by Lila Monroe
This whole expedition is becoming dangerous.
“I think I should head back up,” I tell him, turning around to wade away in my, well, waders. But Scott, one of the cameramen, gestures for me to get back in the water.
“No, stay there. You two are hilarious together,” he calls, grinning.
“Besides, you haven’t cast yet,” Flint tells me. He moves closer. “Can I help you?” He’s asking to touch me, and he doesn’t want me to flinch again. Taking a deep breath, I force a smile.
“Sure thing.”
Flint puts a hand on the small of my back to guide me next to him. Wouldn’t you know it; my shivering all but disappears. The cold water isn’t a factor anymore. My numb feet don’t bother me.
I bait my hook, pull back, and whip my arm forward, releasing the line too early. Instead of sailing elegantly through the air, it erupts into a startled kind of squiggle, tangling instantly. I nearly get poor Scott through the lip, which would mean a very awkward emergency trip to the hospital.
“Sorry!” I cry, wincing as I pull the line back. Scott waves, but also takes a few steps back.
“You’ve got to keep your wrist loose, but your arm straight,” Flint says, putting his rod down and getting behind me. I’m pressed up against him, and my cheeks flush. I can’t have him touching me without being reminded of his hands on my waist, steadying me as I rode his body. His eyes burning into me, pupils dilating as he came close to—
“We’re running out of battery!” Jerri calls. Damn, I think I’ve been drooling.
“Here we go,” Flint says. He helps my line of motion, helps me throw the line out in a clear, sweet movement. “There. You’re a natural,” he says, leaning down to my ear.
“Yep. Au naturale, that’s how I do,” I say, stepping away so fast I trip on a river rock and nearly collapse. But I find my balance.
I try again, solo this time. The line whips forward, perfectly thrown, and the bait hits the water. The little red and white plastic bobbing thing bobs along. Aw, so cute.
“Nice. Now reel it in, slowly,” Flint says, clapping his hands. I start, watching the line cut through the water. But then I hit some resistance. Huh. Weird. Maybe it got caught on a submerged tree branch or something. Or maybe it’s…
“I think I caught a fish!” I sound a little like an excited kid, shrieking gleefully as I start to reel it in, but c’mon. I caught a fish! I’m a fisherwoman! The fisher queen!
“Great job,” Flint says, whooping excitedly. “Okay, keep it steady. Slowly reel. Slowly.” I forget all about our tension, my inhibitions, everything. Right now, my whole world is fishing. The Tao of Being Awesome at Everything by Laurel Young.
“This is so easy,” I tell Flint. Feeling a little full of myself, I even look over my shoulder at the camera. Yeah, check me out, America. I’m a goddess. “If I’d known it’d be like this, I’d have—”
I don’t get to finish that thought, because the stupid fish at the end of the line decides to make one last great lunge for freedom, and takes me with him. I stumble forward, pull back hard on the line…which snaps. And he’s gone, swimming off to some fishy riverside bar for a stiff drink and a story about how he cheated death today, trying to impress all the lady flounders.
Oh damn. I feel myself tilting, tilting. I flap my arms, but it does no good. I fall backwards, splashing fantastically, and wind up sitting on my ass in the freezing water. Now it’s not just my feet that are numb. My teeth chatter. It’s cold! And wet! And watery! Why are rivers full of cold water? And why is my crew laughing at me?
“Are you okay?” Flint splashes to me and reaches down to help me up. Shaking so hard I nearly start vibrating, I nod.
“Great. At least this part’s going on the cutting room floor,” I say with some relief as he pulls me to my feet and we rush for dry land.
“Oh, don’t bet on it,” Jerri yells, practically rubbing her hands with glee. “This is a killer promotional shot.”
Huzzah. I think I’ll go join the fish for a drink.
17
Being professional is hard. I don’t mean the showing up for work on time, mainlining coffee, putting in fifteen-hour days part. That’s a cakewalk. But being around Flint all the time is quickly becoming impossible. Every time he laughs, or explains something, or wipes his forehead, or coughs, or breathes, or exists, all I can remember is us together in my bed. And that makes me worry about my job, which means I keep my distance from him. And that makes him feel like he’s done something wrong, leading us into a tailspin of awkward everything.
