Rugged(48)

“This is incredible,” I say. Already, my mind is abuzz with possibilities. We can get interviews with the people they’re helping, the poorer the better. There must be someone with almost no teeth, or really weathered skin, you know: something picturesque. American squalor, and Flint McKay’s the man to combat it. We can call the crew right now. Jerri wouldn’t mind shooting an extra day for this. In a flash, I’m dialing on my cell. “Hold on, let me sound the alarm—hey!” I say, shocked when Flint grabs my phone, shaking his head. He looks deadly serious, his warm brown eyes smoldering.

“This isn’t for the cameras,” he says. Before I can say anything else, he holds up a hand. “No, Laurel.” He can tell what I’m about to say before I even start. “This is a deal breaker for me. See these people?” he says, gesturing at the woman with her kids. “They don’t have much. They can’t afford to buy a real home. They don’t deserve to have cameras in their face. You get it?” He looks at me, wary but hopeful.

I look over at the woman and her two adorable children. One of them grins, revealing a missing front tooth. There she is: the dentistry challenged little girl I wanted to shove on camera in front of the whole country. What’s wrong with me? I didn’t see her as an excited kid; I saw her as a ratings spike. I never considered that these people were, well, people. I can’t believe I’ve let Hollywood turn me so…Hollywood.

“No cameras. It’s like this never happened,” I say instantly, pocketing my phone. Flint grins. “Got an extra hard hat?” I ask, pointing at the yellow one in his hand.

“You want to help?” He sounds surprised, but pleased. I snatch the helmet from him and put it on my head. It droops in my face, but I can adjust the chinstrap. I think.

“Let’s…nail things!” I say. Enthusiasm for the win.

Actually, watching Flint record his show has taught me a few nifty tricks. He has to go help out on the second floor with a few other guys, leaving me to fend for myself. They’ve put me to work fortifying something at the corner of the house. At first I thought it’d be a nightmare, but I’m surprising myself. I’ve got a nail at a correct angle and am confidently knocking it in without Flint even having to tell me what to do. As I work, I hear him come back down the stairs. He looks amazed as he crouches beside me.

“How’d you get to be so good at this?” he says, admiring my handiwork.

“Natural talent.” I flutter my eyelashes. “That, and a good teacher.”

“Well, you’ve made me a proud one,” he laughs, touching my shoulder. “I’m impressed.”

Flint works alongside me, guiding me on how far to space the nails apart, how to really brace the wood so that it doesn’t jiggle or go off center. He takes my hands in his larger, callused ones, shows me how to position them for certain tasks. We lean so close together at one point that our heads bump. We both laugh it off, but I flush to have my face so close to his. I repeat my cool-down mantra. Baseball, snow, Mr. Beauchamp.

By the end of the day, I’m sore and tired, but I feel damn good. Pilates may work your core muscles, but it doesn’t give you that all over glow. Or the feeling of being a better person, for that matter. Flint and I sit on a makeshift picnic blanket with some of the other Habitaters, drinking cider and laughing.

“When did you start doing this?” I ask him. Flint shakes his head, glossy hair falling into his face.

“Soon after my uncle died. We used to do so much work together, you know? It was a way to feel like I was still close to him, I guess.” The warmth in his smile, the honesty in his face, it melts me.

“We don’t deserve you,” I say. I don’t even mean it to come out, and flush. “Seriously. We Hollywood buzzards are not good enough to be working with you.”

“You’re not a buzzard,” Flint says, clinking his bottle with mine. “I think you’re more like a bright, golden hawk. Beautiful and deadly.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I laugh.

One of the kids, the girl with the gap-toothed smile, comes rushing over and smiles shyly at us all, then hugs Flint. He pats the little girl’s head, looking pleased.

As the sun goes down and the air chills, we bundle up and head back to the truck.

“You did well today, Young,” he says, handing me a blanket from the back. I am a little cold, and snuggle under it appreciatively. “I like people who roll up their sleeves and pitch in.” I enjoy watching the last light of the day shining against his profile, the hard, square jaw in particular. But most of all, I like seeing him smile, hearing him laugh.

“I like you too,” I say, grinning.

I don’t even bother trying to take my words back, or twist them into something stiff and professional, and Flint doesn’t get awkward about it either. Instead we just smile and look out the window at the Berkshires spread out before us, the sunset blazing across the sky. I could get used to this.





18


“Turn around, I can’t hear you with the wind!” Jerri yells, waving the camera guy forward. Flint turns, shielding his eyes from the sun.

“It’s just the frame of the house. We’ve been over this before,” he calls back. I trudge behind Jerri, ready to step in to stop a fight from brewing. It wouldn’t be a bad fight, though. It never is these days. Another week has come and gone, and we’re full speed ahead on construction. I can now see the skeleton of the house perfectly. It’s a naked little skeleton, probably wants something to cover its bony little butt, but it’s going to be cute when it’s finished. No. Screw cute. Majestic.