Rugged

by Lila Monroe

  The carpets haven’t been laid yet. The wood echoes beneath my feet as I poke my head into the living room. It has those breathtaking, panorama vista windows I noticed in the blueprint. The smoky fall twilight outside is gorgeous. I walk out of the living room and head down the hall, checking in at the kitchen, and then the master bedroom. One step up, and I’m inside. There’s no furniture yet, obviously, but the exposed-beam ceiling slants down, the stone fireplace already built. It’s quiet in here, peaceful and calm.

  “Hey,” Flint says, and I jump about seven feet in the air. Once I’ve un-embedded myself from the ceiling beams, I turn back to him, hand over my chest.

  “Do you know how close I just came to certain death?” I hold up my hand, index finger and thumb an inch apart. “This is a real generous estimate.”

  He walks toward me, tool belt still hanging from his hips. Actually, saunter is a better word. He saunters up, casually rubbing his stubbled chin. It feels like everything he does is in slow motion. I’m transfixed by every detail. And I need to stop that, right now.

  “If you’re still alive, why don’t you tell me what you think? I don’t believe you’ve been in here yet.” He’s got that curious, intense look in his eyes. Does Flint care what I think? I’ll try not to let that go to my head. Or any other part of my body.

  “It’s brilliant,” I say, shrugging. I know that sounds kind of simple, but I say it with complete honesty. “It feels personal, somehow.”

  “What do you mean?” Flint sounds kind of wary. Strange. I clear my throat.

  “Like you designed this for yourself,” I say, not sure what else I mean. Flint’s shoulders relax. He nods.

  “Something like that.” He walks out of the room with me. “You saw the view, of course? From the living room?”

  I mean, I did, but it’s not every day you have the architect and contractor show you around. We head back to the living room, watching the last rays of daylight strike the tops of the trees in a fiery burst. The sky is dusky rose. We’re going to have to leave soon, before it really gets dark. Which is too bad, because I hate to think of leaving this moment. Flint takes me over to the living room fireplace, kneels down, and shows me something carved into the bottom corner of the wall.

  “See that?” he says, pointing it out. It looks like a flower. “Sunflowers. There’s one here, one at the other end of the room.” I peer back over my shoulder, and there it is, right across from us. Another little wooden sunflower, freshly carved. “They should match up with each other perfectly.” Flint stands.

  “Two sunflowers,” I say. Flowers. Why does that ring a bell? “You didn’t strike me as the flowery type of man. Not that there’s anything wrong with it,” I say quickly.

  Flint smiles. “It’s a personal touch. Sort of a stamp.”

  “Why sunflowers in particular?” I ask. He shrugs. Again, that maddening quiet falls. He’s brooding again, retreating into himself. Better switch topics, stat. “This has to be amazing. I mean, seeing your vision brought to life on camera,” I say, waving my hand around the empty space like I’m showing it on a game show.

  “It’s different,” he says. Now his brow furrows, and he paces back to the windows. There he is, closed off man on the mountaintop again. And I am trying my best not to find it hot.

  “So,” I say, walking up to him. He doesn’t respond, so I keep going. “Guess we should head out. Right now. You know. Scoot.” It’s rapidly growing dark outside, and although the wiring is in place there’s no actual electricity in here yet. I can barely see Flint now, just a giant silhouette before me, facing the window.

  “Mmm.” Now he looks at me, his jaw tight. My stomach sinks. Maybe the awkwardness is because he wants to talk about how stupid that night in my hotel room was. That he was secretly embarrassed for me, and wants to make sure that I understand we’re not a thing. We thinged for one evening—okay, two—and now we are thinged out. That would explain the awkward silence, the showing me minor details on the house. He’s trying to build up the courage to let me down easy. I take a breath.

  “Flint, I understand—”

  “Fuck it,” he growls. He pulls me to him, lifts me off the ground, and then kisses me so fiercely I’m instantly lost in a blazing torrent of heat and bliss and want.

  No, need. I need this.

  My nails are digging into his broad shoulders, squeezing the muscles there, and he groans with desire that matches my own. His tongue strokes against mine, aggressive and dominant, and I gasp when we pull apart. I lean back to look up at him, safe in his arms. I’m pretty sure if Flint set me down right now, I’d fall over.

