by Lila Monroe
“I’ll walk with you.” He throws on his jacket.
I don’t move. “Uh…you sure about that?” I’m definitely not too intoxicated to realize we’re treading in dangerous territory here, given that Flint and I have a proven track record of post-bar night lack-of-self-control.
“Relax. I’m not gonna assail your honor,” he says.
But I like assailing. As the Styx song goes, come assail away, come assail away, assail away with me.
Okay, no more karaoke night. Ever.
We say good night to the people nearby, and start toward the door. Raj’s eyes follow us the whole way there, but before Flint and I can get outside I find myself swept up in a drunken hug from my assistant. “Following in Sanderson’s footsteps is career suicide,” he whispers in my ear. “I’m trying to help you, Laurel. Don’t do this.”
“Do what?” I ask indignantly, pulling away from Raj. “I’m not doing anything.”
His eyes narrow in that judgy way of his, but before he can get out a reply, Flint claps Raj on the shoulder in a friendly but firm farewell and hustles me out the door.
“My assistant thinks he’s my babysitter,” I explain to Flint, shaking my head.
“You don’t strike me as the type of woman who needs one,” Flint says.
Well, now. That puffs me up a little, puts the spring back in my step. I know Raj is going to give me hell at work tomorrow morning, but at that point I’ll be able to tell him that Flint walked me home and then nothing happened and therefore Raj has no basis for his silly little accusations and better not be all up in my business no mo’. So there.
And then Flint’s hand goes to my lower back, and I have to ignore my suddenly very alert body, reminding myself that we’re friends, we’ll always be friends, and it’s never going to be anything more than a professional relationship. Just like we agreed.
We stroll down the street, passing the carnage of the fading Halloween season. There are bales of hay with paper skeletons on them, waving at us. It used to be sort of like this back in Ohio, but the sky wasn’t this beautiful, velvety country dark. Also, there wasn’t a phenomenally hot man squiring me about town. So far, it’s all an upgrade.
We get to the Beauchamps’ front porch, and I listen to the heavy thud of Flint’s boots as he comes up after me. Only to drop me off at the door, of course. Like the perfect gentleman that he is.
“Thanks for not being a jerk about the pool thing,” I say. When his eyes get the danger light, like I’m going to bring up the mysterious Charlotte again, I rush to add, “About me winning. A lot of guys would get pretty irritated about the booty shaking victory dance.”
“It’s fine. But that booty shaking…” he says, grinning widely. The tension evaporates. “That was probably my favorite part.”
“Ah.” I do not at all start to blush. Not even a smidge. “Well. Guess I’ll be seeing you on set then,” I say, turning away. “’Night.”
His hand reaches for mine, stopping me.
“Wait. I wanted to say—just, thanks for helping me out today. I know I’m not the world’s biggest camera personality,” he admits. “But you really stepped up and saved the show. Saved me.”
“My pleasure,” I say. “We’re a good team. At work. Like, as colleagues.”
“That’s what I meant,” he nods. But I see disappointment in his eyes. And by golly he’s still holding my hand, which I’m not at all pulling away from him. Oh boy.
“Yes. Right,” I murmur. We should be in bed. Right now. Separately. Though actually, there’s a bed all on its lonesome upstairs, and it simply adores company—
And then, before my libidinous traitor of a brain can go any further, Raj’s warning comes rushing back to me and a name starts flashing before my eyes in neon colors:
Brian Sanderson.
I can’t believe I was being such a stubborn jackass—Raj is right. This is exactly how Sanderson’s life exploded. First he got cozy with one of the stars of his show. Then he grabbed Maribelle DuJour, helped her steal her husband’s yacht, and took off for Mexico so they could elope. I’m sure it seemed like a fantastic idea at the time, but now he’s the laughing stock of the entertainment industry. No one will ever hire him again.
That can’t be me.
Brian was an established, well-respected producer, protected by the executives. It took him literally destroying his own show to get them to cut him out of the business. I won’t get the same leniency. These exec bastards are looking for one reason, just one good reason, to write me off as a hormone addled, scatter brained womanchild, trying to finagle her way into the boys’ club using her feminine wiles instead of her smarts.
