Rugged(45)

“I think I caught a fish!” I sound a little like an excited kid, shrieking gleefully as I start to reel it in, but c’mon. I caught a fish! I’m a fisherwoman! The fisher queen!

“Great job,” Flint says, whooping excitedly. “Okay, keep it steady. Slowly reel. Slowly.” I forget all about our tension, my inhibitions, everything. Right now, my whole world is fishing. The Tao of Being Awesome at Everything by Laurel Young.

“This is so easy,” I tell Flint. Feeling a little full of myself, I even look over my shoulder at the camera. Yeah, check me out, America. I’m a goddess. “If I’d known it’d be like this, I’d have—”

I don’t get to finish that thought, because the stupid fish at the end of the line decides to make one last great lunge for freedom, and takes me with him. I stumble forward, pull back hard on the line…which snaps. And he’s gone, swimming off to some fishy riverside bar for a stiff drink and a story about how he cheated death today, trying to impress all the lady flounders.

Oh damn. I feel myself tilting, tilting. I flap my arms, but it does no good. I fall backwards, splashing fantastically, and wind up sitting on my ass in the freezing water. Now it’s not just my feet that are numb. My teeth chatter. It’s cold! And wet! And watery! Why are rivers full of cold water? And why is my crew laughing at me?

“Are you okay?” Flint splashes to me and reaches down to help me up. Shaking so hard I nearly start vibrating, I nod.

“Great. At least this part’s going on the cutting room floor,” I say with some relief as he pulls me to my feet and we rush for dry land.

“Oh, don’t bet on it,” Jerri yells, practically rubbing her hands with glee. “This is a killer promotional shot.”

Huzzah. I think I’ll go join the fish for a drink.





17


Being professional is hard. I don’t mean the showing up for work on time, mainlining coffee, putting in fifteen-hour days part. That’s a cakewalk. But being around Flint all the time is quickly becoming impossible. Every time he laughs, or explains something, or wipes his forehead, or coughs, or breathes, or exists, all I can remember is us together in my bed. And that makes me worry about my job, which means I keep my distance from him. And that makes him feel like he’s done something wrong, leading us into a tailspin of awkward everything.

What’s worse is that he’s more than just a hot guy. I’ve drooled over hot men before, and once they forget to pick you up for a date, or spend all evening talking about how women are overly critical and don’t understand how economical it is for guys to still be living with their parents, or discussing their new indie band, Charismatic Megafauna, you get over it. But Flint’s a decent guy on top of everything else. He shows up early on set just to bring fresh coffee and donuts for the crew. He even remembered that Raj’s favorite is cinnamon maple, and that Jerri only has mint tea in the morning. He’s never had a single diva moment, or yelled that a thirteen-hour shoot is taking too long. Everyone seems to think he walks on water. While I know that’s a lie, given our fishing expedition, I see what they mean. He’s nearly the perfect human.

Which is why it’s so damn hard to stay away from him. And so utterly necessary.

But at least it’s Sunday, which means we’re not filming. I wake up, take a shower, and get dressed, happily humming to myself. I’ll get a clear head, maybe go into town and walk around. You know. Take a personal day. And by personal, I of course mean I’ll run a few errands for production, maybe look for some specific furnishings for the house. You know. A professionally personal day.

I drive into Northampton, which is probably the cutest town in the northeast. Many of the streets are a cheerful red brick, and the shop windows are already bright with early Christmas lights. If I weren’t so addicted to adrenaline and rush hour traffic—okay, maybe not that last one—I’d consider moving here and putting down roots. Nothing too fancy, maybe get a romantic little house on top of a hill. With a great big dog, and a large, stubbly, broad-chested man, and a fireplace with a bear skin rug, and then in the evenings we get a fire going and disrobe and—

Poor bearskin rug.

There’s some kind of farmers’ or merchants’ market going as I walk along, white tents flapping in the November breeze, jars of homemade preserves and smoked ham for sale. I head away from the food—the cinnamon-y, buttery, mouth-watering food—and walk along a row of adorable storefronts. I’m hunting for a cozy furniture shop. We haven’t shot any footage at Flint’s house yet, and that’s coming up real soon. I thought the stuff he owned was fine, but apparently Raj sent photos of the interior to someone at the network, and now they’re worried that it looks too IKEA bland. Too boring. Spice up those white walls! Hang pelts and the heads of small woodland creatures! I’m not going that far, but if they want more authentically rustic? Fine. I’ll take care of it.

First thing I need is a nice couch. I don’t want leather, since that’s a little too modern urban chic, but it can’t be something covered with cutesy fabric either. A rustic man’s couch. You know. Something hewn from boulders and wrapped in barbed wire.

One antique shop, the Old George, looks inviting. A wooden sign with a smiling, bewigged man painted on it tells me there’s probably antique perfection waiting within. I step inside, breathing in the scent of mothballs and waxed pine. A gold and crystal chandelier hangs from the ceiling, casting light on velvet armchairs and straight-backed dining room chairs. Most of these items are too cute for my needs, brass beds and dainty wingchairs with matching footstools, but you never know. I’m walking around the store, poking around price tags, when I hear someone coming in from the back.