by Lila Monroe
Friday afternoon was a gift from the television gods, perfect in both a sexy and a classy way. Flint, standing against the lowering sun with the sleeves of his shirt rolled up, talking about laying the foundation on the perfect house…I mean, just give me the show now. As Leo Bloom sang in the Mel Brooks musical, “I’m gonna be a producer, with a hit show on basic cable reality television during prime time.”
All right, I adjusted the lyrics a little bit, but the point is clear.
My cell rings. It’s Callie. “Your brother is brilliant, just so you know,” I tell her when I pick up.
“Please don’t tell him that. His massive swollen head is already something I have to deal with on a daily basis.” She laughs, and then swears as something breaks in the background. “Are you in the mood for a family dinner before your big flight out tomorrow?” It sounds like she’s wrangling screaming cats. The twins, most likely.
“I’m already on my way. Sounds like you need a hand.”
“A hand, sure. An all-expenses paid weekend at the spa, better.” There’s a loud clatter on the other end, and I jump. The line goes dead. It sounds like she dropped the phone. Or was kidnapped. Either one.
The house is in town, so I don’t even need to take my car. I take a nice long shower, put on a clean blouse and a pair of dark jeans that hug my ass just right, and head out on foot for the address Callie gave me.
When I get there, I walk up the path and curse as I step on a Thomas the Tank Engine and my foot shoots out from under me. Thomas rockets away across the yard. The whole area is littered with playthings, actually, GI Joes and teddy bears face down after some epic battle. Something tells me I’m at the right house.
Meanwhile, every light’s turned on inside, it sounds like the TV’s blaring, and silhouetted shadows are darting back and forth in front of the window. I ring the bell. No one comes, so I try again, until finally a man in his mid-thirties swings open the door. He’s got thinning hair, a ginger beard with a shot of gray in it, and a dish towel thrown over one shoulder. His eyes are kind but there are dark circles under them; looks like the poor guy hasn’t slept. Knowing the twins, it’s probably been a while since he’s had eight uninterrupted hours of rest.
“You must be the big shot producer.” He holds out his hand. “David Winston. Callie’s husband.”
“I guessed that,” I say, shaking and laughing. David kicks a squeaky dinosaur toy out of the way and lets me in. Lily rushes by, toddling fast after Callum, who’s chasing a very angry looking tabby cat. The house is a lot smaller than Flint’s, and the living room is kind of dingy. The carpet is fraying, the leather sofa cracked and worn. Cal corners the tabby, and triumphantly sticks the poor animal’s tail in his drooly mouth. The cat hisses.
“Cal! No! Kitty is off limits,” Flint says, striding into the living room. He’s a big presence in this small, rundown place, sort of like if Superman walked in and kindly didn’t judge your bad housekeeping. He lifts Cal into the air, making rocket launch noises. “Big man.”
Cal laughs and claps. Flint puts him down and gives Lily a rocket launch too, just to be fair, before he finally notices me. “You ready for a beer?” he asks, grabbing both twins and leading us into the kitchen.
“When am I not?” David says. He sighs.
“Wasn’t asking you, man. It’s your house,” Flint says, laughing. The kids are each riding on one of his shoulders. Most parents would be a little nervous about that, but David seems too tired to care. He yawns pretty widely.
“Sorry if I’m not the most scintillating conversationalist. Work’s been a drag,” he says to me. We enter the kitchen. Personally, I think Callie has even more reason to feel tired. She’s got two pots going on the stove, the cat rubbing against her leg, and the phone clamped against her ear. To the side, Jessa’s making a salad very slowly, smiling at all the ingredients she sprinkles in.
“This beet root is very blessed,” she says to me, grinning as she chops. I don’t know what you say to that.
“Jessa, isn’t that ready yet?” Flint says, sounding bewildered. “How the hell does it take you forty minutes to make a salad?”
“Everyone, be calm. The leaves start to wilt if there’s tension in the air,” she says.
“How the hell did we come from the same family?” Flint wonders, but he kisses her on the back of her head. Callie slaps him on the shoulder and mimes something. It’s probably an in-joke, something about whoever she’s on the phone with, because they burst out laughing. Jessa gives me some pine nuts to toast ‘gently.’