That first night Flint and I hooked up was understandable; everyone’s entitled to a one-night fling in an alleyway every now and then, especially if they’ve had the week from hell and there’s a few gallons of scotch and a man hotter than a blowtorch thrown into the mix. And the second time? Well, we thought we’d lost the pitch. It was a ‘so-long, nice knowing you, let’s just screw away all our failures before we never see each other again’ bit of farewell sex. But now that we’re working together in a professional capacity, hopefully for the foreseeable future, it’s my big chance to screw up in front of the whole network and all those douchebags just waiting for me to fuck up.
So even if Flint’s not as over what happened between us back in LA as I thought…even if that makes me happier than it should…this cannot happen. Ever again.
“Laurel,” Flint says, frowning. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“I can’t,” I say, taking my hand from his grasp. And then my phone rings. I’d ignore it if it weren’t Jerri’s specific ring tone, but I have to grab the call. “Hey,” I say, listening as Jerri mostly-soberly fills me in on tomorrow’s call time and set up. I try to get off the phone as fast as I can, but it’s too late. Flint has already stepped off the porch.
“Call time?” he asks as I hang up.
“Oh-six thirty,” I say, mentally kicking myself. That was my moment to be brave, to tell him exactly how conflicted I’m feeling and why. And now that moment has passed. “So. See you tomorrow?”
“See you tomorrow,” Flint echoes, and heads down the street. Good. That’s where he should be heading: away from me and my four-poster feather-pillowed antique bed. Groaning inwardly, I go upstairs to my room and start to get ready for sleep. Rest. That’s what I need. Not calisthenics. Just a few hours of blissful, restorative unconsciousness.
Instead of conking out, all I can do is stare at the ceiling while a barrage of thoughts swirls through my brain. I will not be Brian Sanderson. I will not destroy my career, or Flint’s. This show is the best thing that could happen to both of us, and if that means we have to sacrifice our not-a-relationship in order to succeed, then so be it.
But as I roll over and give my feather pillow a few self-righteous punches, I can’t help but remember Flint in my bed, his breath against my neck, his hands, his cock…
Screw it. I jump out of bed, march into the bathroom and yank back the shower curtain. I’m going to need to make it a cold one.
16
It’s amazing what a week can do. Seven days later, I’m sitting at my cute, ornately carved wooden desk and reviewing the footage we’ve shot. Flint’s become a complete natural. Well, maybe not complete—I’m still in frame, working alongside him—but look at everything we’ve accomplished. He and his team have finished laying the foundation. The framework for the walls is up. There’re even a few luscious money shots of Flint with his shirt off, the light sweat of exertion shining on his broad shoulders, his biceps bulging.
It’s not just me being creepy. Development called after they saw the dailies, asking if we could get a little more flesh in the footage. They even specifically used the phrase ‘money shots.’
I’ve also been killing it in the professional arena—even Raj has stopped giving me the suspicious stink-eye, and Flint and I have behaved ourselves admirably. Mostly by ignoring ea
ch other every time the cameras are off, but that’s okay. It’s for the best.
Finished reviewing, I head downstairs. Flint’s waiting in the lobby, eyeing a collection of eighteenth century muskets on the wall. It’s a smaller production meeting today, just us two and Raj and Jerri, and the director of photography. We all settle down in the den, and I notice that Jerri’s got a plate of cranberry scones laid out next to her. And that she keeps sneaking them, whimpering in pleasure as she munches. Can’t blame her. Baked goods like this don’t exist in the gluten free shops along Melrose Avenue.
“So how’s it going?” Flint asks, quirking an eyebrow at me.
“In a word, perfect. You’ve completely turned this around,” I tell him. He smiles, lighting up his golden brown eyes. Gorgeous as they are, I resist swooning or getting tongue-tied. I’ve mostly gotten immune to his charms. Mostly. “Now we need to add touches of local color,” I say. Flint tenses a little; he’s still afraid we’re going to try shoehorning in a cheap love story. “Genuine color. Jerri suggested it, actually,” I say, looking over to our fearless director and waiting for her to wipe crumbs from her mouth.
“Color. Exactly,” she says. “What do you like to do for fun, McKay? Any hobbies?”