What’s worse is that he’s more than just a hot guy. I’ve drooled over hot men before, and once they forget to pick you up for a date, or spend all evening talking about how women are overly critical and don’t understand how economical it is for guys to still be living with their parents, or discussing their new indie band, Charismatic Megafauna, you get over it. But Flint’s a decent guy on top of everything else. He shows up early on set just to bring fresh coffee and donuts for the crew. He even remembered that Raj’s favorite is cinnamon maple, and that Jerri only has mint tea in the morning. He’s never had a single diva moment, or yelled that a thirteen-hour shoot is taking too long. Everyone seems to think he walks on water. While I know that’s a lie, given our fishing expedition, I see what they mean. He’s nearly the perfect human.
Which is why it’s so damn hard to stay away from him. And so utterly necessary.
But at least it’s Sunday, which means we’re not filming. I wake up, take a shower, and get dressed, happily humming to myself. I’ll get a clear head, maybe go into town and walk around. You know. Take a personal day. And by personal, I of course mean I’ll run a few errands for production, maybe look for some specific furnishings for the house. You know. A professionally personal day.
I drive into Northampton, which is probably the cutest town in the northeast. Many of the streets are a cheerful red brick, and the shop windows are already bright with early Christmas lights. If I weren’t so addicted to adrenaline and rush hour traffic—okay, maybe not that last one—I’d consider moving here and putting down roots. Nothing too fancy, maybe get a romantic little house on top of a hill. With a great big dog, and a large, stubbly, broad-chested man, and a fireplace with a bear skin rug, and then in the evenings we get a fire going and disrobe and—
Poor bearskin rug.
There’s some kind of farmers’ or merchants’ market going as I walk along, white tents flapping in the November breeze, jars of homemade preserves and smoked ham for sale. I head away from the food—the cinnamon-y, buttery, mouth-watering food—and walk along a row of adorable storefronts. I’m hunting for a cozy furniture shop. We haven’t shot any footage at Flint’s house yet, and that’s coming up real soon. I thought the stuff he owned was fine, but apparently Raj sent photos of the interior to someone at the network, and now they’re worried that it looks too IKEA bland. Too boring. Spice up those white walls! Hang pelts and the heads of small woodland creatures! I’m not going that far, but if they want more authentically rustic? Fine. I’ll take care of it.
First thing I need is a nice couch. I don’t want leather, since that’s a little too modern urban chic, but it can’t be something covered with cutesy fabric either. A rustic man’s couch. You know. Something hewn from boulders and wrapped in barbed wire.
One antique shop, the Old George, looks inviting. A wooden sign with a smiling, bewigged man painted on it tells me there’s probably antique perfection waiting within. I step inside, breathing in the scent of mothballs and waxed pine. A gold and crystal chandelier hangs from the ceiling, casting light on velvet armchairs and straight-backed dining room chairs. Most of these items are too cute for my needs, brass beds and dainty wingchairs with matching footstools, but you never know. I’m walking around the store, poking around price tags, when I hear someone coming in from the back.
“Keep moving. A little to the left. No, my left. Okay, now your left.” Two men come in, hauling some kind of side
board that probably stored enough linen and table settings for an entire regiment of British officers at one time. The first guy is sweating hard, short but burly. Behind him, Flint enters, taking as much of the weight as he can.
Oh, shit. Even on my day off he swoops in, sleeves rolled and biceps flexed, to surprise me. It’s like the damn universe has its hand on my shoulder saying, go on. Have another romp, for old time’s sake. Good luck with your career; look at those abs. I’m about ready to peel out and run for my car, knocking over preserve stands by the dozen, but it’s too late. Flint spots me, and gives a sharp jerk of his head. “Hey!”
“Need a hand?” I ask, inwardly cursing. They finally deposit the wooden monstrosity. Short and burly puffs out his cheeks, mops his forehead with a flowered handkerchief, and gives a thumbs up as he goes out the back again. Flint shoves the sideboard more firmly into place.
“Sure you’re not stalking me?” he asks with a grin.
I try not to laugh maniacally. That’d be hard to explain.
