by Lila Monroe
My stomach flips a little, then seems to ripple. I shouldn’t have had that sausage sandwich for breakfast. Or the second sausage sandwich.
“Done,” Leigh says, standing back and looking me over. Her lips are pursed in barely concealed disapproval. “Well, it’ll fly, at any rate. I guess there’s nothing to be done about your hair.” With those encouraging words, she leaves. Flint and I get out of the makeup chairs and go into the green room, the nice little holding pen for guests. We sit together, watching the opening segment and waiting to take our places. Kandy Kristi is wearing a pale pink suit with metal pyramid studs down the arms, that manic smile, and white stiletto heels. Stilettos, at this hour? I can barely walk in Uggs. Our host giggles and shrieks while a man with gleaming white teeth shows off Harlow and Garbo, two Shih Tzus modeling the latest hairstyle for celebrity dogs. The words ‘wavelike crimps’ are used seriously. I wonder if I’ve accidentally taken a wrong turn into literal Hell.
“Relax,” Flint murmurs. He leans down next to my ear to say it, sending that customary flush of heat through my body. What would be really relaxing is to reach up and put my arms around his neck, to feel him draw me in against him, to find his mouth on mine…
And after that, Santa, I’d like a pink pony.
“You’re on in a minute,” a man with a headset tells us. He’s looking at a clipboard, his hassled appearance suggesting he’s considering throwing this all away and heading back to his hometown suburb in Ohio, where he can get a regular job and fade in with everyone else, never standing out, never being uncomfortable.
Actually, the Ohio thing might just be me projecting.
“Not to freak out on you,” I tell Flint, breathing deeply, “but I’m freaking out.”
“Don’t.” His voice is commanding, but not pushy. Gently, he places a hand on my shoulder. “No one, and I mean no one, is more capable than you. You’re the person who hunted me down and didn’t let up until I said yes to this show. Remember? That insane, charismatic, relentless person is going to nail this.”
It’s a great pep talk. But I feel like that insane, charismatic, relentless person decided to take a day at the spa and left me behind to do all the work. Are my knees actually trembling? I square my shoulders. Well, I’m not going to break down, dammit. As ridiculous as this talk show idea may be, I’m going to stand my ground.
I maintain that resolve until we sit down on the couch in front of the cameras and I get a real look at Kandy Kristi. She’s an ever-smiling, white-toothed, platinum blond goddess with a bit of a rocker edge who’s probably six feet tall. On TV, she looks like she’s thirty-three, tops, but up close you can see the wrinkles smoothed and pulled back so that only the faintest traces of them remain. I used to think Kandy’s tight, slightly odd speech was just the way she talked. Now I think it’s because so much of her face has been pulled back.
This is why I wanted to work behind the camera.
“Flint McKay and Laurel Young,” Kandy crows, looking out to the camera and the live studio audience. They applaud and cheer. I think I even hear some gasps and whistles when Flint comes out. He sits down like a champ, though. Me, I just kind of fall into a chair and hope no one notices. “And you’re here to show us how to assemble our own furniture?” Kandy asks Flint. “Warning you right now: we ladies have a hard enough time operating a hair dryer.” She giggles as the women in the audience applaud. Wow. Nothing like some cheap-shot, female-led sexism to start the day off right. Flint smiles.
“You’re downplaying your own abilities, Kandy. I believe women can be as capable as any man,” he says. That gets titters and happy noises from the audience.
“Oh, I don’t know about that. I love having a big, strong man around the house to help me assemble myself,” Kandy says, fanning herself with her notes to show just how hot Flint is. The audience erupts in cheers and applause.
Where is my enormous coffee mug? I need a drink. Grabbing it off the table, I pray I can hide my face behind it and no one will notice me. Be the coffee mug, Laurel. Become one with it.
“Now. You have a piece you recently remodeled that you’d like to show us?” Kandy asks Flint. Still no focus on me. Good. Maybe I can discreetly burrow a hole through the floor and make for Pismo Beach like Bugs Bunny.
This is no time for Looney Tunes. My God, pull yourself together.