I really like it here. Moments later, I’m chatting with David while flipping the nuts around in a skillet. I was an only child growing up, and there used to be many long nights when my parents were working in their study. I’d be left to ramble around the house all on my own, so this much energy in the evening is kind of overwhelming. But wonderfully overwhelming.
“Are you ready for your flight? Got your Airborne and your Dramamine?” Callie asks Flint when she gets off the phone.
“Dammit, that was one time!” he says. She smacks his arm.
“Please, you used to hurl chunks whenever we drove more than thirty minutes in the car.” Callie knocks him on the back of his head, playfully.
“The 90s called, and they actually don’t want the phrase ‘hurl chunks’ back. They say it’s been kind of an embarrassment for a long time, and they’re glad you’re taking it on,” he drawls. He steps gracefully out of the way when she kicks at his ankles. “Teaching your children violence. I approve.” He grabs two beers out of the fridge and tosses one to me. I catch it; no broken glass this time, baby. “Come on, Young. We’ve got business to discuss outside.”
No, we don’t. But when Jessa bumps into me while opening a cabinet, and I knock into David, I see what he’s trying to do. With six bodies in the kitchen—seven if you include an in again, out again Chance—it’s a little crowded. Plus, would I rather drink beer, or would I rather have Jessa hover over me, making sure I show her salad the proper amount of deference?
“Business things. Yes. Much business. So wow,” I say, following him out the door. We head onto the back porch, looking over the yard in the twilight. “Question. Does everything in the northeast smell like pine and heaven?” I ask, taking in a deep lungful of air. I’ll have to bring some back with me to Los Angeles, after all.
“Pretty much. Except for February. Then it smells like exhaust fumes.” He looks at the beer and laughs. “Damn, I forgot the bottle opener.”
“Allow me.” I pull my keys out of my pocket. I’ve got a handy mini beer opener attached, always good for parties. I break open the refreshments. Flint’s eyebrows lift in approval.
“I always like a woman who’s well prepared,” he says, clinking bottles with me. I take a drink.
“I didn’t do too well in the Nature Girls’ school of forestry, but I picked up a few tips in the wilds of college.” I relax against the porch railing, and Flint relaxes right alongside me.
“You don’t really strike me as a party girl,” he says, but looks at me with a grin. “Were you much of one?”
“No, you’re absolutely right. I was always the go-getter. Perfect grades, clean dorm room, perfect boyfriends.” I sigh, remembering all the not-fun I had in college. Well, it wasn’t terrible. It was just kind of boring.
“Why didn’t any of those perfect boyfriends stick?” He doesn’t look at me when he asks. Instead, he studies the label of his bottle. Friendly curiosity, that’s all.
“They all wanted a girl who worked hard, but not as hard as them. Who got good grades, but not as good as theirs. I kept hoping I’d meet someone who didn’t go in for all that cave man logic, but he never showed.” I shrug, trying to get away from the memories. “Then afterwards, I thought the big, wide world would have some surprises in store for me in that department. And boy, did it ever.” Even the memory of Tyler touching me makes me sick to my stomach at this point.
“Men who need their partner to be weak ar
en’t really men.” Flint says this with a decisive tone. He sounds kind of disgusted, actually. “It’s because they know they aren’t strong enough to compete.”
“I wish there were more people who shared your enlightened point of view.” I laugh, but he doesn’t.
“So do I. Besides, I’m lucky you’re the fierce go-getter who talked me into doing this.” He brushes against me as he turns to look out into the yard. “If you weren’t, I wouldn’t have the opportunity to save my business.”
“You’re more than welcome.” Our elbows touch as we stand side by side, but neither of us moves away.
“Look, there is an actual reason I wanted to talk to you out here,” he says. That shouldn’t make me flush, but it does. Damn it, this is a business meeting. Nothing more.
“What do you want to talk about?” I say, grinning easily. But the smile disappears when I notice how intently he’s looking out at the yard, the fierceness of his gaze. Those shrubs he’s glaring at are probably pretty nervous right now. “What’s wrong?”
