Rugged(15)

“I got a stain down the front. I need to throw this in the wash and change before we shoot this thing. Or is the sight of me scrubbing down a shirt not manly enough for your viewers?” he says to me, heading out of the kitchen.

“No, it’s perfect. I can see it now. ‘Next week, Flint McKay shows you how to get dirty…and clean up.’” I wave my hand in the air, envisioning it. “What do you think?” I say to Callie. But she’s too busy snorting with her head on the table. That kicks me off, and pretty soon we’re laughing so hard neither of us can breathe.

“Oh Christ. You two’ve been bonding, haven’t you?” Flint says, coming back in as he yanks on a clean white tee shirt. He looks sweaty, sarcastic, and irritated: absolutely perfect.

“I’ve got another McKay in my corner,” I say, crossing my arms and beaming. “Get used to it. It’s time to make some rustic magic.”





6


Flint and I hike out the kitchen door, through the yard, and into the woods. The air is chilly enough that I’m glad I brought Flint’s jacket (which I returned) and my fleece-lined one as well. Never got a chance to use it in LA. “I have to tell you, I expect the Blair Witch to come storming out at any second,” I say, looking around the woods. “I’ve even got the camcorder.” I turn it on and peek through, getting a stunning image of Flint’s very enjoyable backside walking away from me.

“That was down in Maryland. Massachusetts witches don’t play with their food,” he replies. It takes a second for me to realize he’s making a joke. Everything he says comes out in Sexy Broody Bastard Voice.

He takes me to a shack hidden in the woods, tucked between two oaks. Okay, I’m not completely convinced this isn’t the start of a slasher movie. But when he lets me inside, I’m agog.

The workroom is clean and organized. Sunlight comes in through the windows, glinting off the saws and tools Flint has spaced out on his workbenches. Everything has been shined to perfection. The air smells sawdusty, but also strangely sweet. It’s the aroma of cut wood and competence.

“How do we do this?” Flint asks, sitting at a stool behind one of the tables. He crosses his arms, and they bulge nicely with muscle. I train the camera on him and focus.

“Start by introducing me to your favorite pieces. I want to hear how you connect to your work.” Honestly, I’m not a hundred percent sure what the specifics of the pitch are yet, but if I can get more good material like the audition tape, figuring it out will be cake. I lean back against a table. Flint keeps his arms crossed, his jaw tight. “Remember, if we don’t like the footage, we do another take.”

“I’m not relaxing enough, am I?” he asks, standing up and stepping out in front of the worktable. “I can try to be more approachable.” He keeps staring, and a muscle in his cheek jumps. “There. Almost a smile.”

I roll my eyes. “Come on. Find the greatness within.”

“Okay. Say hello to my little friend,” he says, reaching for a chair and sliding it over. All right, a Scarface reference. Good place to start. “This is a 1920s art deco original that I’ve been refinishing and bringing back into perfect shape.” Flint glances up at the camera, looking like it’s going to pull a gun on him at any second, and he’s going to kick its ass when it does. His brow furrows as he traces a finger along the back of the chair. “You see the clean lines. That shows it’s. You know. Clean.” He sounds like a fifth grader being put into a suit for his sister’s bat mitzvah. Flint sighs. “This isn’t working, is it?” he says. He continues to glare at the camera.

“When you put on your Murder Face, no. It’s got problems.” I stop recording. “I want to see more of that relaxed, sarcastic fun you were having in your audition.” Keeping up a smile and a calming tone is kind of hard right now; we’ve got three days, and I can feel every second of them ticking away. Not to mention, there may or may not be some sexual tension between us that’s getting in the way of this footage. I’m trying not to notice if said tension is here in the room or not, and trying even harder not to care whether it is or isn’t. Do I want it to be? Would that make all this better or worse? Damn.

“That’s the thing. I didn’t know it was an audition,” he says. He grips the back of his remodeled chair, almost like it’s a shield. “Callie brought over her camera. I thought we were just goofing around. But now, this is all so…” he shrugs.

“Then let’s goof,” I say, deadly serious. The corner of Flint’s mouth jerks up. There, a real smile. Finally. “Don’t talk to me about the workspace. Tell me about anything that interests you. Anything that you love, or anyone. Loosen up.”

Flint considers this. His eyes seem to darken for a second, and I wonder if I made a terrible choice telling him to loosen up. I really don’t need to antagonize the mega-hot star of my not-show right now. Especially when we have zero usable footage.

Finally, he says, “Okay. My uncle, Cortland. He’s the one who started McKay’s Hardware and Lumber.” For the first time, the studly-surly air completely lifts from him. He leans against the table, kicks one foot up onto the back of the art deco chair. He just looks comfortable. It’s wonderful, so wonderful I’m not even going to laugh over someone naming their unfortunate son Cortland.