by Lila Monroe
“Then we can tie it all in to the hardware chain, mention the guys down at McKay’s, mention that the McKay line is focused on providing individual attention to handcrafted detail. Keep it casual, of course.” Flint doesn’t even flinch when the cameras are in his face now. He kneels there, balancing on the balls of his feet, relaxed and prepared to move.
“Sure thing,” Jerri says, looking happy. “If they decide to run the McKay’s commercial again, that’s the place to do it.”
Flint grins, happy that people are buying into his ideas. This can’t be the same guy who stood there a few weeks ago, stiff as a board covered in quick drying cement with the word ‘stiff’ carved into it. He’s a real natural, his sleeves rolled up, sawdust and sweat clinging to him after a hard day’s work.
My heart starts beating fast. These past few days I’ve been enjoying myself, carefully not thinking about the future of whatever Flint and I are doing. But what if I could have a real future with him? The idea doesn’t make me nervous, or worried about settling down. It warms me up, actually. When he catches my eye, I smile at him. And it’s the warmest and happiest I’ve ever felt.
When Flint comes up to me after the take, I’m a little nervous. The fluttering in my stomach won’t go away.
“What do you think?” he asks. In his checked flannel shirt, he looks like the burliest, most exuberant lumberjack in the world. “Think it’ll fly?”
“Fly? It’ll soar.” I laugh. “Because of you.”
“No. This one comes down to you.” He takes my hand for a moment, shaking it firmly. To anyone else it probably looks professional enough, but even that small touch sends a flood of heat washing over me. “I never imagined this whole show thing could turn out so well. You were the one with the vision and the strength to keep going.”
I want to melt into his arms, just a little bit. Instead I put my hand on his shoulder, because we are still on set, after all. “I think this is going to be a colossal hit,” I tell him.
Hopefully, we will be too.
23
“I didn’t know Northampton was such a party town,” I tell Callie as we pull up outside the Waterbury Hotel. Even on the street in this little Jetta, I can hear the thumping music from the wrap party.
“We know how to live,” Callie deadpans, checking her makeup in the rearview mirror. Once again, she’s as dolled up as she can get in MAC eyeliner and a purple dress that’s pushing up her boobs, and once again there’s no David in attendance. But tonight’s not the time to think about that. Callie pulls her jacket tighter around her as we hustle inside, our heels clacking on the pavement. “Do you know how much I want to have your babies?” she tells me as we enter the hotel through the rotating glass doors.
“Ah, don’t you already have the baby thing taken care of?” I ask. We hand off our jackets to a coat check girl and fluff our hair as we strut down the hall.
“Don’t stop me from exploding love all over you, Laurel. This is an actual Hollywood wrap party. The last time I had a reason to dress up and celebrate, it was because Burt Humphries took third place in state champion pig poking. You don’t even want to know,” she tells me as we find our way to the McCallister Ballroom. “I wish life could be like this all the time,” she says, looking around with huge, wistful eyes.
Everyone shows up. The crew’s here, obviously, but so are the people from the hardware store. Jeanine waves at me, decked out in a sexy black jumpsuit, her silver hoop earrings shaking as she continues to dance next to one of the craft guys. He’s staring at her ass, and it looks like he’s thoroughly appreciating her moves.
Raj is walking around, continually staring at his iPad. That’s fine. As long as he’s not staring at me. Though at some point I’ll have to change my cowardly ways and confront him—unless he plans to confront me first. But what can I even say? I have no idea what’s going to happen with me and Flint. I could be defending a hopeless fantasy.
Back to the party.
Most of the townspeople are here as well. Carl from the bar has his man bun tied back in a red ribbon, and is doing some kind of tango with Lois, one of our interns. Jessa is sitting cross-legged on a chair, discussing something with one of our key grips. From the way she’s holding out her arms, I think she’s pretending to be a tree. And I even spot the mayor, a nice-looking older lady, as she does shooters with Jerri. Not bad.
“I’m heading to the bar. It’s gimlet o’clock,” Callie says, taking off without another word. I watch her go, shaking my head.
