Rugged(42)

That first night Flint and I hooked up was understandable; everyone’s entitled to a one-night fling in an alleyway every now and then, especially if they’ve had the week from hell and there’s a few gallons of scotch and a man hotter than a blowtorch thrown into the mix. And the second time? Well, we thought we’d lost the pitch. It was a ‘so-long, nice knowing you, let’s just screw away all our failures before we never see each other again’ bit of farewell sex. But now that we’re working together in a professional capacity, hopefully for the foreseeable future, it’s my big chance to screw up in front of the whole network and all those douchebags just waiting for me to f*ck up.

So even if Flint’s not as over what happened between us back in LA as I thought…even if that makes me happier than it should…this cannot happen. Ever again.

“Laurel,” Flint says, frowning. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“I can’t,” I say, taking my hand from his grasp. And then my phone rings. I’d ignore it if it weren’t Jerri’s specific ring tone, but I have to grab the call. “Hey,” I say, listening as Jerri mostly-soberly fills me in on tomorrow’s call time and set up. I try to get off the phone as fast as I can, but it’s too late. Flint has already stepped off the porch.

“Call time?” he asks as I hang up.

“Oh-six thirty,” I say, mentally kicking myself. That was my moment to be brave, to tell him exactly how conflicted I’m feeling and why. And now that moment has passed. “So. See you tomorrow?”

“See you tomorrow,” Flint echoes, and heads down the street. Good. That’s where he should be heading: away from me and my four-poster feather-pillowed antique bed. Groaning inwardly, I go upstairs to my room and start to get ready for sleep. Rest. That’s what I need. Not calisthenics. Just a few hours of blissful, restorative unconsciousness.

Instead of conking out, all I can do is stare at the ceiling while a barrage of thoughts swirls through my brain. I will not be Brian Sanderson. I will not destroy my career, or Flint’s. This show is the best thing that could happen to both of us, and if that means we have to sacrifice our not-a-relationship in order to succeed, then so be it.

But as I roll over and give my feather pillow a few self-righteous punches, I can’t help but remember Flint in my bed, his breath against my neck, his hands, his cock…

Screw it. I jump out of bed, march into the bathroom and yank back the shower curtain. I’m going to need to make it a cold one.





16


It’s amazing what a week can do. Seven days later, I’m sitting at my cute, ornately carved wooden desk and reviewing the footage we’ve shot. Flint’s become a complete natural. Well, maybe not complete—I’m still in frame, working alongside him—but look at everything we’ve accomplished. He and his team have finished laying the foundation. The framework for the walls is up. There’re even a few luscious money shots of Flint with his shirt off, the light sweat of exertion shining on his broad shoulders, his biceps bulging.

It’s not just me being creepy. Development called after they saw the dailies, asking if we could get a little more flesh in the footage. They even specifically used the phrase ‘money shots.’

I’ve also been killing it in the professional arena—even Raj has stopped giving me the suspicious stink-eye, and Flint and I have behaved ourselves admirably. Mostly by ignoring each other every time the cameras are off, but that’s okay. It’s for the best.

Finished reviewing, I head downstairs. Flint’s waiting in the lobby, eyeing a collection of eighteenth century muskets on the wall. It’s a smaller production meeting today, just us two and Raj and Jerri, and the director of photography. We all settle down in the den, and I notice that Jerri’s got a plate of cranberry scones laid out next to her. And that she keeps sneaking them, whimpering in pleasure as she munches. Can’t blame her. Baked goods like this don’t exist in the gluten free shops along Melrose Avenue.

“So how’s it going?” Flint asks, quirking an eyebrow at me.

“In a word, perfect. You’ve completely turned this around,” I tell him. He smiles, lighting up his golden brown eyes. Gorgeous as they are, I resist swooning or getting tongue-tied. I’ve mostly gotten immune to his charms. Mostly. “Now we need to add touches of local color,” I say. Flint tenses a little; he’s still afraid we’re going to try shoehorning in a cheap love story. “Genuine color. Jerri suggested it, actually,” I say, looking over to our fearless director and waiting for her to wipe crumbs from her mouth.

“Color. Exactly,” she says. “What do you like to do for fun, McKay? Any hobbies?”

“Croquet and basket weaving,” he says, his face a mask of seriousness. Everyone stares at him blankly, and he cracks a grin. “I’m messing with you. It’s just what you’d want, Jerri. Fishing, hiking. Used to go hunting with my dad, but I’m not so into that anymore.”

“Too bad. That would’ve really sold in our rural markets,” Raj says, sighing at the lost ratings.

“Fishing is great,” I say, all but clapping my hands. “I love fishing.” By that, I mean I love fish. And by that, I mean I love sushi. But yes, fish.

“You’re a fisherman?” Flint asks, genuine interest on his face. “I mean, fisherwoman?”