  His eyes, even in the dim light, are dark with lust. I put my hand to his cheek, and I can feel his pulse hammering against my skin.

  Flint kissed me. Definitely no misunderstanding on this one. And it’s the first time we’ve kissed without any booze involved. And it was even better without it.

  “I’ve been wanting to do that for too long,” he says, his chest rising and falling with his deep breathing. He doesn’t put me down, and I don’t ask him to.

  “Since when?” I ask. I mean it to sound teasing, but it’s actually a little hushed.

  “Since LA. Every day after has been torture. I couldn’t hold back anymore.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t,” I say. “But what changed your mind?”

  “I don’t know,” he says, but his eyes trace around the room again. “Being in here. Thinking about—” His face shifts; the troubled look passes over his features again as he glances across the living room. “About the show,” he says at last. I get the feeling he was going to say something else, but I don’t press it.

  “So. What do we do now? Apart from maybe get a flashlight?” We are in serious near dark here. Flint puts me down, and my shoes echo on the wood floors. Or maybe that’s just my heart.

  “I was thinking, there’s a great little place in Montague. The Bookmill,” Flint says as we emerge into the crisp evening air. He smiles. “It’s a converted mill. With, you know. Books in it.”

  “Okay.” Well that’s…handy?

  “Also has a pretty good restaurant. So if you want I could take you to dinner there, tonight. If you’re interested?” He keeps his voice casual, but I think—I hope—I detect a little note of eagerness.

  “Well, I’ve heard the dining around here is also really exquisite,” I say, drawing it out a little. Flint pulls me closer against him and leans in.

  “It really is something,” he says, his lips brushing softly against mine. Sparks shoot through my body. Much as I want to keep toying with him, I can’t contain myself. I put my hands in his hair and pull his head down toward me, moaning as our tongues curl around each other, his thrusting deep and steady like he’s fucking my mouth with it.

  “Yes,” I gasp, finally pulling back to catch my breath. In between pants I manage to say, “I’d love to have dinner with you.”

  “Good,” he says, nodding. He gives me that warm smile and I think I actually melt into a literal puddle. The kind that must be mopped up with paper towels.

  Flint takes my hand, and we head down the hill together. I can hardly process what just happened, and I know I should be on Cloud 9, so why do I still feel that little twist of fright deep inside my stomach? Is it the Sanderson thing again? No, it’s not that. That might be the least of my problems.

  What I’m afraid of is reality. Not the false reality we’ve built here on set, but the one waiting for me after the LA crew packs up and heads home.

  What then?

  21

  I have to turn the music on while I get ready for dinner, just so my excited shouting doesn’t bleed through the walls. As soon as I got back to the inn, I hopped right into the claw-foot tub and took the fastest shower known to man. Now I’m standing in the center of my room wearing my nicest, laciest lingerie I own. Every outfit I brought with me is flung on my bed, a tangle of sexy-yet-work appropriate skirts and body-hugging wrap dresses. Come on. It’s not that h
ard, Laurel. Pick one. Just one.

  I’m being ridiculous, of course. With Flint, there isn’t a wrong outfit choice. Actually, if I went in jeans and a red checked flannel, he’d probably think it was sexy. With that thought I’m almost—almost—ready to give up and throw it on.

  “You can do this, Young. Project sexy confidence,” I say to my reflection, while the Bangles comes on in my iTunes library. Yes. I will walk like a damn Egyptian. That is very confident, all two dimensional and shit.

  I’m trying to choose between two outfits as I hold them up, dress in one hand, blouse and matching skirt in the other, and stare in the mirror.

  That creeping doubt surfaces in my mind again, replaying the old favorites: Brian Sanderson, the Hollywood black list, Ohio, possible eternal heartache. I put the outfits down and close my eyes. Think, Laurel, and think fast because it’s almost time to go. Am I actually making the same mistake Sanderson did? I sit on the edge of the bed, crumpling one of my nicer dresses by accident. I smooth it out, still considering.