“Found you,” Flint says in my ear, his warm breath giving me goosebumps. He’s behind me, and I lean back against him, hoping nobody notices our careful canoodling. I catch a few quick, curious looks as some of the crew pass by, but when I smile, they just smile right back at me and nod, and my stomach unknots itself. Maybe it’s okay to go public with this after all; I work with good people, and we’ve got it under control.
Flint wraps his around my waist and I accidentally-on-purpose grind back against his crotch for a few tantalizing seconds. He breathes hard into my hair, tightening his grip on me, and I grin. “Don’t you worry about my reputation at all, Mr. McKay?” I ask, adopting a Scarlett O’Hara drawl. Flint chuckles.
“Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn,” he whispers, his voice a low rumble.
It’s getting more and more difficult for me to think straight, but even though I’d love nothing more than to drag my beau out to the parking lot and suck him off in the bed of his truck, it’s not polite for Flint to run out on a party that’s really for him. Slowly I turn around, still locked in his arms for all to see. “Do you dance, sir?”
“If I’m drunk, forced, or turned on by a beautiful woman,” he says. Putting a hand on the small of my back, he guides me toward the floor.
“Which one is it this time?” I ask, adopting a look of total innocence.
“I’ve only had one beer, and I’m the one hustling you onto the floor,” he says, turning to face me, the music pounding all around us. “So. You do the math.”
I was always very good at math. Aced AP trigonometry and everything. Flint and I start to move, eyes locked, our bodies in perfect rhythm. It’s the best prelude to sex I’ve ever had. It’s not our last dance, either. Soon enough all my anxiety about the crew figuring out what’s going on between us has totally evaporated, at least for the moment.
Throughout the night, everyone has a fantastic time. Even Raj gets in on the action, drinking enough cupcake vodka that he insists on showing off his killer dance moves. He does the sprinkler, the shopping cart, and the lawnmower while people laugh and cheer. By the end, he’s actually crying, telling everyone how much he loves them.
I’m so glad I’m recording this on my phone.
“You’re a genius,” Jerri says to Flint, coming up and slinging an arm around his shoulders. She even tousles his hair. No one else could get away with that. “If I could bottle you, I’d drink you every day for luck.”
“That’s the best and weirdest compliment I’ve ever gotten,” Flint says, grabbing a beer and holding it up. “To Rustic Renovations!” he toasts. Everyone clinks glasses and bottles. “I’m glad you all came into my life.” He squeezes me close.
“You gotta move to LA now,” Raj says, stumbling and slurring a little. “We’re gonna make you fay-mous.” He takes a sip of a banana daiquiri.
“I’m a man of habit,” Flint says, laughing. “They’ll only get me to leave this town when they carry me out in a box.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Flint. We can still cremate you,” Callie yells as she passes by, catching hints of our conversation. Everyone laughs, but I can’t help growing quiet. Flint’s really not thinking of leaving. And I can’t imagine moving from LA, not when I’ve worked so hard to get myself out of Ohio, spent so many years chasing my big industry dreams, when I’m this close to a new chapter in my career. All the happy, buzzy feelings I had from the other day, imagining a future with him, start to fizzle out.
This s
ame thing happened to him and Charlotte, didn’t it? She wanted to leave, he didn’t, and it split them up.
Laurel. Now is not the time to think about this. At least let’s get through the show’s premiere. Quit being such a Debbie Downer.
The party eventually breaks up and we drive back to Flint’s place, his hand wrapped tightly around mine the whole way. He keeps stealing hungry glances over at me, but I’m a good girl. I even keep my shoes on and my feet on the floor.
Once we get inside, though, all bets are off.
He devours my mouth with his as he slides my jacket off, and by the time I kick off my heels, he’s got me in his arms and he’s heading for the stairs.
“Put me down, you big brute,” I tease, my voice throaty.
Flint laughs. “Never.”
I’ve never been one for the ‘me Tarzan, you Jane’ fantasy of the big guy with a club in one hand and his woman’s hair in the other, but for some reason, when I’m getting man-handled by Flint, I go weak with lust. Maybe it’s the flannel.
