by Lila Monroe
“Hungry?” Callie laughs. I’m about ready to grab the skillet for myself, call it ‘my precious,’ and run screaming into the night. Nothing like a Gollum routine to get you ready for the day.
“I haven’t had a good old fashioned breakfast in a while.” Right now if I were home, I’d be enjoying an almond milk latte and a low calorie yogurt. Have I mentioned that Los Angeles has its problems?
“Sit down. Eat. Then tell me about how my brother’s going to be an instant celebrity.” She grins as we sit at the breakfast nook. She even brings out the fresh-squeezed orange juice. With pulp. I think I love this woman.
“I showed your footage to a few of my colleagues,” I say, readjusting the truth slightly. Hey, Suze counts as a colleague. “They went crazy for Flint. I mean, sexy man of the woods teaches women how to become self-reliant home renovators? It’s feminist and caters to the female gaze. The ratings could explode.”
“It’s so weird to hear my brother described as ‘sexy’ in a professional way,” Callie laughs. I almost apologize, but she seems to think it’s hilarious. “Seriously, though, I am so freaking excited. I’m a certified reality TV junkie.” Callie gets up for a second when Lily starts banging her plastic sippy cup on her chair’s tray.
“They have treatment for that sort of affliction these days,” I say, mock-serious.
“No, it’s too late. I’m gone. When I’m home with the kids, trying to pick mashed up Cheerios out of the carpet, I flip on Housewives of Cancun and just feel myself relax by the poolside, cabana boys all around me.” Callie takes a sip of juice, and closes her eyes in bliss. “And The Engagement. Just the thought of Derek McClintock getting down on one knee…” she says, sighing.
“Or both?” I add. I can’t help myself. That gets us both snort-laughing. “I’ll pass that on to marketing. I’m sure they’ll be very interested. But don’t worry, your brother isn’t going to be overtly sexualized.”
“Good, because the words ‘overtly sexualized’ and ‘your brother’ kind of put me off my bacon.” Callie takes a crispy bite. Screw it; I grab another couple of pieces for myself. I haven’t had pig this good since Tyler’s hipster faux-BBQ. Actually, I didn’t eat anything at that party. Pork chops are too mainstream, apparently.
“Speaking of, where’s Flint? I thought he’d be around?” I not so discreetly go in for another helping of home fries. Can Callie just move to LA and feed me?
“Out back in his workshop. He’s probably seeing if he can create a carburetor out of maple and pine.” Callie takes a deadpan forkful of eggs. “It hasn’t been going well.”
“Well, combustible engine and wood combos have a way of curtailing a person’s ambitions,” I say. That makes Callie laugh again. We clink juice glasses.
“I thought reality TV people would be all willowy and tanned and platinum blond, you know?” she says.
“We short, milky brunettes thank you for your surprise,” I say. She waves her hand.
“I mean that as a compliment! I was afraid I was gonna have to run out to the store to pick up some Tofurkey and kale.”
Wiping my hands on a napkin, I look around. “Real talk here. I’m kind of surprised at all the exposed beam, huge window, Restoration Hardware chic of this place. I didn’t think Flint hankered to be ‘modern man of the woods.’”
“It wasn’t really his idea,” Callie says. For the first time, her smile falters. “The potential owner, er, dropped out. Didn’t want to buy. So he sort of inherited the place.”
“Who’d he make it for?” I ask. Then I see, from Callie’s quickly downcast eyes, that maybe I shouldn’t have asked that question. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
At that moment, the screen door slides open, and a wolf erupts into the room. It bounds across the kitchen, its huge paws scraping and slipping across the waxed floor.
“Bubby!” Lily screams gleefully, clapping. The monster lopes over and puts his paws on the chair to lick her face, then Callum’s. The children pull his ears and squeal with glee. Okay, now that my heart’s out of my throat, I can see it’s not actually a wolf. Just a dog the size of a Shetland pony. Kind of cute, actually.
Until he comes over for some Laurel love. I stand up, and get knocked over by the beast. He starts licking my face like crazy. My world becomes drool.