  All right, forget the fact that I’m about to leave Massachusetts. We’ll cross that historic, Revolutionary era bridge when we come to it. And honestly, forget Sanderson too. His mistake was shouting his love to the world and speeding off into the sunset on camera; that’s not going to happen to me.

  Finally, one last loathsome thought surfaces: Tyler Fucking Kinley. When I first started seeing Tyler, I thought it was wonderful. I thought he was wonderful, and my instincts turned out to be fucking awful. Should I mix business with pleasure again?

  Then I have to shake my head. “Even if it’s a mistake, Flint is worth one million Tyler Kinleys,” I mutter. I choose the black lace dress and slide into it. “More like seven million, if I’m honest.” It’s true. Flint can be unpredictable, as our surprise kiss showed. But I know, in the deepest part of myself, that he’d never hurt me. It’s weird to feel so wild—having hot, unprofessional sex with the star of my show is pretty dangerous—ana andd yet so safe at the same time. Weird, but good.

  Finally, I’ve got the perfect pumps, the right lipstick, and I’m ready to go. Downstairs, I hear Flint chatting with Mrs. Beauchamp. She smiles at me as I come down the stairs, and Flint stands up.

  Whoa.

  The flannel and denim are gone. He’s wearing a nice jacket, with a collared, button down black shirt. You can appreciate how broad his shoulders are in this outfit, and his suit really hugs the rock hard contours of his body. His hair is slicked back, just enough to look good, not overdone, and he hasn’t shaved—which is just as well, because I love the rasp of his stubble against my cheek, my body, my…everything.

  His eyes trail over me, top to bottom, drawing out the flush in my skin. I see a spark of pure, X-rated animal lust flare in his gaze before he covers with a family friendly smile that’d be fully appropriate for all demographics. Guess I chose the right dress.

  “No tool belt?” I say, keeping my tone light as I walk up to him.

  “It’s in the car,” he says.

  The drive out to Montague is easy. We discuss the day’s shoot, falling into a natural rhythm. When he reaches for my hand, jolts of electricity run up and down my arm, and although I could jump on him right now in the car I force myself to hold back, because I like the idea of letting the anticipation build. Also I don’t want to cause a collision.

  The best part, though, is The Bookmill. It’s housed in a cozy red building, right next to the churning river. The moonlight ripples on the water, a breathtaking sight. As we drive in, I see a painted sign reading The Montague Mill 1834. Twinkling white lights are strung along the entrance as we get out of the truck and walk down the path.

  “Flint, this is incredible,” I say.

  “Try not to swoon before the appetizers,” he teases, pulling me in for a long, intense kiss that all but incapacitates me. God, if he keeps it up these panties will be ruined. I pull away slowly, trying to shake off the hardcore lust weakening my knees.

  “I’m not the swooning type,” I lie. Winking at him, I walk on. I need to stop grinning like an idiot, but damn if it isn’t hard.

  We’re almost to the door when he pulls me to the side. “Before we go in, I wanted to show you something. Hope you like it,” he says, leading the way as we head upstairs to the house’s attic floor, which is lit up from inside and looks warm and cozy.

  When we enter, it’s suddenly very clear why they call this place the Bookmill—the place is a book nerd’s paradise. The lights are soft on the gabled walls and exposed wooden beams. Plush little wingback chairs are circled around reading tables. The walls are packed with books, all just begging to be taken down and opened. I’m instantly on alert, scanning the shelves for something good. And there’s a lot that’s good here. I grab an old copy of Ernest Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast, all about the time he spent living in Paris. When I was a teenager, I liked to imagine hanging around Europe in the 1920s. Cigarette holder in one hand, book in the other, wearing original Chanel designs and flirting with F. Scott Fitzgerald over tumblers of good whiskey. You know. Same fantasies as every other kid.

  Flint picks up a book, his eyes sparkling as he scans the jacket copy.

  “You’re a reader?” I ask, trying to hide my excitement as we look over the selection. I saw bookshelves back at his place, but sometimes people put those in just for show. Tyler was like that.

  I need to stop thinking about that loser. Flint’s here, and he’s happy to talk about his reading habits.

  “Three Body Problem. Left Hand of Darkness.” He shrugs. “What can I say? I’m a sci-fi guy myself.”