“Croquet and basket weaving,” he says, his face a mask of seriousness. Everyone stares at him blankly, and he cracks a grin. “I’m messing with you. It’s just what you’d want, Jerri. Fishing, hiking. Used to go hunting with my dad, but I’m not so into that anymore.”
“Too bad. That would’ve really sold in our rural markets,” Raj says, sighing at the lost ratings.
“Fishing is great,” I say, all but clapping my hands. “I love fishing.” By that, I mean I love fish. And by that, I mean I love sushi. But yes, fish.
“You’re a fisherman?” Flint asks, genuine interest on his face. “I mean, fisherwoman?”
“Me? Never. But I love the idea of you fishing.” I look to Jerri, who’s slurping some tea. “What do you think? Take a couple of steadicams out to the river, record Flint against the afternoon sun. It’s a real man’s activity.”
“Mmm, as an honest to God man’s man, I so agree,” Raj says, starting up a game of Candy Crush on his iPad. I’m glad my assistant producer trusts me enough again to get back to heartily slacking off on the job in front of me. It’s comforting, really.
“Are you serious, Laurel?” Flint asks me. There it is, that rugged, masculine ‘you poor, neglected child’ look he gets when I mention my upbringing in suburbia. “You’ve never fished?”
“For compliments, yes.” Rim shot. I love me. The entire room groans, and Flint shakes his head.
“All right. Go put on some old jeans and boots. I’ll teach you.” He gets up, as Jerri and the director of photography are already on the phone and assembling a crew.
“What? Here? Now?” And what does he mean ‘old’ jeans? I’m wearing a pair that’s been around seven months. That’s as ancient as it gets.
“No time like the present.”
“Make fish while the sun shines. A fish in the hand is worth two in the brook,” I add weakly, trying to joke. Flint pauses, looking ruggedly bewildered. I shrug. “I can keep going.”
“Please don’t,” he says. “Now come on. This’ll be great, I swear.”
“Fine,” I sigh, ignoring Jerri giving me an urgent shove. “If it makes the star of our show happy.” We get up.
“I think I’m going to respond very well to my new celebrity status,” Flint deadpans, brushing past me on his way out the door. I’m not blushing. It’s not like the mere touch of his body makes my skin flush.
Sanderson, Laurel. Don’t forget Sanderson.
“Say hello to the great outdoors for me,” Raj smirks, flashing me a little wave. He’s still snuggled up on the couch, glued to his iPad screen. He cracks a grin. “Yes! Next level! I’ve been trying to get there for, like, ever.”
Real shame to have to grab his iPad and snap it shut. Such a shame. Raj looks like I just tore his Star Trek: Next Generation Data figurine out of its pristine packaging. I tuck the offending Apple technology under my arm.
“It’s so nice of you to come along and lend your support,” I say.
“You have to come in here,” Flint calls to me, standing knee-deep in the river. It courses by, the afternoon sun glinting and rippling off of it. Flint’s got his fly fishing pole, and he’s wearing some kind of rubber suspenders. Are they called waders? Let’s call them waders. Rubber pants are not enough to shake Flint McKay’s colossal sex appeal, but they jostle it a little bit.
“I’m a shore dweller,” I call. Jerri’s grumbling beside me, trying to set up the shot and get the boom mic out over Flint. He waves me over. I struggle not to make a face as the bottoms of my shoes get cold and muddy.
“I’ve got an extra pair of waders. Maybe they’re a little big for you, but they’ll work.” He’s not taking no for an answer. Keeping the talent happy is top priority. But why can’t keeping him happy involve a spa day, just once?
“He’s got a point,” Jerri tells me, guiding me up the hill. “He’s always at his most relaxed with you in the frame. You’re like the Flint Whisperer.”
Groaning, I dig through the van to find those stupid rubber pants. A few minutes later, I’m sloshing out into the river, wincing as the cold water rises up around my legs. I’m going to go numb. I can feel it. Flint’s waiting for me, one hand out for me to take. I don’t grab him, even though I’m a little unbalanced. If I’m going to keep from making an unprofessional ass of myself on this shoot, not touching him is going to help. A lot.