“Chance! No!” That’s Flint, and he pulls the huge, snuggly pooch off. Chance sits by his master’s leg, gazing up adoringly with his tongue hanging out. And when I get a look at Flint, I almost start panting, too.
Flint has a shirt. In his hand. As in, it’s not on his body, which is laid bare and spectacular for all the world—meaning me—to see. His broad shoulders are perfectly sculpted, and his muscled chest has a light sheen of sweat. The abs are rock solid, and a fine trail of hair leads down to…a hidden area. I might need to relearn how to breathe. CPR, the kiss of life, maybe Flint could volunteer…
His sister is here, and there are children, dogs, and bacon present as well. What’s wrong with you, Laurel? Remember the ‘code red, no lust’ rule? Remember that thing you’re not supposed to remember, and what an unprofessional idea it was? Focus!
“Sorry about that. He’s a monster.” Flint gives me a hand and helps me up. Callie groans.
“Damn, Flint. Could you try saddling that boy and riding him around? Easier to control that way.” But Callie accepts some enthusiastic Chance kisses. He puts his paw lovingly on her knee. “And for the love of God, dress yourself, will you?”
“I got a stain down the front. I need to throw this in the wash and change before we shoot this thing. Or is the sight of me scrubbing down a shirt not manly enough for your viewers?” he says to me, heading out of the kitchen.
“No, it’s perfect. I can see it now. ‘Next week, Flint McKay shows you how to get dirty…and clean up.’” I wave my hand in the air, envisioning it. “What do you think?” I say to Callie. But she’s too busy snorting with her head on the table. That kicks me off, and pretty soon we’re laughing so hard neither of us can breathe.
“Oh Christ. You two’ve been bonding, haven’t you?” Flint says, coming back in as he yanks on a clean white tee shirt. He looks sweaty, sarcastic, and irritated: absolutely perfect.
“I’ve got another McKay in my corner,” I say, crossing my arms and beaming. “Get used to it. It’s time to make some rustic magic.”
6
Flint and I hike out the kitchen door, through the yard, and into the woods. The air is chilly enough that I’m glad I brought Flint’s jacket (which I returned) and my fleece-lined one as well. Never got a chance to use it in LA. “I have to tell you, I expect the Blair Witch to come storming out at any second,” I say, looking around the woods. “I’ve even got the camcorder.” I turn it on and peek through, getting a stunning image of Flint’s very enjoyable backside walking away from me.
“That was down in Maryland. Massachusetts witches don’t play with their food,” he replies. It takes a second for me to realize he’s making a joke. Everything he says comes out in Sexy Broody Bastard Voice.
He takes me to a shack hidden in the woods, tucked between two oaks. Okay, I’m not completely convinced this isn’t the start of a slasher movie. But when he lets me inside, I’m agog.
The workroom is clean and organized. Sunlight comes in through the windows, glinting off the saws and tools Flint has spaced out on his workbenches. Everything has been shined to perfection. The air smells sawdusty, but also strangely sweet. It’s the aroma of cut wood and competence.
“How do we do this?” Flint asks, sitting at a stool behind one of the tables. He crosses his arms, and they bulge nicely with muscle. I train the camera on him and focus.
“Start by introducing me to your favorite pieces. I want to hear how you connect to your work.” Honestly, I’m not a hundred percent sure what the specifics of the pitch are yet, but if I can get more good material like the audition tape, figuring it out will be cake. I lean back against a table. Flint keeps his arms crossed, his jaw tight
. “Remember, if we don’t like the footage, we do another take.”
“I’m not relaxing enough, am I?” he asks, standing up and stepping out in front of the worktable. “I can try to be more approachable.” He keeps staring, and a muscle in his cheek jumps. “There. Almost a smile.”
I roll my eyes. “Come on. Find the greatness within.”
“Okay. Say hello to my little friend,” he says, reaching for a chair and sliding it over. All right, a Scarface reference. Good place to start. “This is a 1920s art deco original that I’ve been refinishing and bringing back into perfect shape.” Flint glances up at the camera, looking like it’s going to pull a gun on him at any second, and he’s going to kick its ass when it does. His brow furrows as he traces a finger along the back of the chair. “You see the clean lines. That shows it’s. You know. Clean.” He sounds like a fifth grader being put into a suit for his sister’s bat mitzvah. Flint sighs. “This isn’t working, is it?” he says. He continues to glare at the camera.
