Rugged(34)

I pull up to the Beauchamps’ bed and breakfast, parking my car right in front of a dried-up looking jack o’lantern. Halloween’s come and gone, but Laurel Young is here to stay. I get out and take in a lungful of that bracing Massachusetts air. Hello again, Berkshires. I return to you a champion, bringing the spoils of reality television in my wake. The inn’s door opens, and dear old Mrs. Beauchamp steps out onto the porch. She’s wearing her signature outfit of high-waisted jeans, pearls, and cardigan, and is carrying her ever-ready porcelain coffee pot. She grins and waves a handkerchief at me.

“Laurel, dear! Everything’s all set up. Come in, come in.” She turns and bustles back inside, while I hoist my laptop bag over my shoulder. The rest of the luggage can wait. Production meeting comes first.

Inside, there’re enough crocheted tea cozies and antique wooden rocking horses to make you think you’ve gone back to all the most adorable parts of the eighteenth century. An old whaling harpoon hangs over the door to the inn. There’s even a sweet, life-sized wax figure of a wig-wearing, blue-coated General Washington—that is, until he blinks and shuffles off upstairs. Mrs. Beauchamp’s husband. He’s a little eccentric.

Okay, so it’s kind of weird here. But as soon as I knew I was heading back to Massachusetts for work, I called the inn and requested an extended stay. What can I tell you? Best cranberry scones on the planet. And feather beds so soft it’s like you’re actually sleeping on a cloud. Not that I’ll be getting much sleep once production starts.

I hear the slam of car and van doors outside as the rest of my team arrives. I’m the first one into the den, the home of all our future meetings. I shove a Raggedy Ann doll aside and sit down on a chaise, taking out my laptop and gearing up for notes. While my Mac boots up, I take a moment to luxuriate. This is it. My first production meeting, with me as the producer. Captain of the ship, master of the house, creator of the hottest new do it yourself show on prime time. And there’s nothing here that I can’t handle. Except…

“Laurel.” Flint McKay stands in the doorway, tall and broad-shouldered enough that you worry about him squeezing into the room. Even the low, throaty sound of his voice sends a flurry of anxiety through my body, along with an answering heat wave between my thighs.

Right. There’s the part where I slept with our big star. Minor issue.

Flint picks his way around some footstools and sits down opposite me. My heart speeds up, and I cross my legs and try to think about snow, baseball, Mr. Beauchamp. Nothing works. The memories of Flint’s body wrapped around mine are still too strong.

Flint smiles.

“How’ve you been?” he asks. Which makes sense. We haven’t spoken in about a week, since the day I got the call green lighting our show. Since the morning after we slept together. Since the instant he got into the most awkward taxi in the history of anything and left me pacing in my apartment with no idea what to do next.

“I like your new PA,” he says, nodding at the Raggedy Ann that’s smooshed up next to me. Kind of glad she’s here, honestly. A girl can use a comfort object.

“You know what a PA is now?” I say, laughing nervously. See? Totally not awkward conversation we’re having. We sure do talk about PAs all the time.

“Production assistant,” he says proudly, leaning back against the antique wing chair he’s settled in. It creaks a little, more designed for delicate corseted ladies than six-foot something tall muscle men. Wearing flannel, naturally. “Wait. Or was it personal automaton?” He quirks an eyebrow. Hilarious. Yes. Laugh at joke to diffuse tension. Good plan. Ha ha. See, I laugh. Why talk so weird in head voice?

“You’ll fit right in at this meeting,” I say. Both of us go a little quiet at that. Flint’s not totally on board with my brilliant vision yet. He’s agreed to this show mainly to promote (and hopefully save) his chain of hardware stores. If the show tanks, so does his business. He looks uncomfortable, although maybe it’s because of all the lace doilies.

But if Flint looks out of place in Mrs. Beauchamp’s cozy little parlor, he’s a veritable fish out of water—stuffed and mounted over the inn’s mantelpiece—when my production team rolls in a second later.

“Why is there a wooden moose in the hall?” Raj, my assistant producer, asks when he swans into the room. He cracks a piece of very hipster gum, and unwinds his enormous rainbow-colored fuzzy scarf. “Ugh, there are, like, seasons here. How do we survive?” He falls back onto a sofa, all skinny bodied, liquid ease, and pulls out his iPad. Flint watches everyone else file in, looking more and more like a stubbled, caged animal with every minute that passes. He doesn’t say anything, but his right leg starts jiggling.

When my team is all assembled, sitting on little claw-footed footstools and drinking some lovely ginger tea out of dainty cups, I clear my throat and get the party started. And even with Flint sitting on the other side of the room, making me hyper aware of every movement of my body—and of his—I’m excited. This is it. Dream achieved.

Now on to the next step.

“Okay, folks. We’ve got twenty-eight days to film eight fabulous episodes and build one glorious house. For the number crunchers, that amounts to about ten incredible migraines per week.” A couple of people laugh. Laurel Young: come for the production meeting, stay for the sort-of not-jokes.

“And I’ll be building this glorious mountaintop house all on my own?” Flint asks, bemused. He’s got a teasing light in his eye. “I gotta rip my shirt off and get going right now, or can we wait until after lunch?”