Rugged(11)
“Is Callie your wife? Girlfriend?” Don’t sound too interested, Laurel. Don’t get weird. “Sounds like she’s invested in your…career.”
“Sister. Older sister,” he says. That shouldn’t be such a relief.
“I always wanted a sister,” I blurt. “‘Only child syndrome,’ I guess.”
He grins. “And I always wanted to be an only child. The grass is always greener when you’re a kid with siblings. I’m lucky to have them though, I know that now.”
Our food arrives and we dive into our burgers and fries, which taste like ambrosia of the gods. I feel more relaxed than I have in a long time, just sitting here in a cozy booth chatting with this flannel-clad hunk, slightly drunk and devouring a pile of delicious fried food that I’d feel guilty touching with a ten foot pole in LA, that glamorous city of pressed juice, quinoa and kale. He’s being so friendly now, and I can be friendly too—
No. I hit the brakes on that thought, then steer it off the road and out of traffic. This is a business meeting, not a date, despite what may have occurred beforehand. I can’t be having unprofessional feelings about the prospective star of my potential show. Herman Davis told me I had one shot, and nothing can go wrong. Panting after some hot guy, mucking up a potential professional relationship? That is a buffet of things that could go wrong. As hot as Flint is, he’s not worth ruining my career over. So I stop ogling him, and start imagining millions of American women ogling him every Thursday night at primetime. I plaster a confident smile on my face, and get back to talking TV.
“I believe that Callie sent us the tape because she saw something special in what you do. And honestly, I have to agree with her.” I grab a few sweet potato fries and think while I’m chewing them, angling for the best way to convince Flint. “I’m the most hopeless person with a hammer and nail on the planet. I can barely keep up with ‘the pointy end goes through the wood.’ But after watching your tape, I wanted to go down to Home Depot and stock up. You made me want to learn the right side of a nail.”
You. Me. Nail. Snort. I’m not drunk. I may have ingested twice my usual cocktail limit, but I am sooooo not drunk.
“If she’d told me what she wanted the tape for, I never would’ve agreed,” Flint says. He taps his finger on the rim of his coffee cup, his brows drawing together in a scowl that looks hopelessly sexy on him. “I’m the last guy to get painted up and stuck on television. That’s not me, Ms. Young.”
So formal, all of a sudden? Two can play at that game. I nod. It’s time to attack from a different angle. “I can see where you’re coming from, Mr. McKay, but I really don’t think you’ve thought this through,” I say. “Imagine what you could get out of this.”
“All right,” Flint says, his voice going hard, and I see a muscle flex in his jaw. “I could get my privacy destroyed, and my family’s. I could trade the survival of my legitimate business for temporary fame that I don’t even want. I could get to deal with executive level vampires who exist only to suck every good, decent emotion out of people, then let them put a zoom lens on whatever manufactured emotions Hollywood thinks will sell me best on TV, and watch them turn hardworking honest folks like myself and my crew into empty shells with really great hair and fake tans.” He pushes his empty plate aside and folds his arms. “Is that what you see me getting?”
Fuck. I instinctively lean back in the booth, putting a little more distance between us. It’s not that I’m afraid of him, but man, I did not expect that level of heat. There is a massive chip on his shoulder that should probably be spackled. And the only way I’ll know how to do that is if he agrees to do this damn show.
“No, of course not,” I say. Think, Laurel. You always want the talent to believe you’re on their side. “You’re not wrong about the vampires, though. Most of the executives I know haven’t seen their reflections since Reagan was president.” I try for the flat, sardonic tone. Flint pauses…and laughs.
“Well, I’m glad you see my point,” he says. He waves the waiter over and hands him a credit card to pay for our meal. It’s a nice gesture, and I thank him, but it also means he’s getting ready to split. I have to move fast, because I’m pretty sure if I let him walk out that door, my chances of making this show happen are back to zero.
“So you don’t want the fame. I respect that. But the money? Think of what a successful show can do for you, for your life. Your family.”
The waiter returns and Flint signs the check, and after he tucks his wallet away he stands up and shrugs. “I don’t want that kind of money. I’m sorry I can’t give you what you want, Ms. Young. But as Jagger once said, we can’t always get what we want. Well, he actually said ‘you,’ but I figured the adjustment makes it fit better with thematic universal longing.” His voice is a flat drawl, but his gaze softens a little. Universal longing, eh? What does Flint McKay long for?
As I trail him out the door and back down the street to our respective vehicles, I can’t help desperately grasping at whatever straws I have left. “Is this a personal universal problem?” I ask, making sure I don’t sound too eager. “Because try me.”
He looks over at me with that deep, calculating yet soulful gaze—the one that makes me yearn to measure up…and stops dead in his tracks. “Ever heard of McKay’s Hardware and Lumber? I know you’re not a do it yourselfer.” He looks like he knows he’s going to have to explain it, but is just waiting for confirmation.