I snicker, undoing my seat belt and hopping out of the car. Lyle is going to rue the day he hired us. Jazz is already waiting on the porch. She’s surprisingly good at this, never accidentally staring at the camera and perfectly natural while she tours the homes. I’m super impressed with my dad’s girlfriend. He is, too, if the kisses he keeps stealing every time the cameras are off are any indication.

(Either that or he’s just digging her new pantsuit. Maybe Talbots is his kink.)

The house is a 1920s Craftsman farmhouse on a parcel of five acres. The property is beautiful. Sometimes these parcels are just square chunks of old farm fields. Still pretty, but almost zero shade and more work. Not this one. It’s got a small pond, a grove of ginormous oaks, a cozy-looking shed, and a viable barn.

“I love it,” I say with a sigh.

“Hold your horses, Springfield. What’s the inside like?” Cameron says in a teasing tone and I can already see how the viewers will eat him up. So easy and handsome and rugged with his perpetual half grin cocked and ready …

Hold your horses, Springfield.

Jazz welcomes us to a very rickety porch, and up close, it’s a lot clearer why this place is so reasonably priced. Cameron holds out a hand to help me skip the broken top step in my heels. He bounces on the decaying slats of the stoop, a beaming smile on his face. He looks like a kid.

“It’s not supposed to do that,” I remind him dryly.

“Built-in trampoline!”

I shove him out of the way with my elbow to follow Jazz inside and come to a hard stop the second I enter, my heart catching in my throat. Cam’s hands find my shoulders from behind.

“You okay?” Jazz asks, concerned.

Cameron huffs in my ear, all minty breath and unrelenting humor. “I think Shelby needs a minute.”

“It’s perfect,” I say wistfully.

Steve, the killjoy, says, “Okay, cut. I get it, Shelby, but we need something more than ‘It’s perfect.’ Something positive and something negative this time. Build a little suspense.”

My face burns. I’d forgotten I was being filmed, honestly. “Sorry,” I say. “This is just what happens whenever I step into an old house. Let me look for a minute and gather my thoughts.”

I take a turn around the main floor, feeling the usual heady sense of reverence I feel whenever I encounter a nearly untouched piece of Americana. My fingertips dance along a chair rail, my gaze moving over the wide-planked oak floors and layers of thick, printed wallpaper. The kitchen is a mess. Usually are in places like these. Kitchen remodels are expensive and modern appliances aren’t made to fit in the original layouts. My dad can fix it, though. Well, Cameron can, with my dad’s help.