Rugged(17)

“Damn, that sounds terrible. You never did projects with your dad? Make a birdhouse, anything?” He sounds like he pities me. My face is on fire.

“We had some of those expensive crystal sugar feeders for hummingbirds,” I say weakly. Flint is not impressed; but it’s not like I crave his approval, for God’s sake. I don’t! Mostly. He grunts.

“That’s it. We’re going to make you a damn fine birdhouse. Follow my lead.” He takes out some plywood, and goes to his workstation to pull out a saw. Just like that, out of nowhere. “All right, now I’m going to get behind you.”

Mmmm. So many, many dirty things that could be said. So very little time to say them. Instead, I force myself to stay professional and allow Flint to hand me the saw. He stands behind me, putting his hand on top of mine to adjust the grip.

“The trick is to jigger it a little bit first, create a groove for the blade,” he says. He demonstrates, making fast little cuts with the saw. The wood starts to yield to him. “There. Hard part’s done. Now you need to give it a few long, easy cuts. Back and forth, back and forth.” His hand’s on the small of my back, his other hand on my arm as he guides the motion. I’m undone. Him being this near, with this much body heat and flannel, is completely overwhelming. I feel my cheeks burning, and an answering fire kindling down below.

“Is this good?” I ask breathlessly, my voice a little too throaty, awkwardly pulling my arm back.

“Well, close. It’s sort of—careful!” he says, as I somehow manage to bring my arm way too far back and send the saw flying. It warps and whines through the air, and Flint dodges out of the way as it crashes to the ground, upsetting a pillowy mound of sawdust. Crap. Instinctively, my gaze snaps to the camcorder. Hopefully I can edit this section out, but honestly, it might make a funny bit for the sizzle reel. Which means Davis is going to see me making an ass of myself. Ah, show business.

“If the zombie apocalypse ever comes, promise not to arm me with a saw,” I groan as I pick the tool up, feeling like a, well, tool. My face flushes hotter in embarrassment.

“That should probably be a segment on the show, right?” Flint says, helping me up and grinning. “‘Flint McKay’s Guide to the Zombie Apocalypse.’ Sounds kind of badass, don’t you think?”

“Oh man, forget home renovation. We’ve found our new paranormal superstar.” I still feel awkward standing in front of the camera, being recorded like this. But I can’t help laughing a little, and Flint joins me.

“You more of a baseball bat person?” he asks. “You know, for knocking in undead heads?”

“Probably more of a ‘get in a fast car and drive away, looking for a good isolated motel with WiFi’ kind of person,” I say, giving a guilty shrug. “I’m city tough. If you need someone to get you a table at Mr. Chow’s during the dinner rush, call on me.”

“Well, there’s nothing wrong with those skills,” he says, putting the saw away. “There’s something nice about city girls. They’ve got a quick way of thinking and talking. I like that.” He grins, the dazzle factor blinding me. “After all, those years in New York weren’t a total loss.”

“Never lose the rustic charm,” I say, trying to keep my cool with the way he’s looking at me. It’s purely friendly, of course, but still intoxicating. “It’s what’s going to sell the whole show.”

“Sell.” He makes a face. “I hate to think of selling myself. I can’t help it.”

“That’s probably the smart way to think in reality TV,” I say, finally shutting down the camcorder. I breathe a long sigh of relief. “The ones who really go off the rails are the ones who start seeing their whole lives through the camera lens. That’s when it gets creepy.”

“That’s not going to happen to me,” he says, decisive.

“I won’t let it. I promise,” I say. I stack the plywood to give myself something to do, then dust my hands, making a face at the dirt on them. That makes him laugh.

“All right. I’m putting myself in your very clean, capable hands, Ms. Young,” he says. Okay, Laurel. Don’t blush, don’t get lusty-eyed. He doesn’t mean that way, after all. “Do you want to try something simpler?”

“Like what?” I ask. He considers for a minute.

“Maybe nailing two pieces of wood together?” he asks, grinning. I lightly smack his arm, and he laughs again. God, that is a wonderful sound. It’s like rich, manly velvet.

Before we can get around to the instructional nailing (not that kind, not that kind), Flint’s cell phone rings. He grabs it. “McKay. Hey, Josh, what’s going on?” He takes a few steps, nodding as he listens. “You want it today after all? All right, give me half an hour to get everything loaded. I’ll see you there.” He hangs up and makes a face. “I hate to do this, but I’ve got to run out. Two chairs and a sofa I redid, the guy wants them today. He said tomorrow, but I guess he got back into town early.”

“It’s fine,” I say, packing up my camera. I would’ve liked to shoot the rest of the day, just to give the deadline more room to breathe, but you do what you can with what you have. “I need to go back to the inn and plan the budgets anyway.”

“That sounds like a wild time,” he says. There’s the deadpan voice I’ve been missing all afternoon.