Rugged(12)

I think, and remember going down to the hardware store with my father when I was a kid. Granted, he was only going down there to hire somebody to do work for us, but I remember the store. It was an old brown building with a McKay’s sign out front.

“I have.” I perk up, surprised. “There was one in Columbus. That’s you?”

“My family. But I’ll bet you haven’t seen too many McKay’s stores around recently, have you?” He’s got me there. I don’t pay a huge amount of attention to hardware stores, but I know Home Depot. McKay’s, not so much. “Well, there you have it. We’ve shut down three locations in the last fifteen months. My uncle opened the first McKay’s in 1957. And now the business is barely treading water.” He starts walking again, his strides purposeful, but he can’t hide the sadness that slumps his shoulders.

“That’s a pretty good run,” I say, trying to be helpful. We reach my car and I hop up and down a bit in the cold, hoping it doesn’t look like I’m bored or anxious to leave.

“There’s no such thing as ‘pretty good’ in my family. McKays don’t quit, and we don’t close. It’s an inherited trait.” He shakes his head and slides out of his brown leather jacket, wrapping it around my shoulders. “Looks like you’re freezing.”

“Thanks. It’s my thin LA blood,” I say, pulling the jacket close around me. My body goes instantly toasty, wrapped in the musky pine-scented warmth of Flint McKay’s jacket, and I force myself to banish the alleyway memories that flash through my mind along with the sudden influx of heat. “You were saying not quitting is a family trait?” Something’s buzzing at the back of my mind.

“Like I said, stubbornness and financial failure is a bad combination. But there it is, my personal universal problem, personally staring me right in the face. I don’t imagine there’s anything you can do for that,” he says, a challenge in his eyes.

Lightbulb. Bingo. And a million other eureka moments for good measure. Jazz fingers all around.

“Actually, there’s a lot we can do for you. Think about it.” I hold my hands out wide, my physical language for vision. “The show is practically free advertising for McKay’s Hardware. Home Depot doesn’t have a human face.” Especially not such an attractive, sculpted, stubbled one. “You become the McKay’s promotion. Teach people how to fix their homes with your products.” I wait, and he does seem to be interested. At least, I think the light in his eyes has gone from ‘futilely brooding’ to ‘thoughtfully brooding.’ “Every episode features a McKay’s hardware store. At least one commercial every episode is for McKay’s. This kind of promotion could really turn things around.”

“Promotion,” he says, like it’s an alien word.

Don’t stop now, Laurel. Bring it home.

“It’s just the beginning. There could be a specialty line of tools, carried exclusively in your store, that tie in with the show. The potential for marketing is through the roof. A roof you can then fix, and broadcast to millions of homes.”

“I don’t like the idea of millions of homes,” he says, decisive. I hold my breath, watching him waver. Then, slowly, “But promotion for the company…you really think that could work?” He sounds like a tentative bear, growling manfully and sniffing around a honey pot.

I’m not a craftsman, but I do know something about fishing. The line is bobbing in the water; I’ve got a bite.

“All we have to do right now is shoot a sizzle reel,” I say, physically stopping myself from doing the celebratory dance. Flint gives me a puzzled look. “Three to five minutes of video, just to get a feel for what the show could be. Then I take it to the executives.” He snorts at the mention of the word. “They stay out of the way once production starts, I promise.”

“You promise?” Flint folds his arms again. “Promises from women rarely work out the way you want them to.” I can hear that he’s joking. But not completely.

“I can promise that whatever happens, you’ll be happy. If you’re not, we walk away.” Folding my arms to mirror his, I give him my best professional yet sexy smile. Men seem to respond to that one. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll even like it.”

Flint considers, opening my car door. “All right,” he says at last, slowly, like he’s tasting the words. “I’ll try it.”

“Really?” Damn, that one came out as a squeak. I clear my throat. Think low voice. Lauren Bacall sexy. “Great, then. I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Okay.”

“Tomorrow morning. Let’s call it nine. I’ll be home.”

I grin as I duck into the car, settle into the driver’s seat, and take one last look up at Flint. “You won’t regret this. And if you do, you can always blame it on the beer,” I say, still grinning as he closes the door for me and I drive carefully out of the lot.

I’m a few blocks away when I realize I’ve still got his jacket on. Ah, well. I’ll give it back to him tomorrow. Tomorrow, when I start shooting the footage. I can edit it perfectly on my computer, run it past Suze. Then, the pitch will be mine. Success imminent. Life back on track.

I slam my fists on the wheel in triumph and let out a little whoop. Things are finally going my way. All I have to do is keep my hands off of Flint and my eyes on the prize. What could possibly go wrong?