by Lila Monroe
“Laurel.” Flint McKay stands in the doorway, tall and broad-shouldered enough that you worry about him squeezing into the room. Even the low, throaty sound of his voice sends a flurry of anxiety through my body, along with an answering heat wave between my thighs.
Right. There’s the part where I slept with our big star. Minor issue.
Flint picks his way around some footstools and sits down opposite me. My heart speeds up, and I cross my legs and try to think about snow, baseball, Mr. Beauchamp. Nothing works. The memories of Flint’s body wrapped around mine are still too strong.
Flint smiles.
“How’ve you been?” he asks. Which makes sense. We haven’t spoken in about a week, since the day I got the call green lighting our show. Since the morning after we slept together. Since the instant he got into the most awkward taxi in the history of anything and left me pacing in my apartment with no idea what to do next.
“I like your new PA,” he says, nodding at the Raggedy Ann that’s smooshed up next to me. Kind of glad she’s here, honestly. A girl can use a comfort object.
“You know what a PA is now?” I say, laughing nervously. See? Totally not awkward conversation we’re having. We sure do talk about PAs all the time.
“Production assistant,” he says proudly, leaning back against the antique wing chair he’s settled in. It creaks a little, more designed for delicate corseted ladies than six-foot something tall muscle men. Wearing flannel, naturally. “Wait. Or was it personal automaton?” He quirks an eyebrow. Hilarious. Yes. Laugh at joke to diffuse tension. Good plan. Ha ha. See, I laugh. Why talk so weird in head voice?
“You’ll fit right in at this meeting,” I say. Both of us go a little quiet at that. Flint’s not totally on board with my brilliant vision yet. He’s agreed to this show mainly to promote (and hopefully save) his chain of hardware stores. If the show tanks, so does his business. He looks uncomfortable, although maybe it’s because of all the lace doilies.
But if Flint looks out of place in Mrs. Beauchamp’s cozy little parlor, he’s a veritable fish out of water—stuffed and mounted over the inn’s mantelpiece—when my production team rolls in a second later.
“Why is there a wooden moose in the hall?” Raj, my assistant producer, asks when he swans into the room. He cracks a piece of very hipster gum, and unwinds his enormous rainbow-colored fuzzy scarf. “Ugh, there are, like, seasons here. How do we survive?” He falls back onto a sofa, all skinny bodied, liquid ease, and pulls out his iPad. Flint watches everyone else file in, looking more and more like a stubbled, caged animal with every minute that passes. He doesn’t say anything, but his right leg starts jiggling.
When my team is all assembled, sitting on little claw-footed footstools and drinking some lovely ginger tea out of dainty cups, I clear my throat and get the party started. And even with Flint sitting on the other side of the room, making me hyper aware of every movement of my body—and of his—I’m excited. This is it. Dream achieved.
Now on to the next step.
“Okay, folks. We’ve got twenty-eight days to film eight fabulous episodes and build one glorious house. For the number crunchers, that amounts to about ten incredible migraines per week.” A couple of people laugh. Laurel Young: come for the production meeting, stay for the sort-of not-jokes.
“And I’ll be building this glorious mountaintop house all on my own?” Flint asks, bemused. He’s got a teasing light in his eye. “I gotta rip my shirt off and get going right now, or can we wait until after lunch?”
Again, teasing. But there are three women—and one man—in the room who shift in their seats when Flint mentions taking his shirt off. Actually, judging by the angle of his wrist, I think Raj is surreptitiously taking pictures of Flint with his phone.
“You don’t have to do the whole thing yourself,” I say, keeping my voice bright and my smile wide. Flint’s eyes meet mine again, and I’m instantly transported back to that night in my apartment, with his hand and mouth all over my body, both of us breathing hard as we rode ourselves closer to—
Okay, say something before you go all glassy eyed, Laurel. People are staring.
“Practical talk,” I say, clearing my throat. “We’ll have a construction crew working alongside our star. Flint, you said you have a team assembled?”
“They’re already up the mountain,” he says, nodding. “They have the plans, and they’ve started on the foundation. Pouring concrete and waiting for it to dry tends to not make for great viewing.”