“Need to budge it?” I say, walking up and pushing on the sideboard, desperate for something to do. The sideboard doesn’t move. It’s as embarrassing as it sounds.
“We’ve got it covered. What are you doing here?” Flint asks, pushing the huge piece of furniture so it’s flush against the wall. Well. I loosened it up for him.
“Shopping for you, actually. We need to do some refurbishing at Casa McKay.” I expect the groans, and I get them.
“Let me guess,” Flint mutters, wiping his forehead. “Network note?”
“You’re catching on,” I say. Truth is, Flint doesn’t know the half of it. We’ve gotten some footage of Callie and Jessa, and I protected him from one exec’s idea that Callie should lose ten pounds if she’s going to be on TV. I think Brother Bear would fly out to LA and go on an ass-kicking rampage if he knew. “I promise it won’t be painful.”
“So what, I have to learn to live with pastel? I will literally sell my business before I own anything lavender,” Flint says.
“No pastels. Since you’re here, let’s see what we can do. Come on, show me your fantastic taste.” Flint scoffs, but walks with me. Inwardly, I groan. Try to avoid a guy like the plague, and get shoved together with him for an afternoon of antiquing.
Hell, maybe this is karmic payback. I should’ve told him the idea as soon as Davis’s cronies brought it up. This is Flint’s house we’re talking about redecorating, after all. If he doesn’t get a say, who does? I just didn’t want to spend time fighting my urge to swoon into his arms while inhaling furniture polish. There’s only so much a girl can take.
“This is too ritzy for me.” He picks up a price tag for something and scrunches his face. “Damn. I reupholster and deliver for Kathy, so I know what this stuff is worth. They’re overcharging by double.”
“Then it’ll be perfect. The producers love things that are too expensive.” A lie, but whatever. Let’s revenge-spend some cash. “Here.” I nudge him over to a long, low couch. It’s kind of mid twentieth century, sort of Mad Men but with a darker, more somber color scheme. Hopefully, Flint won’t invite his most charming and misogynistic friends over to drink gin martinis on this baby. “Well? Doesn’t it scream you?”
“It screams,” he says, raising his eyebrow. “It screams, ‘Get away from me, McKay.’ Laurel, none of the stuff in this store is me.”
I know he’s not lying. As nice as his house is, all the furniture in it is pretty boring and utilitarian. “But now we get to upgrade you. We’ve got to think rustic bachelor pad, you know? Man of the wild, gone wild?” I can tell that’s not making him happy. He’s scrunching up his forehead and rubbing the back of his hand across his stubbled chin, which is sign number one that he’s not into this.
“So we need a pine paneled sauna? Freshwater bed? A neon sign outside that says ‘Hooves and Hoes Welcome?’” he says, sounding more and more annoyed.
“No. And did you just make up Hooves and Hoes on the spot?” I say, amused. “Actually, a waterbed might be good—” But before I can continue, Flint shakes his head.
“No way,” he says. Actually, snaps would be the better verb. “Call your boss, tell them they can’t touch any of my stuff.”
“Flint, it’s just stuff, like you said. We can bring it back. It’s not like—”
“You know my neighbors are gonna watch this show, right?” He swipes a hand through his hair and backs up; the grizzly’s been cornered, and he’s getting pissed. “All they’ll see is me making an ass out of myself for some stupid company in Hollywood.”
“Reel World isn’t stupid,” I say hotly. We employ a lot of stupid people, but there’s a difference, dammit. “We’re trying to appeal to a demographic, Flint. It’s nothing personal. We need to make you look like a rugged single man. Which you are,” I say, following him through the store and down the hall to the loading area. The other guy is trying to move an entire armoire on his own, fighting against the tall, mahogany megalith. Flint goes to help. I keep talking. “We have to make your life TV presentable.”
“My life is presentable. Maybe it’s not what asshole executives think is all right, but it’s fine for me. And if that’s not good enough—” he grunts, pulling the armoire out of the truck by himself. He doesn’t get to finish the thought, because I jump in.
“It is! But there has to be some magic at work. You know? Illusion.” Damn, I feel like an asshole siding with the blood-sucking Hollywood suits, but Flint has to fit a romantic profile to a certain part of the audience, namely single women and restless housewives. Does that suck? Hell yes. But it’s the way to make money.