I tighten my arms around him, dropping kisses down his neck, behind his ear, along his jawline, moaning softly against his skin as he carries me up the stairs toward the bedroom. But we don’t make it.
Instead, Flint goes to his knees on the top step and lays me down on the carpet, his hands roving over my dress, squeezing my ass, my hips, my nipples as he sucks my tongue. “Now,” I demand breathlessly. “No time for foreplay.”
“Isn’t that what we’ve been doing all night?” he chuckles.
“Touché.” I trace the hard line of his cock through his pants and then nudge him away, feeling the blood pound in my cheeks as I pull my dress up and over my head.
But Flint stops me before I can pull it off, pinning me down on the floor with his hands on my crossed arms. My black dress is like a blindfold now, and I feel the heat of Flint’s breath as he positions his mouth over mine, a layer of thin fabric between our lips.
“Close your eyes,” he says. “I’m going to fuck you just like this.”
He kisses me through the lace, and even though I can’t see his face it’s almost hotter this way, or maybe it’s that I don’t know what he’s about to do to me. His hands go to my hips and tug my underwear down as far as my knees, but that’s where he stops. I’m still in my bra with my back arched, dress pulled over my head, exposed and vulnerable at the top of the stairs.
Everything’s super sensitized in the dark. Without my eyes to help me, all I have are my ears, my skin, the scent of Flint leaning over me. When his hand slides down my chest, caressing my belly, finally pausing just over my pussy, I shiver. Then he stops.
“Flint? What are you—”
Instead of an answer, what I hear is the sound of his belt unbuckling, his zipper going down, the hush of pants hitting the floor. My heart slams in my chest, and I’m dizzy with anticipation. I can feel how wet I am, and I gasp as Flint spreads my legs and breathes against my cunt. Long, slow, agonizing breaths. He’s teasing me. I tilt my hips, enticing him closer, but instead I feel him pull away from me and I wonder what’s next.
“Don’t move,” he commands, and I hear footsteps on the carpet, a door opening.
The next thing I know, his hands are on my lower belly, slick with lube that he strokes down between my legs, up the sides of my inner thighs. Before I can protest that we don’t need it, he hitches my legs up and slams his cock into me in one rock hard, perfect stroke that makes me cry out with the combination of pleasure and pain.
“Flint,” I moan, arms still trapped over my head, dress still blocking my vision. It’s true all I can see is darkness, but all I can feel is Flint fucking me, so good, his breath quickening against my exposed collarbone, that musk of pine and sawdust enveloping me as he pounds me into the carpet. The lube wasn’t a mistake—I’ve never been so wet, and I can feel every inch of him as he glides in and out of me, so hard, so steady, so perfect. My moans are short, helpless cries as he thrusts harder, faster, deeper.
“I want to see your face when you come,” he growls, ripping the dress the rest of the way off me. The air is cool against my face, and Flint reaches down to tuck a loose strand of damp hair behind my ear without skipping a beat of the rhythm he’s built up.
Our eyes lock, and what I see in his gaze is…everything. He’s everything.
“Come for me,” he demands. “You’re mine.”
I come exactly four seconds later, so hard I can feel tears welling up in my eyes as I gasp for air. Flint holds me tight around my shoulders as I writhe against him, the orgasm jolting through me, draining all the tension from my body.
“Sorry,” I whisper. “You didn’t even—”
He covers my lips with his, silencing me with a kiss that’s basically exactly like a tornado except that it’s in my mouth and there are no flying cows and no wind and no barns get destroyed. When we finally surface to breathe, he says, “It wasn’t about me. Now let’s get you into the shower.”
Flint carries me to the bathroom, helps me out of my underwear, and then gets into the tub with me because I’m too weak-kneed to stand under the spray by myself. I lean against him as the hot water runs over our bodies, resting my head against his chest, and all I can think is, this is bliss.
I wake in the middle of the night, the light in Flint’s bedroom still murky with pre-dawn. When I turn my head to look at Flint, I find him staring up at the ceiling with his arms crossed behind his head. I wonder if he’s slept at all.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“I can’t believe you have to go back to LA so soon,” he whispers. “Do you have to leave?”