“Excellent.” I kind of want to do a jig in front of the whole room. So far, everything’s on schedule. “So while the concrete does its thing, we’ll just go ahead and get some shots of the sexier aspects of construction—”
“Sexier?” Raj drawls, raising a brow as he types fast on his iPad. “Nothing like some titillating roofing.”
I’m not sure if that’s a sexual innuendo or not, so I let it go. “Flint, you’ll guide us through the most essential parts of building the house. We get you talking over the plans, outlining some logistics, see if we can get a shot of you silhouetted against the sunset.”
“Why would I be starting work at sunset?” he says, giving me a deadpan look. I give him a work-with-me-here smile; it’s the magic of Hollywood, oh studly one.
“Then we shoot you working with your crew, the camaraderie between you,” I go on. Silently, I add: I know it’s autumn, but if you can get your shirt off once in a while that’ll be a big ratings help. “Maybe, if it’s all right with the guys, we get a little bit of you hanging out in town afterwards.” Something simple, a couple of beers and some pool. Maybe shirtless pool…
“There won’t be any forced meet-ups, right?” he says. His voice gets that wary, growly edge to it, and he leans back in the creaking chair. “I know this isn’t a dating show, but that jackass back in LA told us—”
“Right, Kinley,” I say. No need to hide the animosity from this team. Most people below producer and executive status at Reel World hate Tyler with a passion. Everyone grunts in solidarity. “Don’t worry. We’re doing a quality show. No smut. No nonsense.”
“No smut?” Raj says, finally perking up from his place on the sofa. He sounds more distraught than that time Amy Pond left Doctor Who. I had to keep bringing him chocolate for days. “No smut?”
“No smut,” I say firmly, throwing a hard glance at him. Raj grumbles, puts on his lime green ski cap with the poof ball on top, and sulks. “First day’s filming starts tomorrow. We’ll still be working on the foundation, right?”
Jerri, our director, takes over at this point. She’s a short, busty redhead with a sassy punk-rock haircut that Rihanna would be proud of, a trademark leather jacket, and a serious no-tolerance policy for bullshit. It’s why I wanted her in the first place.
“McKay. Talk me through what you need,” she says, putting her elbows on her knees and leaning in. She’s even wearing construction boots. I can tell he likes her immediately.
I look over Raj’s notes after Jerri’s done, talk over things with our director of photography, and generally start feeling kind of giddy. Here I am, running my own production meeting. If only Mom could see me now, what would she say?
Probably, “That’s nice, Laurel. I still think you should get certified as a CPA, just in case this TV thing falls through. Your shirt collar isn’t starched, incidentally. Here, have some of that microwave ravioli I remembered to heat up for you.”
Ah, family.
Finally, the meeting wraps up. A couple people, like Jerri and Raj, are staying at the inn. The rest are parked at a Marriott on the edge of town, and need to get moving. The autumn sun’s going down, casting golden light that slants through the windows as we all walk out together. It’s trees and mountains and red-yellow-orange leaves as far as the eye can see, and man is it gorgeous. I even catch an appreciative whistle from our assistant cameraman. If you’ve got to shoot a show in western Massachusetts, fall is definitely the time.
The others leave, and Je
rri and Raj are sniping at each other as they walk upstairs. That leaves only Flint and me, all alone except for a collection of Mrs. Beauchamp’s great-grandmother’s porcelain dolls. Which stare at you. Creepily. No matter where you move in the room.
“So,” Flint says, fixated on a particularly fascinating spot on the wall, away from me. “I, uh, guess I should head out. Chance didn’t get his afternoon walk, so the house is probably a smoldering wreck at this point. A smoldering wreck with a Great Dane in the center, holding a leash in his mouth.”
“Say hi for me,” I say, examining the most extraordinary pattern on the carpet. As Flint starts to leave, I groan. “Wait. This is ridiculous.”
Flint heaves a sigh of relief as I follow him out onto the porch. “It is.”
“We’re a pair of consenting American adults. I mean, we were. Consenting, that is. Still American and adult, unless something’s changed in—”
“You’re rambling,” he says, but he’s smiling again.