“When you put on your Murder Face, no. It’s got problems.” I stop recording. “I want to see more of that relaxed, sarcastic fun you were having in your audition.” Keeping up a smile and a calming tone is kind of hard right now; we’ve got three days, and I can feel every second of them ticking away. Not to mention, there may or may not be some sexual tension between us that’s getting in the way of this footage. I’m trying not to notice if said tension is here in the room or not, and trying even harder not to care whether it is or isn’t. Do I want it to be? Would that make all this better or worse? Damn.
“That’s the thing. I didn’t know it was an audition,” he says. He grips the back of his remodeled chair, almost like it’s a shield. “Callie brought over her camera. I thought we were just goofing around. But now, this is all so…” he shrugs.
“Then let’s goof,” I say, deadly serious. The corner of Flint’s mouth jerks up. There, a real smile. Finally. “Don’t talk to me about the workspace. Tell me about anything that interests you. Anything that you love, or anyone. Loosen up.”
Flint considers this. His eyes seem to darken for a second, and I wonder if I made a terrible choice telling him to loosen up. I really don’t need to antagonize the mega-hot star of my not-show right now. Especially when we have zero usable footage.
Finally, he says, “Okay. My uncle, Cortland. He’s the one who started McKay’s Hardware and Lumber.” For the first time, the studly-surly air completely lifts from him. He leans against the table, kicks one foot up onto the back of the art deco chair. He just looks comfortable. It’s wonderful, so wonderful I’m not even going to laugh over someone naming their unfortunate son Cortland.
“Is he the reason for your interest in…the hardware side of life?” I ask. Man, I need to get better with my rustic vocabulary, stat. Flint eyes me for a second, but I put the camera on the table. It’s off. No spying on my part. He nods.
“He got me started working at the local branch when I was twelve years old. At first it was small stuff like sweeping the floor, learning to work the register. Then he saw I had an interest, so he trained me up. Circular saws, power drills, hammer and nails, everything. He was a carpenter originally, and a genius at it.” His eyes really light up. He even chuckles to himself. Chuckles! That’s not something I ever thought I’d see from him on tape. “Biggest project he had me help with was restoring an old house in town. I mean heavy duty, stripping it to the foundation and building it back up. He wasn’t trying to make any money off it. The lady who lived there, Mrs. McCallister, was about eighty-nine. She lived alone, couldn’t keep on top of the repairs, so we did the whole thing for her at no cost. Even found a way to put in one of those home wheelchair lifts, did the electrical work and everything.” He nods, lost in the memory. “She was so happy she cried.” The sincerity is there. Wow. I actually feel tears coming to my own eyes.
“So Cortland gave you a thorough education,” I say. Slowly, I turn the camcorder back on and film. Flint notices, but nods. He’s okay with it.
“It surprised the hell out of him when I ended up going to Dartmouth.” Flint shakes his head, laughing. The sound is deep and musical, and I feel the song of it reverberating in my panties. Focus, Laurel! “Sometimes even I can’t believe it. Looking back, I can’t explain what I was thinking. Maybe it was the rebellious phase every nineteen-year-old goes through. I went the finance route for a while.”
“Seriously?” I know I’m not supposed to sound like I think the star of the show is bullshitting me, but I can’t quite believe it. “No offense, but you look like the kind of guy who’d whittle his own diploma from the University of Badass.”
“Hold on.” He goes into the back of the storeroom and comes out with a dusty frame. He actually has to wipe the glass down before turning it toward me. “Here. Summa cum laude. MBA from Columbia University.”