“Sure do. It’s a great piece I found at a local yard sale.” Flint signals off camera, and a production guy brings out a beautiful 1920s art deco armchair, reupholstered in soft, caramel-colored leather and painted with gold accents. Flint gets to his knee as he shows it off. “It was pretty beat up when I picked it up, but once I got it in my shop I just sanded it all down and applied a dark stain to contrast with the lighter brown of the leather, then followed that with a few layers of lacquered varnish. You see?” He runs his hand along the chair leg. “Looks expensive, but refinishing it took minimal time and money. With some basic tools, it’s not hard for anyone to get this kind of elegant look.”
“Where can we get some of these fabulous tools?” Kandy asks, in what feels like an incredibly rehearsed manner. Flint’s game for it, though.
“My family’s company, McKay’s Hardware, supplies every kind of varnish, paint, or tool you need for refitting or refurbishing your home,” he tells the women. He returns to sit next to me on the couch, and I get a close look at that incredible smile. The audience is practically melting. “And if you watch our show, Rustic Renovations, you’ll have all the instruction you need to acquire some first-hand experience.”
“I think every lady here would love a little first-hand experience,” Kandy says. The laughter is huge, and then slowly Kandy’s eyes track over to me. Oh God. Look, I’m a lady with coffee. Don’t bother talking to me. I know nothing but this mug.
“Now, Laurel, you were the producer on this show? Producer turned into star. That’s a real Hollywood dream right there!” Kandy laughs again, and her eyes would crinkle at the corners if she had enough skin to do the job. My nerves make me mean.
Okay. I can do this. I smile, open my mouth, and say,
“Sure.” Then I slurp more coffee. Loudly. I actually cannot think of more words.
Great. Great job there. You could hear a pin drop in this room. The room starts spinning. I can see Kandy staring at me with confusion, and Flint looking like he’s really concerned. The camera and the lights all kind of blend together into this horrible soup of noise and light and I’m dizzy and…oh God, I’m going to pass out. I think I have to put my coffee down.
“It was a real journey, though. Wasn’t it?” Flint asks, covering for me. I stare right into his eyes. This I can do. I can talk to Flint like it’s just us. My frozen smile eases into something natural.
“I actually had to go hunt him down in Massachusetts to get him to agree,” I say. There are some shocked laughs in the audience.
“Do tell!” Kandy says, her voice pitched high, probably hoping this doesn’t morph into another awkward moment. Those don’t play so well on live television.
“My sister actually submitted my audition tape for me,” Flint says, this time to the women. They hoot and gasp. “I didn’t know anything about it until Laurel showed up, pounding on my door in the middle of the night. So if she’s watching: thanks, Callie.” He waves, that good-natured smile on his face. I’m pretty sure that Callie is watching this, probably in her living room while cleaning Spaghetti-O’s out of the carpet. And I’m pretty sure she just screamed.
“And you found him in the submission pile?” Kandy says, turning to me like this is just the most fascinating thing. Oh no. My eyes are off of Flint, and that means my stomach drops right into my feet. I never said I was an on-camera person, dammit!
“Yes. Just…piling it,” I say. No one laughs, but thankfully no one has to. Flint steps in and takes the burden off me again.
“I’m grateful every day that Laurel came into my life,” he says. There are coos of delight out in the audience. Yeah, don’t get too
excited, ladies. He doesn’t mean it like you think he does. “This was a once in a lifetime opportunity for myself and for McKay’s.” See?
After another exhausting three minutes of this, the segment is finally over. We manage to remind the ladies another fifty times what the title of our show is, and when it premieres. Then, Kandy is done with us. She doesn’t pay any attention to me, but she’s all smiles for Flint.
“You are just gorgeous,” she purrs. She even grabs his arm and squeezes. “What do you do for fun?” Wow, Hollywood decided to roll out the ‘Let’s Sexually Harass Flint McKay’ parade with a vengeance.
Flint delicately removes her hand from his arm and steps back. “Read. Hike.”
“Swim? Because I know a fabulous beach up the coast. Clothes optional.” She winks at him. Eww.
“I don’t care for the ocean. Too many sharks,” he says flatly. Flint walks away, and I sigh with relief. That was getting uncomfortable. Kandy pouts and frowns at me. At least, she would frown if she could move her forehead.