Good. My rambling is charming. Rambliness? Ramblance? Whatever.
“The point is,” I say, “we’re working together now. We had a good time—”
“A very good time,” Flint echoes. His eyes catch mine, and pretty much everything inside of me melts in the Jacuzzi of good sex memories. Memories only. Put the memory sign on the door and don’t forget to mop up before you leave.
“Right. But it was a one-time very good time. Actually, I guess it was technically a second-time very good time. Regardless, we won’t be repeating it. Okay?” Why does my voice squeak on that last word? And why does this conversation feel so damn familiar? Oh yeah, because it is.
“Okay,” he says, nodding, that muscle in his jaw flexing for just a moment. “No repeats. Just work. Lots of hard, focused work.” Mmmm why does that sound so hot? He leans closer, and now there’s an edge to his voice. “I do have some experience with that, believe it or not.” I hope that edge I’m hearing is determination, not the first sign of troubled waters between us. I mean, he’s agreeing with me, right? We’re both agreeing to put an end to the sexy shenanigans and get this show on the road. It’s for the best.
“Then I’ll see you bright and early for work, partner,” I say brightly. I even punch him good-naturedly in the shoulder. See, a couple of stalwart companions working together. Then I kind of inwardly scream, because punching good-naturedly hurts, dammit. Especially when your target is Flint McKay, musclebound brickhouse.
“See you then,” he says, and steps off the porch to climb into his truck. I go back inside and upstairs, keeping that stupid smile on my face.
In my room, I sit on my bed and type up all the production notes. My heart keeps pounding, not listening to any of the good common sense I’m laying down for it. You had fun, heart! And so did other parts of our body. A lot of fun, yes, but you can’t expect fun all the time. Sometimes you need to balance it out with work, and a vibrator.
But as I type and plan until the sky is dark outside and I’m bleary-eyed, I know I’ve still got Flint McKay on the brain. My mind is like a steel trap, and so’s my body. Once I learn something, I don’t unlearn it. And now that I know how good Flint is, how skilled, how hard and focused he can be when he’s at work…
I was never smart about playing dumb.
14
The wind’s blowing something fierce when I arrive at the construction site. But man, what a day to shoot. The sky’s a crystal blue dotted with fluffy white clouds, and the trees below the hilltop are still a soft blanket of golden and red leaves. My hair and my striped scarf whip around playfully in the breeze. The crew is talking to Flint and his workers, and they’re setting up shots, testing the light. Here I am, the mighty producer. What can I tackle today?
“Hey, are the honey wagons arriving soon?” a sweaty, balding guy carting cables asks as he walks past me. He winces. “I need a Port o Potty so bad.”
Glamorous!
As I head down the hill to wave the toilet-laden truck to the rest area, another, more familiar car shows up behind it. It parks, and a bright-eyed, chestnut-haired ray of sunshine pokes her head out the door. Ah, Callie Winston. My savior. Flint’s sister bounds up the hill toward me, grinning and waving. She also holds up a large Ziploc bag.
“Muffins!” she calls. “Blueberry and chocolate chip! Just baked this morning!”
Instantly, a flock of under-paid cameramen, PAs, and interns are pecking around Callie, like a gaggle of hungry geese wearing North Face. As she feeds my little Hollywood flock, I head over. She grins and puts an arm around my shoulder.
“Here she is. My favorite producer working with my favorite brother.” We head up the hill together. “Granted, he’s my only brother. But hey, you’re my only producer.”
“Where are the twins?” I ask, looking back at the car. Callie’s two year olds are the cutest, most demanding creatures on the planet, and I’m surprised they’re not tucked into their car seats shrieking and flailing and making precious little messes. Callie fluffs her hair and laughs that tired mom laugh.
“They’re staying with David’s mom for the day. Isn’t it incredible? Eight whole hours!” She sounds like such a thing has never been heard of before, like she’s discovered the Shangri La of free time.
“And you wanted to watch filming? I’m not sure that’s a good use of your precious liberty.” I laugh, but I’m a little confused, and a little anxious. There’s really nothing for her to do here, other than watch Flint measure stuff and curse on camera.
