Rugged(14)

“I haven’t had a good old fashioned breakfast in a while.” Right now if I were home, I’d be enjoying an almond milk latte and a low calorie yogurt. Have I mentioned that Los Angeles has its problems?

“Sit down. Eat. Then tell me about how my brother’s going to be an instant celebrity.” She grins as we sit at the breakfast nook. She even brings out the fresh-squeezed orange juice. With pulp. I think I love this woman.

“I showed your footage to a few of my colleagues,” I say, readjusting the truth slightly. Hey, Suze counts as a colleague. “They went crazy for Flint. I mean, sexy man of the woods teaches women how to become self-reliant home renovators? It’s feminist and caters to the female gaze. The ratings could explode.”

“It’s so weird to hear my brother described as ‘sexy’ in a professional way,” Callie laughs. I almost apologize, but she seems to think it’s hilarious. “Seriously, though, I am so freaking excited. I’m a certified reality TV junkie.” Callie gets up for a second when Lily starts banging her plastic sippy cup on her chair’s tray.

“They have treatment for that sort of affliction these days,” I say, mock-serious.

“No, it’s too late. I’m gone. When I’m home with the kids, trying to pick mashed up Cheerios out of the carpet, I flip on Housewives of Cancun and just feel myself relax by the poolside, cabana boys all around me.” Callie takes a sip of juice, and closes her eyes in bliss. “And The Engagement. Just the thought of Derek McClintock getting down on one knee…” she says, sighing.

“Or both?” I add. I can’t help myself. That gets us both snort-laughing. “I’ll pass that on to marketing. I’m sure they’ll be very interested. But don’t worry, your brother isn’t going to be overtly sexualized.”

“Good, because the words ‘overtly sexualized’ and ‘your brother’ kind of put me off my bacon.” Callie takes a crispy bite. Screw it; I grab another couple of pieces for myself. I haven’t had pig this good since Tyler’s hipster faux-BBQ. Actually, I didn’t eat anything at that party. Pork chops are too mainstream, apparently.

“Speaking of, where’s Flint? I thought he’d be around?” I not so discreetly go in for another helping of home fries. Can Callie just move to LA and feed me?

“Out back in his workshop. He’s probably seeing if he can create a carburetor out of maple and pine.” Callie takes a deadpan forkful of eggs. “It hasn’t been going well.”

“Well, combustible engine and wood combos have a way of curtailing a person’s ambitions,” I say. That makes Callie laugh again. We clink juice glasses.

“I thought reality TV people would be all willowy and tanned and platinum blond, you know?” she says.

“We short, milky brunettes thank you for your surprise,” I say. She waves her hand.

“I mean that as a compliment! I was afraid I was gonna have to run out to the store to pick up some Tofurkey and kale.”

Wiping my hands on a napkin, I look around. “Real talk here. I’m kind of surprised at all the exposed beam, huge window, Restoration Hardware chic of this place. I didn’t think Flint hankered to be ‘modern man of the woods.’”

“It wasn’t really his idea,” Callie says. For the first time, her smile falters. “The potential owner, er, dropped out. Didn’t want to buy. So he sort of inherited the place.”

“Who’d he make it for?” I ask. Then I see, from Callie’s quickly downcast eyes, that maybe I shouldn’t have asked that question. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

At that moment, the screen door slides open, and a wolf erupts into the room. It bounds across the kitchen, its huge paws scraping and slipping across the waxed floor.

“Bubby!” Lily screams gleefully, clapping. The monster lopes over and puts his paws on the chair to lick her face, then Callum’s. The children pull his ears and squeal with glee. Okay, now that my heart’s out of my throat, I can see it’s not actually a wolf. Just a dog the size of a Shetland pony. Kind of cute, actually.

Until he comes over for some Laurel love. I stand up, and get knocked over by the beast. He starts licking my face like crazy. My world becomes drool.

“Chance! No!” That’s Flint, and he pulls the huge, snuggly pooch off. Chance sits by his master’s leg, gazing up adoringly with his tongue hanging out. And when I get a look at Flint, I almost start panting, too.

Flint has a shirt. In his hand. As in, it’s not on his body, which is laid bare and spectacular for all the world—meaning me—to see. His broad shoulders are perfectly sculpted, and his muscled chest has a light sheen of sweat. The abs are rock solid, and a fine trail of hair leads down to…a hidden area. I might need to relearn how to breathe. CPR, the kiss of life, maybe Flint could volunteer…

His sister is here, and there are children, dogs, and bacon present as well. What’s wrong with you, Laurel? Remember the ‘code red, no lust’ rule? Remember that thing you’re not supposed to remember, and what an unprofessional idea it was? Focus!

“Sorry about that. He’s a monster.” Flint gives me a hand and helps me up. Callie groans.

“Damn, Flint. Could you try saddling that boy and riding him around? Easier to control that way.” But Callie accepts some enthusiastic Chance kisses. He puts his paw lovingly on her knee. “And for the love of God, dress yourself, will you?”