Rugged(41)

“Can I play too?” he asks, slumping against one of the truckers. They all shoot each other looks, but shrug and let him in. “I love you fellas so much. We’re a manly buncha bros.” Then he hugs one of them. Ah. I see how it is.

I leave Raj to his ‘manly’ bro-bonding and go find Flint at the bar, staring into a beer he hasn’t touched. Grabbing the stool next to him, I smile. “You feeling all right?”

“Think I’ve had too much to drink.” That’s a lie and we both know it, but I’m not going to press.

“Yeah. It’s getting late. I should probably head back and get some sleep.” I grab my purse and pat him on the shoulder. Platonic patting, of course.

“I’ll walk with you.” He throws on his jacket.

I don’t move. “Uh…you sure about that?” I’m definitely not too intoxicated to realize we’re treading in dangerous territory here, given that Flint and I have a proven track record of post-bar night lack-of-self-control.

“Relax. I’m not gonna assail your honor,” he says.

But I like assailing. As the Styx song goes, come assail away, come assail away, assail away with me.

Okay, no more karaoke night. Ever.

We say good night to the people nearby, and start toward the door. Raj’s eyes follow us the whole way there, but before Flint and I can get outside I find myself swept up in a drunken hug from my assistant. “Following in Sanderson’s footsteps is career suicide,” he whispers in my ear. “I’m trying to help you, Laurel. Don’t do this.”

“Do what?” I ask indignantly, pulling away from Raj. “I’m not doing anything.”

His eyes narrow in that judgy way of his, but before he can get out a reply, Flint claps Raj on the shoulder in a friendly but firm farewell and hustles me out the door.

“My assistant thinks he’s my babysitter,” I explain to Flint, shaking my head.

“You don’t strike me as the type of woman who needs one,” Flint says.

Well, now. That puffs me up a little, puts the spring back in my step. I know Raj is going to give me hell at work tomorrow morning, but at that point I’ll be able to tell him that Flint walked me home and then nothing happened and therefore Raj has no basis for his silly little accusations and better not be all up in my business no mo’. So there.

And then Flint’s hand goes to my lower back, and I have to ignore my suddenly very alert body, reminding myself that we’re friends, we’ll always be friends, and it’s never going to be anything more than a professional relationship. Just like we agreed.

We stroll down the street, passing the carnage of the fading Halloween season. There are bales of hay with paper skeletons on them, waving at us. It used to be sort of like this back in Ohio, but the sky wasn’t this beautiful, velvety country dark. Also, there wasn’t a phenomenally hot man squiring me about town. So far, it’s all an upgrade.

We get to the Beauchamps’ front porch, and I listen to the heavy thud of Flint’s boots as he comes up after me. Only to drop me off at the door, of course. Like the perfect gentleman that he is.

“Thanks for not being a jerk about the pool thing,” I say. When his eyes get the danger light, like I’m going to bring up the mysterious Charlotte again, I rush to add, “About me winning. A lot of guys would get pretty irritated about the booty shaking victory dance.”

“It’s fine. But that booty shaking…” he says, grinning widely. The tension evaporates. “That was probably my favorite part.”

“Ah.” I do not at all start to blush. Not even a smidge. “Well. Guess I’ll be seeing you on set then,” I say, turning away. “’Night.”

His hand reaches for mine, stopping me.

“Wait. I wanted to say—just, thanks for helping me out today. I know I’m not the world’s biggest camera personality,” he admits. “But you really stepped up and saved the show. Saved me.”

“My pleasure,” I say. “We’re a good team. At work. Like, as colleagues.”

“That’s what I meant,” he nods. But I see disappointment in his eyes. And by golly he’s still holding my hand, which I’m not at all pulling away from him. Oh boy.

“Yes. Right,” I murmur. We should be in bed. Right now. Separately. Though actually, there’s a bed all on its lonesome upstairs, and it simply adores company—

And then, before my libidinous traitor of a brain can go any further, Raj’s warning comes rushing back to me and a name starts flashing before my eyes in neon colors:

Brian Sanderson.

I can’t believe I was being such a stubborn jackass—Raj is right. This is exactly how Sanderson’s life exploded. First he got cozy with one of the stars of his show. Then he grabbed Maribelle DuJour, helped her steal her husband’s yacht, and took off for Mexico so they could elope. I’m sure it seemed like a fantastic idea at the time, but now he’s the laughing stock of the entertainment industry. No one will ever hire him again.

That can’t be me.

Brian was an established, well-respected producer, protected by the executives. It took him literally destroying his own show to get them to cut him out of the business. I won’t get the same leniency. These exec bastards are looking for one reason, just one good reason, to write me off as a hormone addled, scatter brained womanchild, trying to finagle her way into the boys’ club using her feminine wiles instead of her smarts.