  I have to keep from screaming out in excitement. “Rendezvous with Rama?”

  “Oh wow.” His eyes light up. “Arthur C. Clarke was a god. Exploring that spaceship was incredible! Absolutely nothing happened!”

  “I never wanted it to end,” I sigh. I playfully tap his shoulder as I move around him, taking in more of the shelves. “So rare to meet anyone who shares my enthusiasm for alien civilizations. I can’t believe we never talked about this.”

  Flint draws me to him and traces the line of my jaw with his thumb, and as he gazes at me like he wants to eat me alive a wave of heat uncurls in my belly. “I’m a believer in first contact,” he whispers in my ear. My breath catches in my throat.

  “Did I mention I’m not wearing panties tonight?” I whisper back huskily, my hands sliding down the planes of his chest to the waistband of his pants, except—stupid man belts. Always getting in the way. I tug at the buckle. “Talk nerdy to me, Flint.”

  His breathing is strained. “I—”

  And then our reservation is called out, and I’m almost disappointed to head downstairs to our table. That is, until I’m seated by the window, watching the moonlight wink on the river, about to enjoy what turns out to be one of the best meals of my life.

  The wine Flint chooses is amazing, and the bourbon-glazed salmon, mango saffron rice and braised kale make my foodie Angeleno heart sing. As we drink and dine, Flint and I continue with our sci-fi nerdery. Of all the planets in Star Wars, I’d want to live on Naboo (“You can’t pick anything from the prequels! It’s sacrilege,”) and he’d choose Endor (“The teddy bear people?” “They have a great affinity for nature!”). I can’t remember ever enjoying a dinner conversation this much. Especially when I find out that Flint was kind of a wild man back in New York. Well, sort of.

  “You actually tried to break in to the penguin tank in the Central Park zoo?” I say, unable to keep a straight face. Flint laughs, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

  “In my defense, I’d had a few beers and I’ve always loved penguins. When I was a kid, my plan was to go to Antarctica and study marine biology.” He shakes his head good-naturedly. “I thought I’d be swimming with polar bears and surfing on icebergs.”

  “What stopped you? Fear of elephant seals?” I ask, taking another sip of wine.

  “There aren’t any deciduous forests that far south.” I pause, wondering if this i
s another joke. Flint sighs. “I can’t be far from the woods. I know it makes me sound like I should be running around in a fringe jacket with a coonskin cap, but this is where my heart is.” He looks out the window, appreciating the trees that sway in the moonlight. He’s both brooding and calm; thoroughly irresistible.

  I feel a twinge of sadness when he mentions how he never wants to leave this place. But I push it out of my mind. Not now, Young. Not tonight.

  “I understand,” I say. I mean, sort of. I can’t be that far away from the nearest Chinese/French fusion place in the nearest city. I love trees. I just don’t love them so much I have to be right next to them all the time. Do palm trees count? I clear my throat. “So how were you not arrested and thrown into penguin snatching jail?”

  “Apparently the Central Park zoo has this really experimental new policy in place for after hours. New technology, but they’re calling it ‘alarms.’” He chuckles. “The bells and whistles started blowing, and I realized I was sitting there, one leg over the fence, trying to snatch an Emperor penguin. I was planning on naming him Jeff.” Flint refills his wine glass and then mine. I do like a courteous man. “Anyway my buddies and I ran out of there as fast as we could. Only nice thing about New York is you can disappear into the crowd in no time.” He laughs again, a lock of hair falling into his eyes. I reach out and brush it away. He grabs my wrist and kisses the palm of my hand. Once, then twice, slower, while I melt under his attentive gaze.

  What were we talking about?

  “Oh, there are probably other nice things about the city,” I say. Flint releases me and gazes out the window, looking at the river.

  “It’s a good place to meet people,” he says casually, but there’s an edge to his voice. Charlotte. Flint’s ex is the last thing I want on his mind tonight.

  “That’s a good start,” I say, trying to steer the conversation elsewhere. “And there are other things. Traffic. Noise. People letting their dogs pee on your potted flowers.”

  “The monsters,” Flint says, faking seriousness.