Rugged (11 page)

“Laurel,” he says, his voice husky. I swallow; my throat’s dry.

“Yes?” I whisper.

And at that moment, the inn door opens up and Mrs. Beauchamp comes out onto the porch. Can I never catch a damn break? “Oh, hello dear! Got time for some tea and scones before bed?” She smiles at me, the picture of elderly sweetness. I practically jump away from Flint.

“See you tomorrow,” he says, clearing his throat and walking away quickly, hands shoved in his jacket pockets. Making some rambling excuse to Mrs. Beauchamp, I hustle into the inn and up the stairs to my room, locking the door behind me as if it will keep out all the inappropriate feelings I’ve been battling all night long.

Steeling myself, I sit on my bed and watch the sizzle reel footage again. Flint stares at the camera, his sleeves rolled up, as he shows how to apply a layer of varnish. How is he even sexy doing that? Finally, I force myself to click the video off and get ready for bed. Brushing my teeth, I remind myself how important this is.

This is my job. More than that, this is my big break. I’ve already put my career in jeopardy because of a guy before, and I’m sure as hell not going to do it again. Right? Right. Good, excellent planning. Professionalism all the way.

But as I slip into bed, I can’t help wishing I had Flint’s arms around me, his mouth on mine again, our bodies moving together. It’s not the playful, lusty fantasies I’ve had before; that moment on the porch, the two of us staring at each other, is staying with me. It’s somehow changed things, deepened the connection that started that first night outside the bar. He trusts me. And I trust him. With him I feel good, strong, capable.

Right ahead of me, I can see the show I’ve always wanted. The career I’ve always dreamed of. And then I imagine that Flint steps in front of it, blocking the view.

That’s more dangerous than anything else.

Despite what I’m feeling right now, I have to put all the Flint stuff behind me. There are a million reasons why things would never work out between us, why a relationship would be a bad idea. And who’s saying he even wants one? This thing between us, it’s temporary. Two people bonding over adversity and war, like soldiers do. Once our lives go back to normal, this’ll all blow over. You can’t fall in love with someone in four days.

Can you?

10

“Now remember,” I say as we step out of my car, “your job is to mostly stay silent. They’ll want to get a feel for you in the room. Just be polite. If they ask you questions, try to bring everything back to renovation and building. You know? Leave the Hollywood bullshit to me.” I’m starting to talk fast. The click of my heels echoes across the company garage. I check my watch for the tenth time in the last five minutes. We’re not late, are we? I mean, we weren’t late five minutes ago, but what about now?

“You can have the Hollywood bullshit,” Flint says, slamming his door and patting the car. “This is a good little machine, by the way.” He sounds impressed

“Thanks,” I say, taking some pride in my ’70 Camaro. “I don’t know how to fix cars, but I do know how to drive them.”

“That’s the damn truth,” he says, as we walk side by side out of the garage and toward the building. “I thought
I
was a confident driver. I don’t think we got below seventy the whole way from the airport.”

“It’s LA,” I say with a shrug. “And we
did
go below seventy. Twice. I think.” Flint laughs, and I sneak another look at him. He’s perfect, dressed in a blue checked flannel shirt with a leather jacket. He didn’t shave, just like I asked. He looks like a smartened-up version of a sexy mountain man. It’s working perfectly. Several women turn their heads to look as we pass. One of them almost trips and falls.

“This is good,” I say, trying to slow my breath down. My heart is jackhammering in my chest. “All those women think you’re hot. The target demographic approves. Maybe we could bring some of them with us, to testify. Is it too late to go to Kinko’s and make a graph of some kind? People like pie charts.” I’m full on babbling. Flint touches my shoulder.

“Are you all right?” he asks, his voice kind. He’s been nothing but polite and professional since we left Massachusetts, and I’m working hard to do the same.

“I just don’t want you to be nervous,” I say, about ready to put my head between my knees and hyperventilate. Flint chuckles.

“I don’t think you need to worry about
me
,” he says. “Keep yourself upright, partner.”

“Oh hardy har,” I mutter, but he’s got a point. I loosen my shoulders. “Better?”

“Much.” He reaches down and squeezes my hand once. For luck, of course. For luck.