Columbia? New York City? “You probably fit in about as well as a round peg in a square hole. No, wait. Boulder. A huge, manly boulder in a small, urban square hole.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment. And yeah, I started working for Goldman Sachs right after graduation. But my heart wasn’t in it.” His gaze darkens again. “I didn’t want to spend my life moving other people’s money around, doing dirty deals, hurting people, and pretending like I was some kind of god. Besides, I figured out I wasn’t the type of guy to leave the woods. Being away, it was like tearing my heart out. So I quit, came back, and took up co-running the family business.” He closes his eyes a minute. “Then Uncle Cort died, and the whole thing fell to me. That was right around the time the financial problems started.” He shrugs. “If it’s not one thing, it’s another.” I can hear how much it weighs on him, but he just shrugs it off. It’s kind of incredible.
“You’ve been handling the problems,” I say. Part of me really just wants to make him smile again. The sight of it was intoxicating.
“Maybe, but we’ve been treading water ever since.” He looks up at me, the liquid brown of his gaze smoldering. “You honestly think this show can turn that around?”
“Yes,” I say, instantly. Both because I want it to be true, and because it’s what he wants to hear right now. “So. Are you ready to start over?” I look through the lens again, focusing on the chair.
“I’m kind of uncomfortable when it’s just me alone,” he says. Then he stands up and pats the table. “Teaching people, though, that’s more my speed. Come on.”
Whoa, hold on. Him teaching means me being taught, and I start to sweat at the thought of it. Maybe because being on camera gives me hives—there’s a reason I’m a producer, after all. Or maybe because, despite my resolution to do absolutely nothing in the ‘flirting with Flint’ department, the idea of falling on my face or accidentally hammering my thumb in front of him is ultra humiliating. I don’t want him to see that side of me. It’s a pride thing. Clearing my throat, I try to laugh it off.
“I have two left feet when it comes to making things. Two left thumbs? I mean it, I’m terrible.” I flush a little.
“Please. I don’t know how I’m going to do this otherwise,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets and squaring his jaw. I get the feeling that asking for help isn’t something he does very often. Shit.
Well, it’s only the sizzle reel. And we can edit me out later, anyway.
“All right,” I say as I tentatively put the camcorder in the right spot for filming and walk around to stand beside him.
“Everybody can do a little basic work,” he says, that perfect smile reappearing. Talking about his uncle, the family business, it’s definitely relaxed him. He even gives me a wink. Already, I can hear the gasp of women all across the country.
“Not me. My parents used to call people to come in and do everything for us. I got to sit in my room, with my immaculately made bed and my immaculately dressed dolls, and try not to muss up the carpet fibers,” I tell him. He frowns.
“Damn, that sounds terrible. You never did projects with your dad? Make a bir
dhouse, anything?” He sounds like he pities me. My face is on fire.
“We had some of those expensive crystal sugar feeders for hummingbirds,” I say weakly. Flint is not impressed; but it’s not like I crave his approval, for God’s sake. I don’t! Mostly. He grunts.
“That’s it. We’re going to make you a damn fine birdhouse. Follow my lead.” He takes out some plywood, and goes to his workstation to pull out a saw. Just like that, out of nowhere. “All right, now I’m going to get behind you.”
Mmmm. So many, many dirty things that could be said. So very little time to say them. Instead, I force myself to stay professional and allow Flint to hand me the saw. He stands behind me, putting his hand on top of mine to adjust the grip.
“The trick is to jigger it a little bit first, create a groove for the blade,” he says. He demonstrates, making fast little cuts with the saw. The wood starts to yield to him. “There. Hard part’s done. Now you need to give it a few long, easy cuts. Back and forth, back and forth.” His hand’s on the small of my back, his other hand on my arm as he guides the motion. I’m undone. Him being this near, with this much body heat and flannel, is completely overwhelming. I feel my cheeks burning, and an answering fire kindling down below.
“Is this good?” I ask breathlessly, my voice a little too throaty, awkwardly pulling my arm back.
“Well, close. It’s sort of—careful!” he says, as I somehow manage to bring my arm way too far back and send the saw flying. It warps and whines through the air, and Flint dodges out of the way as it crashes to the ground, upsetting a pillowy mound of sawdust. Crap. Instinctively, my gaze snaps to the camcorder. Hopefully I can edit this section out, but honestly, it might make a funny bit for the sizzle reel. Which means Davis is going to see me making an ass of myself. Ah, show business.