I walk alongside Flint as he puffs his way indoors, his arms trembling a little under the sheer weight of the furniture. He sets it down at last, wipes his forehead, and turns to me. His jaw tenses.
“Maybe out in Los Angeles, it’s okay to feel like everyone knows your private business. That’s not me, though. That’s not how I grew up, and that’s not the people I live with.” His voice turns a little softer. “You can pack up and go home when this is all over, Laurel. But I have to live here. I’m not going to be a laughingstock.”
It’s like arguing with a sexy mule. But I close my eyes and sigh. He’s right. What the hell business do we have walking in, telling him to change himself, buying things to shove into his house without his permission? What am I doing?
“All right,” I say quietly.
“All right? As in, I won?” Flint sounds genuinely shocked and delighted. “Wow, that’s the easiest you ever went down.”
I can’t respond to that, because I instantly flash to That Night behind the bar. Just the mere thought of it sends a white-hot burst of anticipation through my core. Damn, I was so, so close to this being a normal platonic conversation.
“It was wrong of me to try buying furniture without talking to you,” I go on. “We can leave your place as it is. I’ll talk to the network.” And get an earful, but hey, I’m in Massachusetts now. I’m an honorary Masshole.
“Thank you. I mean it.” Flint’s voice warms, and he puts a hand on my shoulder, very briefly. “I know they’re riding you pretty hard.”
Riding hard. Oh my God, is he doing this on purpose? I pretend to stretch, so his hand falls off my shoulder. Good. Less dangerous.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say. We walk out of the store, and right on cue, my treacherous stomach rumbles.
“You up for some lunch?” Flint asks. My grumbly stomach does a way-too-excited little flip at the thought. Calm down, Laurel. It’d be two good buddies going to lunch. Two good, platonic buddies. Lunching and what not. Like buddies do.
“You buying?” I ask, grinning. Flint’s face suddenly falls.
“Shit. Spoke too soon. I er, got a thing, actually,” Flint says. He rubs the back of his neck. I’d like to imagine he looks regretful.
“That’s cool,” I say, taking a step back. He probably remembered that lunch is too date-like. Which is good, because I sure as hell don’t want
a date. I am all dated out, thank you very much. Are we two good, platonic buddies or what? So not lunching. “I’ll see you around—” Before I can finish my sentence, Flint’s eyes light up.
“Why don’t you come with me? I’ve got a couple sandwiches in the car if you’re hungry.” He pauses. “I mean, you are hungry. Obviously.” My stomach growls again. Yes, Ignatius, we heard you the first time.
I named my stomach. Don’t judge.
I shouldn’t go with Flint. I really shouldn’t…
“What kind of sandwiches?” I ask. My priorities are in order. Ignatius agrees.
“Ham and havarti on rye. And I can give you a free tour of the countryside. Come on.” He gestures to his truck, parked by the curb. “The pickup chariot awaits.”
All the pep talks I’ve had with myself—bad idea to be alone together, bad idea to be near each other—they evaporate. I mean, it is ham and cheese, after all.
We drive through Northampton and out into the countryside. At first I thought it’d be awkward as hell, but it feels very easy, scarfing sandwiches (my diabolical stomach is finally satisfied), laughing, bobbing along to some classic rock on the radio. Turns out we’re both fans of AC/DC, which is good. I’d hate to think I surrendered to the carnal embrace of a man who thinks “Shoot to Thrill” is a terrible song. The road winds through the trees, and the rolled down windows let in sweet, fresh air. Finally, we hit another, much smaller town. It’s the kind of place that looks run down in a dangerous sort of way. The houses are mostly unpainted plywood, and they probably don’t even have electricity. There are few cars parked haphazardly, and kids are running around barefoot. Considering how chilly it is, that’s kind of shocking.
We drive up a little further, and park alongside a few other trucks. A whole crew of people is hard at work, hammering and sawing and walking around an emerging two-story structure. It looks like they’re building a house, a decent house, as a woman with two kids stand to the side. The woman points at the frame, and smiles at her children.