“Laurie,” she says, nodding curtly, forgetting my name three minutes after we’re done. I’m fine with that, because right now I have to find someplace to potentially vomit.
Okay, vomit is the wrong word for it. I need a place to reflect, to gather myself, to achieve maximum poise. So the first janitorial closet I see as I’m walking down the hall, that’s the one I leap into. Not hiding. Just…thinking. While hiding. And maybe looking for a bucket in case things go south in the stomach department.
I can’t do this. I run a hand through my hair, allowing my knees to really knock together. There’s no way I can keep a straight face during these interviews, no way I can say the things they want when they want them. There has to be a way to get out of this.
Someone knocks on the closet door. Do janitors usually knock before entering supply closets? I’m silent until I hear Flint say, “Laurel? Are you all right?”
“Yes. Just reconsidering career options,” I say. Flint opens the door and we stare at each other. “I may go back to school to become a broom,” I add. I’m hoping this doesn’t look too stupid, but I have a feeling it does.
“I’d get in there with you for some privacy, but I don’t think they make closets my size,” he says. I laugh, but I don’t leave my sanctuary. We likes it here, precious.
“I don’t think I can do this,” I tell him. He frowns.
“Please don’t say that. You’re the thing that’s keeping me grounded through this process.”
“You seem like you’re doing a fine job on your own.” It’s not like you need me, McKay. Don’t make out like you do.
“I’m serious. I don’t know what was wrong with that woman’s face.” Flint looks legitimately freaked out. “Where did it go?” He shakes his head. “You make me remember there’s at least one sane person in the room. I’m serious.” He holds out his hand. “We’re the dream team now, partner.”
I silently count to three, try and fail to sink into the floor, and then give him my hand with a big sigh. Oh, why not? We even smile at each other. “Together,” I quip, “We shall ride into battle, slaying glorious talk show hosts to achieve mythical ratings.”
“My version was less King Arthur and more Wyatt Earp, but yeah. That sounds good,” Flint says. We both laugh. God, it feels so good to be this close to him, even inside of a broom closet. His eyes meet mine, unafraid. He puts his hand on my arm, pulling me a little closer…
His phone buzzes. He pulls away, takes his cell out, and looks. He smiles, his expression wide and warm.
“Who is it?” I ask, trying hard not to pry.
“Jessa sent me a text. She’s dress shopping for the premiere.”
“Oh.” I try not to sound relieved. Raj walks past us, barely even looking up from his beloved iPad. See? Even my nearly-psychic, gossipmongering assistant producer knows that Flint and I and our great love affair are utterly, completely over.
“Hate to intrude on your little closet escapade, but we gotta move,” he says over his shoulder, signaling for us to follow. Flint moves back and lets me step out. What I wouldn’t have given just to be able to invite him inside and shut the door.
When we slide into the backseat of the car, I start to reconsider my attitude toward the silence about Charlotte thing. Hell, maybe I’ve been wrong; it’s been known to happen. After all, he never specifically said they were a couple again. Flint’s been so friendly recently. Would he be like that if he had a fiancée? Maybe there’s hope. The thought sparks a fire of excitement inside me. Maybe we can talk it over. Communication and honesty are the best policy. Maybe we can—
Flint’s phone buzzes again. It’s on the seat between us. He reaches for it, but I catch a glimpse of the text before he picks it up.
It’s from Jessa. ‘Having a blessed day. Isn’t she gorgeous?’ And there’s a picture of a beautiful woman in an elegant gown, smiling and all dolled up for a premiere.
It’s Charlotte.
Flint picks up the phone and texts her back. I lean against the seat and stare out the window, blinking back the sting in my eyes. It’s allergies. Lots of pollen today.
I decide not to talk for the rest of the ride. Clearly, there’s nothing to say.
29
Constant promotion is exhausting no matter who you are. But when you’re working alongside the most irresistible man in reality television, it’s more infuriating than you could possibly imagine. This is why you need brunch. In Los Angeles, brunch is practically a championship sport. We are the reigning kingdom of the brunch. Brunch is the miracle cure, and especially brunch with one of your closet and most fashionable friends. And no, it isn’t Suze this time.
