Rugged(43)

“Me? Never. But I love the idea of you fishing.” I look to Jerri, who’s slurping some tea. “What do you think? Take a couple of steadicams out to the river, record Flint against the afternoon sun. It’s a real man’s activity.”

“Mmm, as an honest to God man’s man, I so agree,” Raj says, starting up a game of Candy Crush on his iPad. I’m glad my assistant producer trusts me enough again to get back to heartily slacking off on the job in front of me. It’s comforting, really.

“Are you serious, Laurel?” Flint asks me. There it is, that rugged, masculine ‘you poor, neglected child’ look he gets when I mention my upbringing in suburbia. “You’ve never fished?”

“For compliments, yes.” Rim shot. I love me. The entire room groans, and Flint shakes his head.

“All right. Go put on some old jeans and boots. I’ll teach you.” He gets up, as Jerri and the director of photography are already on the phone and assembling a crew.

“What? Here? Now?” And what does he mean ‘old’ jeans? I’m wearing a pair that’s been around seven months. That’s as ancient as it gets.

“No time like the present.”

“Make fish while the sun shines. A fish in the hand is worth two in the brook,” I add weakly, trying to joke. Flint pauses, looking ruggedly bewildered. I shrug. “I can keep going.”

“Please don’t,” he says. “Now come on. This’ll be great, I swear.”

“Fine,” I sigh, ignoring Jerri giving me an urgent shove. “If it makes the star of our show happy.” We get up.

“I think I’m going to respond very well to my new celebrity status,” Flint deadpans, brushing past me on his way out the door. I’m not blushing. It’s not like the mere touch of his body makes my skin flush.

Sanderson, Laurel. Don’t forget Sanderson.

“Say hello to the great outdoors for me,” Raj smirks, flashing me a little wave. He’s still snuggled up on the couch, glued to his iPad screen. He cracks a grin. “Yes! Next level! I’ve been trying to get there for, like, ever.”

Real shame to have to grab his iPad and snap it shut. Such a shame. Raj looks like I just tore his Star Trek: Next Generation Data figurine out of its pristine packaging. I tuck the offending Apple technology under my arm.

“It’s so nice of you to come along and lend your support,” I say.



“You have to come in here,” Flint calls to me, standing knee-deep in the river. It courses by, the afternoon sun glinting and rippling off of it. Flint’s got his fly fishing pole, and he’s wearing some kind of rubber suspenders. Are they called waders? Let’s call them waders. Rubber pants are not enough to shake Flint McKay’s colossal sex appeal, but they jostle it a little bit.

“I’m a shore dweller,” I call. Jerri’s grumbling beside me, trying to set up the shot and get the boom mic out over Flint. He waves me over. I struggle not to make a face as the bottoms of my shoes get cold and muddy.

“I’ve got an extra pair of waders. Maybe they’re a little big for you, but they’ll work.” He’s not taking no for an answer. Keeping the talent happy is top priority. But why can’t keeping him happy involve a spa day, just once?

“He’s got a point,” Jerri tells me, guiding me up the hill. “He’s always at his most relaxed with you in the frame. You’re like the Flint Whisperer.”

Groaning, I dig through the van to find those stupid rubber pants. A few minutes later, I’m sloshing out into the river, wincing as the cold water rises up around my legs. I’m going to go numb. I can feel it. Flint’s waiting for me, one hand out for me to take. I don’t grab him, even though I’m a little unbalanced. If I’m going to keep from making an unprofessional ass of myself on this shoot, not touching him is going to help. A lot.

“Come on, nature girl,” Flint says, handing me a fishing rod. The camera’s trained on our faces. “Now. You know what this is?” He pats some kind of round thingy with a crank on it.

“It, ah, sharpens your pencils,” I say, blanking on the appropriate term. And screw it; I’m out in the damn mud with a bunch of cameras in my face. I’m dishing out some payback. “You know, for those Zen fishing moments when you have a brilliant idea, but your pencil’s too blunt to write it down? Happens all the time.”

“Much as we men of the wild appreciate your understanding of our philosophical musings,” he says, the deadest of pans, “this is called a reel.” He pats it.

“Much like,” I say, turning for the camera slowly, “Reel World Productions, finest production company in all the land?” I smile, a vacant, wide-eyed grin.

“Yes,” Flint says, following my cue and turning back as well. His voice sounds forced and cheerfully robotic. “Reel World. I’m so glad I’ve given my firstborn child in exchange for fame. And free teeth whitening to boot.” He imitates my hollow grin, even giving thumbs up. The men behind the cameras are trembling with suppressed laughter. Talk about shaky cam.

“Can we get serious?” Jerri snaps, though I can hear her struggling not to crack up.

“We can cut this later, right?” I ask through my teeth, still grinning.

“Fine. Do what you want. But we need some usable footage before it gets dark,” Jerri calls. Flint and I return to the business of fishing. Damn, I’m starting to tremble.