We enter through the revolving glass doors and check in with the receptionist, then head up to the executive floor. Flint looks around the sleek metallic elevator, watching his reflection in the chrome shine of the doors. He’s hiding it pretty well, but his own nervous energy is starting to appear. It’s a lot quieter than mine, but it’s there.

“You don’t have to worry. I’m going to do all the talking,” I say.

“I know. I just.” He pauses, and nods at his reflection. “I just need to stay collected.”

“We both do.” I smile at our reflections. “Together, we can do anything. We can rule the world!”

“Lot of paperwork in ruling the world,” Flint says.

“Ew, no one mentioned paperwork.” We both laugh a little, tension dissipating. For about five seconds. Then the doors whoosh open, and lo and behold, who should be standing there but the ambassador to hell itself?

“Young Laurel, looking as sexy as ever.” Tyler gives me a shit-eating grin as Flint and I step out of the elevator. It takes all the will I can muster not to give him a solid throat strike, just for old time’s sake.

“Mmm, you know I’m
so
sorry I forgot to reply to your desperate little text message. I was too busy doing actual work,” I say sweetly.

“Oh, I don’t doubt that. Too bad it won’t do you any good. Are you ready for me to own your perky little ass?” he asks, popping a Tic Tac. He doesn’t even glance at Flint. “I think it’s so cute that you took this whole pitch thing seriously.”

Cute. Oh, classic Tyler. I notice Flint straightening up. He towers over the little asshole. Tyler seems to notice this, because he steps back. He takes Flint in, and I see the uneasiness register.

“What’s cute, Tyler, will be the look on your face after I’m done running roughshod over your shitty ideas.” I mock-ponder, tapping a finger against my chin. “Let me think. Did you decide to go with the elegant simplicity of the underage boob job idea? Or will you reach for the stars? Maybe inside the down and dirty world of Beverly Hills nannies and the over-privileged assholes who use them for sex. You’ve got experience there.” I try to shove past him, but he stands in my way.

“Don’t give yourself airs, Young. I’ve banged girls who are a lot hotter than you. It’s not that hard,” he snaps, the ‘cool dude’ façade dropping to display what an ugly little bastard he truly is. My ears buzz, and I’m about to tell him off when Flint steps into him.

“You need to be careful about the kinds of things you say in public,” Flint says. It’s basically a growl. “Someone might think that you meant them.”

“Yeah? What if I did, man?” Tyler tries to sound casual, but his voice goes up an octave. Flint leans down, enjoying watching Tyler squirm.

“Then someone would have to escort your spray-tanned ass outside to have a very frank discussion about attitudes toward women in the workplace. And afterwards, someone would have to drive said spray-tanned ass to the hospital, and someone doesn’t have time for that right now. Besides, blood is bad for the car upholstery. Understand?”

That stops Tyler cold. He goes so pale that his tan turns a weird orange-rind color. “Well. Don’t think you’re walking out with this, Young,” Tyler mumbles. He pops another Tic Tac and nearly runs away. Jackass.

“Thanks for backing me up,” I say. Flint shrugs.

“I know you didn’t need it; God knows you can handle him on your own. But I didn’t think it was right to stand by.” My heart beats faster as he grins at me. “So. Lead on to the big meeting.”

Mr. Davis is sitting at the head of the conference table, flanked on either side by glasses-wearing yes men. They look at him, then at me, then at him, probably trying to read the acceptable level of douchey behavior they can get away with.

“All right, Ms. Young. Let’s see what you’ve got,” Davis says, leaning back in his chair. I stand up, forcing myself not to smooth my skirt. Flint watches me.

“Reel World does an expert job of catering to the male gaze,” I say, giving them a big smile. If by ‘expert’ we mean sleazy, then we are the most expert around. “But it’s time to expand our demographic. More women watch reality television than men—fact. But to get a show that brings in both women and men, well, that’s the big dream. The ratings juggernaut.”

Davis nods. I’m not sure if it’s encouraging or not, but I proceed.

“
Rustic Renovations
will follow Flint McKay as he plans and builds an enchanted woodsy retreat high in the Berkshires of Massachusetts. The spectacular vistas bring in the people hungry for beauty. The hands-on, innovative design and construction will attract do it yourselfers and
Architectural Digest
subscribers alike. And the hunk factor will appeal to all young women looking for something sexy but substantive on television.” I manage to keep myself from blushing as I say it. Flint doesn’t respond. The yes men look from him to me to Davis. Their heads snap back and forth so fast I’m afraid they’ll break off and fall to the floor, still spinning around.