I try to laugh, but it comes out like a sigh. “I have to get back to work. You know that.”
He rolls over, propped up on his elbow, absolutely irresistible. “You can just get a job at the Firefly. Be the bar wench. Guys around here, they love their wenches.”
“Who doesn’t love wenches?” I ask, trying to laugh. Instead of arguing or pressing the matter, Flint laughs too. Then he rolls over toward the window and goes quiet. Part of me wants him to beg me to stay; part of me is terrified to even think about the possibility. But that’s not the point. Right now, all I have to do is enjoy this moment.
And I do. Wrapping my arm around Flint, I walk my fingers down to his cock and grip it firmly in my hand. He groans, which has quickly become my favorite sound on the planet. Time to quit moping and live in the now. And as long as the sun’s not up yet, we still have time.
24
Despite the fact that I’ve been up all night having the best sex of my life, I wake up about fifteen minutes before my alarm goes off. It’s still half dark as I tiptoe through the room, reminding myself where everything is, tripping over my own shoes, running into the wall. I have the grace of an early morning jackrabbit on LSD. Okay. I’ve got my toiletries stowed, my clothes all packed, phone in pocket, laptop in its case, cam—
Camcorder. I stop and actually slap my forehead. I forgot the damn camcorder at the construction site. While that’s not the most necessary piece of technology I own, it cost three hundred bucks, dammit. There won’t be time to swing by there this morning or afternoon—meetings—so I’d better go down. Flint stretches in his sleep and rolls over as I finish dressing and head downstairs. I grab the keys to my rental car, jump in quickly, and head over to the nearly-finished house.
When I pull up to the house, I can see something’s immediately off. A car I don’t recognize is parked directly outside, the front door wide open. Shit. Do I call 9-1-1, or is this one of the crew, or maybe just one of the locals playing lookie-loo now that the big shot Hollywood folk are heading out of town? I may not have a weapon, but I do have my Krav Maga training. I can handle this.
I head up, quiet as I slip inside, and prepare to lay down some serious intimidation tactics. Or mildly serious, depending on how big the person is.
“Okay, freeze. Don’t make any sudden moves,” I say, whipping around into the living room.
; Instead of a local yokel in overalls or a couple of young hooligans with spray paint or toilet paper in their hands, I find a woman standing there, looking bewildered as the morning sunlight peeks in through the window. My dramatic entrance is foiled as I nearly trip over myself in surprise. She looks startled. She’s tall, rocking some nice looking stiletto heels, a gray pencil skirt, and a cream blouse, her jacket flung over her arm. Her dark hair’s drawn back in a bun, and she looks at me with big blue eyes.
“Um, hey. Not to be rude, but who are you and what the hell are you doing on my set?” I say, trying to sound large and in charge. Really, it just sounds like a squeak.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t know it was off limits. Charlotte Hemmings.” She holds out her hand. I take it, but immediately freeze. Charlotte? Like…Charlotte Charlotte?
“Laurel Young. Producer. Do you, uh, know anyone from the production?” I say, as not-casually as possible. She nods.
“Flint McKay. His sister Jessa emailed me, said he was building this house.” She looks around, baffled. “She said something about how knowing the foundation had been laid would be good for my wounded soul.” Yeah. Definitely Jessa. She turns in a circle. “I just can’t believe he finally built it.”
“Finally?” I say. My voice has a sharp, instant edge to it. I can’t believe this is Charlotte. I pictured her as a leggy blonde with sexy librarian glasses and a huge rack, but it’s worse than that. She has pale, delicate skin, a long neck, rich brown hair, blue eyes.
She’s me.
That is, she’s a taller, prettier, more collected, better-groomed version of me. Suddenly, standing here, I feel invisible eyes sizing me up through a half-lidded gaze. Comparing me. Settling for me. I imagine Flint in this room right now, glancing between the two of us, deciding I look enough like her to be worth a couple good fucks.
And then it dawns on me, right before she says it.
“Flint designed this place for me.”
I plaster a fake grin on my face. “Well now, isn’t that just—”
“As an engagement present.”
