumber has gone into some of the most famous buildings around the world, that isn’t why I signed up.”
She’d thought her family connections would be a detriment. Actual construction workers were cut within the first three episodes over seventy-eight percent of the time. The last thing Ember wanted was to come off as a ringer—they got the villain cut every time.
Sloping her shoulder down, she let her gaze wander past the hanging screens keeping her penned in. Behind the camera, a tree branch shook. The red and yellow leaves danced, threatening to tumble right in front of the shot.
“I’m here for love,” Ember said in a soft voice.
The producer sighed and jabbed a stylus at her tablet. “Isn’t everyone?”
“Not for me,” Ember interrupted, causing the woman to look up in surprise.
“Why not?”
Sweat beaded on Ember’s brow and she nipped her lip. “Under the tutelage of Miss Shandy—a respected life coach—I am on a sabbatical from sex.”
The cameraman behind the black lens snickered. “What the shit’s that mean?”
Smiling without a care, Ember declared, “Instead of falling in love, I intend to be this season’s matchmaker.”
Sam leaned back. “That’s a lofty claim. We’ve only had one successful matchmaker reach the final two.”
“I can do it. I recently returned from the beautiful wedding of my sorority sister Anne whom I set up with her future beau. Their love was destined in the stars, but they would have never met were it not for me.”
Producer Sam twitched her lip as if she were about to laugh, but Ember was dead serious. “Excellent. Well, why don’t you close this interview out by saying, oh, I don’t know? ‘I’ll craft buildings and make matches on Constructing Love’.”
Were they going to give her the first bumper? Ember raised her shoulders and steadied her back. Lifting her chin, she opened her mouth while still smiling. “I’ll cra—”
A massive beam swung from behind, knocking out the PVC pipe holding up the background screen. The entire structure collapsed, revealing the parking lot of an abandoned Home Depot behind them. Ember’s heart leaped into her throat. She jerked in the chair, narrowly avoiding the metal beam smacking her in the forehead.
“Damn it!” Producer Sam berated the two guys who were staring at the destruction as if it was someone else’s problem. “Will you watch where the fuck you’re going? We don’t have time to reset all of this. If we don’t get them into the woods tonight, she’ll have my head. You hear me?”
Two burly men in sagging construction belts bent over and delicately picked up the fallen purple silk. “Sorry,” the largest muttered while slipping it into place.
“Okay.” The producer ran her hands back through her hair, tugging down the ponytail as she slammed her butt into her chair. “Do the line again.”
* * * *
“What’s the point?”
The producer below the ball cap splashed with the logo for Constructing Love flashed his teeth. No doubt he thought it a soothing smile, but the fact that only his top lip moved gave him away. He glanced behind to another gaggle of harried but silent watchers, then focused on the man in the hot seat.
“Mr. Knightley… Can I call you Booker?”
He answered by shrugging, his long legs bent wide to fit in the short chair.
“We need you to introduce yourself to the cameras, so America can get to know and love you.”
Booker dropped his hard arm cross and glared directly into the dark, uncaring eye of the camera. “I suspect much of America formed an opinion of me the moment I sat down.” He stopped and looked behind himself to the paler screen glowing like a nuclear explosion from the massive lights. “Assuming they can even see me.”
“Of course they can,” his producer said before leaning back in the chair. No doubt he wasn’t supposed to overhear him whisper, “Gary, check the exposure. What? Well, get a few lights over there. Sorry about that. We’ve had a few setbacks as of late.”
The scattered gaffers hustled over a huge light, its legs snagging on a cord. They kept pulling, dragging the set of monitors and the producer watching it with. His producer, a far too friendly man named Ash, reached over as if to pat Booker on the knee.
Booker shifted his legs before he could touch him. “When will we be arriving at the construction site?” he asked.
“Excited to get to work?” Ash didn’t answer Booker’s question. “Ah, says here you’ve done some work. Anything official?”
Booker glanced to the tablet crammed full of white lies just sparkling enough to be true. “No,” he said and the producer kept staring as if he needed more. “I helped my grandmother build a shed once.”
“That’s so kind of you. Why don’t you tell me about her?”
“She’s dead.” Mr. Knightley’s tone dropped to the parking lot cement.
“Oh, well, that… We don’t have that down here. Why don’t we have that here?” Ash leaned back, furiously whispering with what looked like a fifteen-year-old girl holding ten clipboards. She squirmed at the attention and kept offering up excuses Ash wouldn’t take. He looked about to fire her on the spot.
“It happened recently,” Mr. Knightly interrupted, drawing the producer’s attention and forced smile. “And I’d prefer to not discuss it.”
“Of course, of course. We’ll be nothing but respectful of your wishes.”
Indeed.
Ash fiddled with his tablet for so long Booker began to wonder if this waste of time was over. He slid forward in the chair and reached for the mike they’d wired up under his Henley.
“You’re the oldest person we’ve had on the show.”
Booker froze, his fingers wound in the cord, and he stared at the producer, who then tapped a cardboard circle above the camera. Sighing, Booker looked to that instead. “I find that surprising.”
“The closest was Mac from season five at thirty-two. You’ve got him beat by four years. Are you at all concerned how that will affect your showing in the competition?”
“Most people can swing a hammer well into their forties. I’ll be fine.”
“Ah, but what about—?”
“Wrap this up!” a voice shouted from beyond the camera lights. Booker raised a hand over his eyes to try to see, when the assistant tapped him on the shoulder and told him to keep his face visible.
His producer complained to what was probably the lead on this farce, “But I haven’t gotten anything usable.”
A woman with the LA-standard pinched face that looked both thirty and fifty at the same time clamped a hand onto Ash’s shoulder and glared over at Booker. “We don’t have time, the sun’s dropping. We’ve got to get to the next location.”
“He hasn’t even introduced himself,” Ash sounded panicky, as if the lack of a cheesy line from Booker would spell the end of his career.
The woman glanced once more at Mr. Knightley sitting primly in his seat and turned away. “He’s a premiere. Don’t worry about it. Mr.…Kingly?” She finally looked at Booker like he was a person and not a piece of the set.
“Knightley.”
“Sure. Could you please get in the limo? We have a schedule to keep. And you, get your ass to the site. Sam’s riding with the contestants, and I need a producer before arrival.”
Nodding madly, Ash sprinted to his feet, only for his head to jerk back. The headphones pinned to his ears were still plugged in. The woman in charge watched with minor interest as Ash swung backward and crashed into his foldable chair. “Mr. Knightley?” she said, pointing behind him.
Booker got to his feet and tugged on the mike, ready to be rid of the tether. The assistant once again caught his hands and pleaded in a whisper for him to keep it on. If not, then he’d be going home early.
Sighing, he let go, leaving the cursed thing on. Not that it was going to get much from him. In the distance of the parking lot idled a white stretch limo that glinted in the fading sunlight from a recent wash. He didn’t care about the glitz or the fame. Nothing mattered to Booker except the work. Stick it out until he could get to the site, put up with this stupid competition and all of this trouble would be over at last.
Play the damn game.
His brother’s parting words rang in his head. Casting a glance over his shoulder, Booker glared at the camera and said, “I’m Booker Knightley, and I’m here to win. There? Happy?”
“Uh, we weren’t rolling, so… Do you want to do it again?” the assistant asked.
“No.”
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