“It was a three month wait to get this place,” Thomas tells me, whipping his linen napkin in the air before making an elaborate show of putting it in his lap. He snatches his sunglasses off and leans back into the sunlight.
“Worth every minute,” I say, taking a sip of fresh papaya juice. It’s a dream come true. Instead of being stressed in my apartment, we’re here on the patio of Refresh, the hottest new brunch place in town. It’s kind of a drive out to Los Feliz, but the restaurant is a cute little reconstructed French chateau-style bungalow, and the outdoor garden with the palm trees and hibiscus flowers is simply heavenly. The waiters are all dressed in white button up shirts and black pants—fancy casual. We had to pick between the bottomless mimosas and bellinis, always a chore. The air smells like orange blossoms and honeysuckle. Each table has its own little bonsai tree as decoration. And I’m pretty sure I spot Keanu Reeves and Tom Hanks chatting over poached eggs. Life is good.
“How do I pay you back for all your generosity?” I say, laughing as I take a sip of my French pressed coffee. The crab cake in hollandaise arrives. I try not to dig in with too much relish.
“Find me the man of my dreams,” Thomas says, flashing white teeth with a killer smile before sipping his mimosa. “I’m practically a monk these days.”
“A monk with exquisite taste in caviar,” I say, grinning. “And what do you mean you need to be set up? With all your time styling Leonardo DiCaprio, I’d expect you to have found some movie star bodyguard to sweep you off your feet.” Thomas sighs, tucking a napkin into his collar to preserve his crisp white shirt.
“Closet cases, darling. All of them. I don’t have it in me to work that hard.” We chuckle and enjoy the fabulous food. These raspberry jam crepes are nearly melting in my mouth. I need to remember to make more time for Thomas in the future. We’ve both got ridiculous schedules, but these kinds of relaxation days are necessary. Especially since this is my one day off this week. No having to stare at Flint, no having to deal with interviews and talk shows. I need to come to the east side more often. Say what you want about the bustle of Los Angeles, but there are still places in this city to find peace and quiet.
For about three seconds, that is. Then Flint walks through the doors and out onto the patio. Our eyes lock.
What the hell is he doing her
e? Is this some kind of cruel trick of fate? I’m about ready to throw my crab cakes into the air and take off for the street, screaming in frustration. Then I might double back and grab a couple of the crab cakes for the road, because who am I kidding? But I’d still run.
Flint walks over to our table. Thomas is as stunned as I am, though I think he’s just appreciative of the view. “Who is this slice of heaven?” he mutters out of the corner of his mouth.
“Laurel,” Flint says, smiling down at me. His eyes are wide with amazement. “I can’t believe it.”
“What are you doing here?” I ask, mouth agape. Flint looks from Thomas to me. His smile vanishes, replaced by the slightest frown. “We’re not on Gossip Talk until tomorrow morning.” I am not looking forward to that radio interview. The amount of dirt those hosts can find on a person is terrifying. Plus, they like playing barnyard animal sounds at distracting times.
“We were looking to grab some food,” he says, still glaring at Thomas, who doesn’t notice because he’s checking out Flint’s perfectly sculpted ass. “Suze recommended it. She didn’t mention you’d be here.”
But she knew we would be. Suze. My own fairy tale matchmaker. If I didn’t love her so much, I would end her.
Then I remember that Flint used the word we. Oh no. I brace myself, clutching the underside of the table, and wait for Charlotte to step outside and blight the soft golden California sunshine I was just enjoying so much.
A woman pushes a stroller out onto the patio, cursing as she nearly trips over the threshold. My breath leaves me in a fast rush. Callie! Flint goes at once to help her, but I’m already rushing over to crouch down and coo at the twins in their stroller. Lily starts to screech with glee a little bit, which gets some model-thin woman to furrow her Botox-ed forehead—as much as she can, at least—and glare. I can see the dismissive thought bubble over her head: breeders. I glare back. Liberally. Nobody gets to look at my adorable little terrors that way, at least not without my permission.