“Come on, nature girl,” Flint says, handing me a fishing rod. The camera’s trained on our faces. “Now. You know what this is?” He pats some kind of round thingy with a crank on it.
“It, ah, sharpens your pencils,” I say, blanking on the appropriate term. And screw it; I’m out in the damn mud with a bunch of cameras in my face. I’m dishing out some payback. “You know, for those Zen fishing moments when you have a brilliant idea, but your pencil’s too blunt to write it down? Happens all the time.”
“Much as we men of the wild appreciate your understanding of our philosophical musings,” he says, the deadest of pans, “this is called a reel.” He pats it.
“Much like,” I say, turning for the camera slowly, “Reel World Productions, finest production company in all the land?” I smile, a vacant, wide-eyed grin.
“Yes,” Flint says, following my cue and turning back as well. His voice sounds forced and cheerfully robotic. “Reel World. I’m so glad I’ve given my firstborn child in exchange for fame. And free teeth whitening to boot.” He imitates my hollow grin, even giving thumbs up. The men behind the cameras are trembling with suppressed laughter. Talk about shaky cam.
“Can we get serious?” Jerri snaps, though I can hear her struggling not to crack up.
“We can cut this later, right?” I ask through my teeth, still grinning.
“Fine. Do what you want. But we need some usable footage before it gets dark,” Jerri calls. Flint and I return to the business of fishing. Damn, I’m starting to tremble.
“You’re freezing,” he says, sounding alarmed. “Look, if you’re too cold—”
“No. Ratings. Must fish.” I force my teeth to stop chattering, and slosh over a tiny bit to stand closer to him. What can I say? He gives good body heat.
“Here.” Flint touches my shoulder, and I instinctively flinch. He pulls back and glowers, swiping a hand across his stubbled chin. “Hey. Laurel. Talk to me.”
I close my eyes tight. I do not want to have this conversation when I’m numb and there are cameras and fish everywhere.
“Everything all right?” Jerri shouts. Crap. I take a deep breath.
“I’m good. Just…show me how to fish,” I tell Flint. He watches me a moment longer, his gaze shrewd. “Look, I’m still adjusting to this…being on camera thing. The sooner we do this, the sooner I can dry off.”
Flint’s perfect mouth is
still compressed in a hard line, but he nods.
“All right. Let’s show you how to cast. Maybe you should watch how I do it first.” His voice is tighter now; he knows not to touch me.
“Okay,” I say, watching as he takes out his rod. Heh. Rod.
Man, even that stupid phallic joke does nothing for me.
“Hold down the bait casting reel button with your thumb,” he tells me, demonstrating. He puts his pole back, then slings it forward. “Release the thumb. Let the bait draw the line out.” I watch as the line whips through the air, a graceful scrawl against the sky. “You push the button back down to slow your spool,” Flint says, demonstrating again. The bait lands perfectly in the stream with a delicate ripple.
“Nice,” I say, genuinely impressed. “So I’m supposed to do the same?” I look down at the rod in my hands. If it had eyes, they would be rolling at me right about now, saying things like ‘Oh honey, no.’
“It’s all in the wrist,” Flint says casually, starting to turn the crank on his reel. Or whatever this turn thingy is. “Do what I told you, and there’s no way you can foul up.”
“Oh Mr. McKay, ‘no way you can foul up’ is pretty much a challenge to the god of fouling up to come down from on high and smite us,” I say. Flint barks out a laugh.
“Don’t worry, I made an offering of a breakfast burrito earlier today,” he says, playing along, his voice pitching even lower and deeper. The tension’s eased again, thankfully.
I snort and nudge him, readying my rod. Jerri’s been pretty quiet so far, usually a sign that we’re on the right track. She believes in letting the magic happen when it’s there. The truth is, with Flint at my side, it’s hard to make the magic stop.
Stop thinking about magic. And Flint McKay. Focus on fishing, and keeping the blood circulating in your feet. I stamp up and down, still eyeing Flint. That’s right, focus on staying warm. Do not focus on watching him reel the line back in, his arms rippling with muscle, the spray of the river dampening his shirt so that it clings to his chiseled physique, the…you know, maybe I love fishing after all. A little too much, perhaps.
