Rugged(16)

“Is he the reason for your interest in…the hardware side of life?” I ask. Man, I need to get better with my rustic vocabulary, stat. Flint eyes me for a second, but I put the camera on the table. It’s off. No spying on my part. He nods.

“He got me started working at the local branch when I was twelve years old. At first it was small stuff like sweeping the floor, learning to work the register. Then he saw I had an interest, so he trained me up. Circular saws, power drills, hammer and nails, everything. He was a carpenter originally, and a genius at it.” His eyes really light up. He even chuckles to himself. Chuckles! That’s not something I ever thought I’d see from him on tape. “Biggest project he had me help with was restoring an old house in town. I mean heavy duty, stripping it to the foundation and building it back up. He wasn’t trying to make any money off it. The lady who lived there, Mrs. McCallister, was about eighty-nine. She lived alone, couldn’t keep on top of the repairs, so we did the whole thing for her at no cost. Even found a way to put in one of those home wheelchair lifts, did the electrical work and everything.” He nods, lost in the memory. “She was so happy she cried.” The sincerity is there. Wow. I actually feel tears coming to my own eyes.

“So Cortland gave you a thorough education,” I say. Slowly, I turn the camcorder back on and film. Flint notices, but nods. He’s okay with it.

“It surprised the hell out of him when I ended up going to Dartmouth.” Flint shakes his head, laughing. The sound is deep and musical, and I feel the song of it reverberating in my panties. Focus, Laurel! “Sometimes even I can’t believe it. Looking back, I can’t explain what I was thinking. Maybe it was the rebellious phase every nineteen-year-old goes through. I went the finance route for a while.”

“Seriously?” I know I’m not supposed to sound like I think the star of the show is bullshitting me, but I can’t quite believe it. “No offense, but you look like the kind of guy who’d whittle his own diploma from the University of Badass.”

“Hold on.” He goes into the back of the storeroom and comes out with a dusty frame. He actually has to wipe the glass down before turning it toward me. “Here. Summa cum laude. MBA from Columbia University.”

Columbia? New York City? “You probably fit in about as well as a round peg in a square hole. No, wait. Boulder. A huge, manly boulder in a small, urban square hole.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment. And yeah, I started working for Goldman Sachs right after graduation. But my heart wasn’t in it.” His gaze darkens again. “I didn’t want to spend my life moving other people’s money around, doing dirty deals, hurting people, and pretending like I was some kind of god. Besides, I figured out I wasn’t the type of guy to leave the woods. Being away, it was like tearing my heart out. So I quit, came back, and took up co-running the family business.” He closes his eyes a minute. “Then Uncle Cort died, and the whole thing fell to me. That was right around the time the financial problems started.” He shrugs. “If it’s not one thing, it’s another.” I can hear how much it weighs on him, but he just shrugs it off. It’s kind of incredible.

“You’ve been handling the problems,” I say. Part of me really just wants to make him smile again. The sight of it was intoxicating.

“Maybe, but we’ve been treading water ever since.” He looks up at me, the liquid brown of his gaze smoldering. “You honestly think this show can turn that around?”

“Yes,” I say, instantly. Both because I want it to be true, and because it’s what he wants to hear right now. “So. Are you ready to start over?” I look through the lens again, focusing on the chair.

“I’m kind of uncomfortable when it’s just me alone,” he says. Then he stands up and pats the table. “Teaching people, though, that’s more my speed. Come on.”

Whoa, hold on. Him teaching means me being taught, and I start to sweat at the thought of it. Maybe because being on camera gives me hives—there’s a reason I’m a producer, after all. Or maybe because, despite my resolution to do absolutely nothing in the ‘flirting with Flint’ department, the idea of falling on my face or accidentally hammering my thumb in front of him is ultra humiliating. I don’t want him to see that side of me. It’s a pride thing. Clearing my throat, I try to laugh it off.

“I have two left feet when it comes to making things. Two left thumbs? I mean it, I’m terrible.” I flush a little.

“Please. I don’t know how I’m going to do this otherwise,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets and squaring his jaw. I get the feeling that asking for help isn’t something he does very often. Shit.

Well, it’s only the sizzle reel. And we can edit me out later, anyway.

“All right,” I say as I tentatively put the camcorder in the right spot for filming and walk around to stand beside him.

“Everybody can do a little basic work,” he says, that perfect smile reappearing. Talking about his uncle, the family business, it’s definitely relaxed him. He even gives me a wink. Already, I can hear the gasp of women all across the country.

“Not me. My parents used to call people to come in and do everything for us. I got to sit in my room, with my immaculately made bed and my immaculately dressed dolls, and try not to muss up the carpet fibers,” I tell him. He frowns.