“Your pregnancy hormones are making you soft,” Cat sighed. “Text me his number.”

“Okay, but—”

“I’ll handle this with tact,” Cat promised. “I’m getting all of the ‘you’re a big, stupid idiot’ insults out now. Just don’t say anything to the network yet about this city manager guy’s refusal. We’re doing a Christmas special, and it’s going to be in Merry.”

“Good luck. Please don’t make him cry.”

Cat disconnected and leaned back in her chair.

“You shouldn’t yell at pregnant ladies,” Archie commented, holding Cat’s jaw in his hand as he swooped in with fake lashes. “Do not move a muscle.”

“I wasn’t yelling at Lauren. She allows me to freely express my displeasure at things that are stupid like a city manager refusing what could be a golden ticket to saving his town’s entire tourism income for the year.”

“Uh-huh.” His fingers deftly pressed the lashes in place.

“The town is devastated. Their huge money maker is the Christmas Festival every year, and government money isn’t going to get them back on their feet by December.”

“Mmm,” Archie said, sweeping a bronzer into the hollows of her cheeks.

Cat’s phone buzzed in her lap with a text from Lauren.

Lauren: “Here’s his number. Noah Yates. Be nice!”

“Be nice,” Cat mumbled.

“Stop pouting,” Archie insisted. He swept the cape off her and angled her toward the mirror. “You’re too gorgeous to be grumpy.”

She eyed his handiwork in the mirror. She’d trudged into the studio still half-asleep with yesterday’s hairspray wreaking havoc on her hastily tied ponytail, and now she looked like a cover-worthy model. Or at least a promo-worthy TV star.

“You’re a freaking genius, Archie. You and your god-like hands and your magical potions.”

“Nothing a gay man and his abiding love of Sephora can’t fix.” Archie checked his watch. “You’ve got five before they come pounding on the door demanding your hotness in front of the camera. Go make your call and eviscerate your city manager.”

Cat blew him a kiss, careful not to smudge the violet lip gloss he’d so expertly applied to her mouth. “Will do.”

She ducked out of the room into the hallway. They were shooting promos for her solo show’s second season to run in magazines. Apparently, hosting a home renovation show when you were a woman called for her to be decked out in four-inch Jimmy Choos and a gorgeous, fitted dress the color of cranberries. She didn’t mind it. If some designer duds—that she was totally keeping after the shoot—caught the eye of an audience and made even one little girl think that maybe she could wield a sledge hammer or a circular saw, then Cat considered her work done.