“Maybe I could help out? Catering? Chauffeur? Masseuse for attractive key grips?” She watches the hustle of everyone setting up the first shot and I see a longing in her expression that I’ve never witnessed before. Maybe staying at home with two small children all day long is getting to her. And maybe she won’t be so bored after all. I smile.
“Why don’t you bring any remaining muffins over to Imran at the craft table, and help yourself to some coffee? We can start there,” I say. She wraps me in a lady bear hug.
“Remind me to get you married to Flint so we can do this all the time,” she says, and bustles away. Meanwhile, I stand there frozen in shock and horror. I know the whole me marrying Flint thing was a joke, but part of me panics. Does she know what she’s saying? Did Flint tell her? Is it obvious? Or does she have no idea?
“Hey!” Jerri yells, walking over to me and clapping her hands together. “Are we getting started on this or what?”
Right. Put away your crazed libido, Laurel. It’s magic time. I head over to where Jerri and Raj are bookending Flint. He’s standing over a table, a blueprint spread on top. Holding it in place to keep the wind from snatching it away, he studies it intently.
“So you want me to make construction sexy.” He looks at Jerri like he can’t believe the words that are coming out of his mouth. Raj groans, very dramatic, and throws up his hands.
“It’s all about your personality. Look at the camera like you want to take it on a wild night on the town and then screw it in the back of your truck. Make the women of America melt,” Raj says, gesticulating wildly. Is he humping the air?
“I am not going to fuck the camera,” Flint says, in a voice of such righteous indignation I have to force myself not to snort.
“Just keep yourself relaxed and loose,” I say, finally shoving Raj aside. My assistant groans and pops some nicotine gum. “This is about combining your magnetic personality with basic construction. Just be yourself.”
“My magnetic personality?” he deadpans. He’s got a point. Flint is the stoic, iron-jawed man of the woods. Flirtatious sexpot, not so much. That’s only when he knows you better, when he finally lets his guard down…
Stop thinking words, Laurel.
“You know your way around a blueprint. Show us how it’s done,” I say, touching his arm. It’s one of those friendly, ‘I got you, buddy’ touches, but he jerks like I took a bite out of him. I snatch my hand away. Oh, damn. Don’t touch the talent when you’ve already slept together. “Sorry,�
� I mumble, glancing around to see if anyone noticed.
“It’s fine,” Flint says, turning back to study his blueprint. My face heating up, I make a graceful exit. Well, semi-graceful. I didn’t mean to trip on my damn shoelaces. Shit happens. Whatever, no one saw.
“You okay?” Raj asks, keeping his voice low as he comes up behind me.
“Of course I am!” I chirp, sounding completely unhinged. “Why do you ask?”
Raj eyes me, his gaze calculating, chewing his gum slowly. “You know my secret power, Laurel.”
My stomach plummets straight to the ground as the memories come rushing back. How could I have forgotten?
When I’d worked with my old boss, Brian Sanderson, on the set of Millionaires in Paradise, Raj had been an assistant to one of the other producers. Raj and I were gossiping over the craft service table one day when he revealed that he had a sixth sense for knowing which crew members were sleeping together. In fact, he had even warned me about the sexual tension between my former boss and Mirabelle, the young trophy wife of one of our show’s stars. At the time, I laughed it off. Fast forward half a season later and Sanderson and Mirabelle have eloped, which is why I’m here now producing my own show. With Raj. Who knows something is up with me and Flint. Crap.
“You need to keep it together, Laurel,” Raj says. “I know he’s sexier than the Brawny paper towel man, but this show is your big break. I’d hate to see you mess this up.” There’s genuine concern written all across his face, and this troubles me most of all. But before I can reply, the director’s voice rips through the bracing morning air.
“All right!” Jerri says, stepping back as the cameras come forward. The lights and the boom mic are on. Flint’s construction crew waits to the side, watching with interest. Meanwhile, he stares at the camera like it just told him it’s pregnant and he has to do right by his new family. Flint never really did get comfortable with the show side of show business. “You ready to go, McKay?” Jerri asks, though from her it comes out more like a command.
