Rugged(35)

Again, teasing. But there are three women—and one man—in the room who shift in their seats when Flint mentions taking his shirt off. Actually, judging by the angle of his wrist, I think Raj is surreptitiously taking pictures of Flint with his phone.

“You don’t have to do the whole thing yourself,” I say, keeping my voice bright and my smile wide. Flint’s eyes meet mine again, and I’m instantly transported back to that night in my apartment, with his hand and mouth all over my body, both of us breathing hard as we rode ourselves closer to—

Okay, say something before you go all glassy eyed, Laurel. People are staring.

“Practical talk,” I say, clearing my throat. “We’ll have a construction crew working alongside our star. Flint, you said you have a team assembled?”

“They’re already up the mountain,” he says, nodding. “They have the plans, and they’ve started on the foundation. Pouring concrete and waiting for it to dry tends to not make for great viewing.”

“Excellent.” I kind of want to do a jig in front of the whole room. So far, everything’s on schedule. “So while the concrete does its thing, we’ll just go ahead and get some shots of the sexier aspects of construction—”

“Sexier?” Raj drawls, raising a brow as he types fast on his iPad. “Nothing like some titillating roofing.”

I’m not sure if that’s a sexual innuendo or not, so I let it go. “Flint, you’ll guide us through the most essential parts of building the house. We get you talking over the plans, outlining some logistics, see if we can get a shot of you silhouetted against the sunset.”

“Why would I be starting work at sunset?” he says, giving me a deadpan look. I give him a work-with-me-here smile; it’s the magic of Hollywood, oh studly one.

“Then we shoot you working with your crew, the camaraderie between you,” I go on. Silently, I add: I know it’s autumn, but if you can get your shirt off once in a while that’ll be a big ratings help. “Maybe, if it’s all right with the guys, we get a little bit of you hanging out in town afterwards.” Something simple, a couple of beers and some pool. Maybe shirtless pool…

“There won’t be any forced meet-ups, right?” he says. His voice gets that wary, growly edge to it, and he leans back in the creaking chair. “I know this isn’t a dating show, but that jackass back in LA told us—”

“Right, Kinley,” I say. No need to hide the animosity from this team. Most people below producer and executive status at Reel World hate Tyler with a passion. Everyone grunts in solidarity. “Don’t worry. We’re doing a quality show. No smut. No nonsense.”

“No smut?” Raj says, finally perking up from his place on the sofa. He sounds more distraught than that time Amy Pond left Doctor Who. I had to keep bringing him chocolate for days. “No smut?”

“No smut,” I say firmly, throwing a hard glance at him. Raj grumbles, puts on his lime green ski cap with the poof ball on top, and sulks. “First day’s filming starts tomorrow. We’ll still be working on the foundation, right?”

Jerri, our director, takes over at this point. She’s a short, busty redhead with a sassy punk-rock haircut that Rihanna would be proud of, a trademark leather jacket, and a serious no-tolerance policy for bullshit. It’s why I wanted her in the first place.

“McKay. Talk me through what you need,” she says, putting her elbows on her knees and leaning in. She’s even wearing construction boots. I can tell he likes her immediately.

I look over Raj’s notes after Jerri’s done, talk over things with our director of photography, and generally start feeling kind of giddy. Here I am, running my own production meeting. If only Mom could see me now, what would she say?

Probably, “That’s nice, Laurel. I still think you should get certified as a CPA, just in case this TV thing falls through. Your shirt collar isn’t starched, incidentally. Here, have some of that microwave ravioli I remembered to heat up for you.”

Ah, family.

Finally, the meeting wraps up. A couple people, like Jerri and Raj, are staying at the inn. The rest are parked at a Marriott on the edge of town, and need to get moving. The autumn sun’s going down, casting golden light that slants through the windows as we all walk out together. It’s trees and mountains and red-yellow-orange leaves as far as the eye can see, and man is it gorgeous. I even catch an appreciative whistle from our assistant cameraman. If you’ve got to shoot a show in western Massachusetts, fall is definitely the time.

The others leave, and Jerri and Raj are sniping at each other as they walk upstairs. That leaves only Flint and me, all alone except for a collection of Mrs. Beauchamp’s great-grandmother’s porcelain dolls. Which stare at you. Creepily. No matter where you move in the room.

“So,” Flint says, fixated on a particularly fascinating spot on the wall, away from me. “I, uh, guess I should head out. Chance didn’t get his afternoon walk, so the house is probably a smoldering wreck at this point. A smoldering wreck with a Great Dane in the center, holding a leash in his mouth.”

“Say hi for me,” I say, examining the most extraordinary pattern on the carpet. As Flint starts to leave, I groan. “Wait. This is ridiculous.”

Flint heaves a sigh of relief as I follow him out onto the porch. “It is.”