“Promise me,” he says, looking over at me. A muscle in his jaw pulses. “Promise me that you won’t make a fool of me.”
I don’t know how to react to that for a minute. My instant reaction is to brush it off, tell him that of course I won’t let that happen. But will I? Even if they take our pitch, Davis and the others might want to sex things up. Make Flint work without his shirt on, even in the fall, put him in ‘compromising’ situations with young, airheaded women. Those are stunts we’ve pulled before, and when executives look at Flint, they’ll see pure beefcake. Granted, Flint could put any of them through a wall, but it doesn’t matter. He’ll be vulnerable in ways he’s never been before.
I’m the only real defense he’ll have.
“That I can promise,” I say slowly, letting the words sink in, and meaning them.
“Can you really?” he asks, his voice gruff.
“Normally, I’d say no.” Being honest usually works, and Flint nods warily. “But this time, this time I’ll make sure. It’s the one thing that will always stand. It goes on the top of the production notes for every episode: no making Flint look like a fool.” I almost lean my head against his shoulder, which is completely insane. But there’s something comforting about standing out in the crisp air, having a beer and talking. Just talking. But it’s not just that. It’s him. It’s so easy being with him.
“I trust you, Laurel,” he says. His voice has gone deep and soft.
“You do?” I shouldn’t sound so surprised; not great for instilling confidence. But Flint smiles.
“I saw you wrestling with telling me the truth. Then you did. You passed the test.” He clinks bottles with me.
“Well. I always did great on tests,” I say, weakly smiling.
“I’m sure,” he says, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His touch lingers warmly, tracing the edge of my ear, pinching the lobe between his fingers in a move that sends a hot shock straight between my legs. “Laurel.” His voice is low. I’m dizzy.
“Flint—” My breath catches in my throat, but he quickly pulls his hand back and turns away.
“Sorry,” he says, suddenly distant. “I didn’t mean to—”
The back door flings open, and Callie stands there with her hands on her hips.
“Do I need to come out here and get you—” She pauses, looks from her brother to me. A sly smile creeps onto her face. “What’s going on, kids?”
“Nothing.” Flint and I say it in unison, which isn’t weird at all. Meanwhile, my heart feels like it’s skidding around from the top floor to the bottom, squealing all the way.
“Well, come on inside. It’s dinnertime.” She turns and leaves, and Flint and I take up our beers and go, neither quite looking at the other.
The meal goes by way too quickly, and soon after the homemade apple crumble (with vegan caramel, courtesy of Jessa), I’m wrapping my rarely used scarf around my neck to head home.
“Sure you don’t need me to drive you?” Callie asks as she sees me to the door. I shake my head.
“The inn’s actually a ten minute walk away. One nice thing about not living in the back of beyond,” I say, playfully shooting a look at Flint, “is that you can just walk places.”
“Fancy that, a Los Angeles girl who likes to walk instead of drive. I think I’ve seen everything,” he returns. To my surprise, he grabs his jacket. “Come on. I can’t let a young woman walk home all by herself at night.”
“I have pepper spray on my keychain,” I say, my back going up just a little bit. I took two years of Krav Maga; I can look after myself.
“Pepper spray and bottle opener. You’re like a Swiss Army knife,” he says, sounding impressed.
“And a fuzzy monster toy as well.” I take it out of my pocket so he can meet Harold properly. Harold’s a purple ball of fluff with googly eyes. I love him.
“You still have room for keys, right?”
“Sometimes.” I smile. “All right. You can walk me home.”
We say goodbye to Callie and the others and head out, slowly crunching through the autumn leaves on the sidewalk. We stroll mostly in silence, and I try to focus on enjoying the sights of the neighborhood instead of letting my mind linger on what happened between me and Flint on the porch before dinner. It was nothing, just another misstep. It would be terrible if it had gone any further. So why do I feel so disappointed?
Quit sulking and soak up the New England loveliness, Laurel! There are Halloween decorations up, spooky gravestones in front yards, lines of pumpkin lights twined through hedges. Plenty to distract me from my racing, dirty thoughts.