With that introduction, I gesture to the screen behind me, pressing play.

I’m just gonna go ahead and say it: our sizzle reel fucking rocks. Even without the gratuitous views of Flint’s biceps and Berkshire sunsets, it’s compelling,
genuinely
interesting—no celebrity scandals or outrageous sex necessary. Take
that
, Tyler. When the video ends, I lift my chin and say, “In short, it has major crossover appeal. And, in a company inundated with celebrity boob shows, it stands out in a big way.”

There. I lobbed the ball, and Davis connects with it. He nods even more; hopefully, it’s a sign of enthusiasm.

But then, right on cue, Tyler comes to rain on my parade. “Like, this is all very nice if we’re watching the best of public access,” he sneers. I suppress a sigh. Tyler and I are the last pitches of the afternoon, and since they’re running us back to back we’re both in the room. What a lucky, lucky jackass I am. Davis doesn’t respond to Tyler’s outburst, and he glances at the yes men for a nice, juicy yes. “But what about the sex factor? Is he gonna be banging hotties in the back of his trailer? Are there even any hot women in western Mass, or is it just moustaches and cankles?” Wow, Tyler has brought the asshole brigade out for some fun. He knows Flint can’t touch him in here. Tyler grins while Flint sits staring at him. No reaction. Just staring.

“There is no ‘hottie banging’ on this show,” I say, keeping my voice level. I will kill Tyler.

“Great. Then it’s all the stuff America doesn’t want to see,” he smarms. The yes men are looking at each other with discomfort now. Davis still says nothing.

“Maybe a little relationship drama would be nice?” one of the yes men says tentatively. He looks like he’s the type who’s permanently dewy. He grins weakly. “We can set something up. A little added tension—”

“We don’t need added tension,” I snap. The room goes silent. Uh oh. Clearing my throat, I add, “Our audience is out there. We just have to make sure to deliver exactly what they want, and not clutter it up. This is quality programming. It’s both entertaining and inspiring, not junk.” I stare down Tyler. He scowls at me as Davis nods.

“Very nice,” he says. “All right. I want to hear from our proposed star. Mr. McKay?”

Flint sits very quietly for a minute. He’s not looking at Tyler, or me. He’s so quiet I think I might have to stick a pin in him to get some movement, but he quickly stands up. I sit down—next to Tyler, unfortunately—and smile at him. A couple of bumps in the road, but nothing we couldn’t handle. All he has to do is talk about his hardware store, show his enthusiasm for the project, and we’re good.

“I’m going to be honest,” Flint says, putting his hands on the table.

Okay, that’s a bad start.

“I didn’t submit to your company because I wanted to be famous. My sister sent in an audition tape without my knowing about it.”

Davis furrows his brow. I’m sure, in his mind, someone not wanting to be famous is the same as someone saying they want to become a turnip: really weird and kind of impossible. My nails dig into my thigh, but I can’t stop this.

“I agreed to fly out here and pitch this show because my family business is in trouble. I’d do anything in the world to keep it going.” He frowns, and pulls his shoulders back. In this room of manicured suits, he looks like what he is: a normal American man who has no time for their crap. “But I know that reality television is fake. It’s scripted, produced, and glossed to within an inch of its life.”

Danger, danger Will Robinson. Someone get that cute
Lost in Space
robot out here to grab Flint and shut his sexily stubbled mouth. But no one, robot or otherwise, is going to stop Flint McKay on a roll.

“If you’re looking to make my life sexy or sensational, some kind of backwoods bachelor kind of deal, you’re looking at the wrong man. I’m willing to do a show where I teach people construction, take them through the fundamentals of building a house. I want to show people that any dream can be fulfilled; I like that idea. But under no circumstance am I going to let myself or the people in my life be exploited. No one should ever give up their dignity, not for any kind of show.”

“Even a show that pays you a lot of money, Mr. McKay?” Davis asks. His voice sounds flat as a board. He clasps his hands over his stomach. Flint nods.

“Even that. So I need you to understand how I feel about this whole thing.”

“You act like you’re so much better than us,” Tyler chimes in, looking at me smugly. I’m going to use my perfectly French-tipped nails to rip his damn face off. Flint whips around. For the first time, there’s some heat in his voice.