“Well, thank you for the walk,” I say when we reach the front stoop of my inn. “Meet here bright and early, seven tomorrow morning. And take your Dramamine.”
“The puking wasn’t as bad as Callie made it out,” he says. We stay standing there a moment longer, neither one of us volunteering to walk away. “So. See you tomorrow, then.” Flint holds out his hand for mine, to shake. “Partner.” He grins.
“See you,” I say, giving him my hand. We stay like that a moment, and then he pulls me to him, just a little bit closer. He never takes his gaze from mine, and squeezes my hand slightly. I can feel the heat radiating from his body. My breath comes faster as he leans down, just a little bit. I’m dizzy all over again. I can’t deny it: I want him.
“Laurel,” he says, his voice husky. I swallow; my throat’s dry.
“Yes?” I whisper.
And at that moment, the inn door opens up and Mrs. Beauchamp comes out onto the porch. Can I never catch a damn break? “Oh, hello dear! Got time for some tea and scones before bed?” She smiles at me, the picture of elderly sweetness. I practically jump away from Flint.
“See you tomorrow,” he says, clearing his throat and walking away quickly, hands shoved in his jacket pockets. Making some rambling excuse to Mrs. Beauchamp, I hustle into the inn and up the stairs to my room, locking the door behind me as if it will keep out all the inappropriate feelings I’ve been battling all night long.
Steeling myself, I sit on my bed and watch the sizzle reel footage again. Flint stares at the camera, his sleeves rolled up, as he shows how to apply a layer of varnish. How is he even sexy doing that? Finally, I force myself to click the video off and get ready for bed. Brushing my teeth, I remind myself how important this is.
This is my job. More than that, this is my big break. I’ve already put my career in jeopardy because of a guy before, and I’m sure as hell not going to do it again. Right? Right. Good, excellent planning. Professionalism all the way.
But as I slip into bed, I can’t help wishing I had Flint’s arms around me, his mouth on mine again, our bodies moving together. It’s not the playful, lusty fantasies I’ve had before; that moment on the porch, the two of us staring at each other, is staying with me. It’s somehow changed things, deepened the connection that started that first night outside the bar. He trusts me. And I trust him. With him I feel good
, strong, capable.
Right ahead of me, I can see the show I’ve always wanted. The career I’ve always dreamed of. And then I imagine that Flint steps in front of it, blocking the view.
That’s more dangerous than anything else.
Despite what I’m feeling right now, I have to put all the Flint stuff behind me. There are a million reasons why things would never work out between us, why a relationship would be a bad idea. And who’s saying he even wants one? This thing between us, it’s temporary. Two people bonding over adversity and war, like soldiers do. Once our lives go back to normal, this’ll all blow over. You can’t fall in love with someone in four days.
Can you?
10
“Now remember,” I say as we step out of my car, “your job is to mostly stay silent. They’ll want to get a feel for you in the room. Just be polite. If they ask you questions, try to bring everything back to renovation and building. You know? Leave the Hollywood bullshit to me.” I’m starting to talk fast. The click of my heels echoes across the company garage. I check my watch for the tenth time in the last five minutes. We’re not late, are we? I mean, we weren’t late five minutes ago, but what about now?
“You can have the Hollywood bullshit,” Flint says, slamming his door and patting the car. “This is a good little machine, by the way.” He sounds impressed
“Thanks,” I say, taking some pride in my ’70 Camaro. “I don’t know how to fix cars, but I do know how to drive them.”
“That’s the damn truth,” he says, as we walk side by side out of the garage and toward the building. “I thought I was a confident driver. I don’t think we got below seventy the whole way from the airport.”
“It’s LA,” I say with a shrug. “And we did go below seventy. Twice. I think.” Flint laughs, and I sneak another look at him. He’s perfect, dressed in a blue checked flannel shirt with a leather jacket. He didn’t shave, just like I asked. He looks like a smartened-up version of a sexy mountain man. It’s working perfectly. Several women turn their heads to look as we pass. One of them almost trips and falls.
