Rugged(49)

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I have to turn away from the others and take the call. My stomach drops as I see the familiarly loathsome name.

“Kinley. What’s up?” I say, wincing as Tyler Kinley’s self-satisfied drawl invades my ear. His voice is so oily I feel like I’ll need to wipe the phone down after this.

“Young Laurel. Been thinking about you all alone out there, the backwoods, no civilization for miles. No proper place to take a shit.” Tyler Kinley is proof that the universe doesn’t let you off scot free. After I landed the pitch, he somehow found a way to weasel himself aboard my show as an executive producer, claiming his experience was something that I’d need to help me along. Like a rodent of some kind, or a, well, weasel.

“It’s the Berkshires. They serve almond milk in the local café; it’s fully up to date and sophisticated. So what do you want, Kinley?” I hear an irritated grunt on the other end. Ever since my promotion to full on producer, I’ve started calling him by his last name. He hates it. Which is tasty. “Other than to remind me what I’m not missing?”

“So hostile. You don’t have to get bitchy, Young,” he says. Of course, when I sass him it’s bitchy. When he sasses me, it’s sexy. The modern Bluetooth-wearing caveman’s logic. “Anyway, I’m calling because Davis has been reviewing the footage.” He sounds a little pained. “He likes it.”

“Of course he does. It’s actual good work. I know that’s a foreign concept for you, Kinley. If you feel a tingling sensation in your abdomen, don’t be alarmed—you may just be growing a soul.”

“Listen, the point is you can’t screw this up,” Tyler snaps. “It needs to be surefire, Young. Both our asses are on the line here.” There he is, the spiteful, bratty bully he always was on the inside.

“Our asses? You flatter yourself. You’re hanging onto an executive producer credit by your badly manicured nails. Don’t worry; I’ll give you a gentle shove as soon as I’m back in LA. Then you can go ruin some other shiny new project.” Before he can whine some stupid threat, I hang up. Score one for the little guy. Or gal. The short gal.

I turn and smile as another Los Angeles native comes up the hill, this one much more likable than Tyler.

“You know how hard it is to get espresso around here?” Suze calls, holding up two venti cups. “I think I sold my soul to some sweet little old lady for these lattes.” She bounces up the last slope, her short bob of hair whipping around crazily in the wind.

“She’ll put it on her mantel and polish it for the holidays,” I say, giving her a hug. “I’m glad you could get away.”

Suze shrugs. “Love Lorne is on hiatus until next season, so I’ve got a little vacation time. Besides, I heard how gorgeous the leaves are when they change.” She sips her latte and eyes Flint as he signals for his crew to follow him. “Man. I was afraid he’d be camera pretty, you know? Superman on screen, Clark Kent in real life? Fortunately, he’s gorgeous in every medium.” She waggles her eyebrows at me.

I clear my throat. Since getting to know Flint a little better, I’ve felt weird about gossiping about his hotness. And it’s not that Suze’s attention makes me jealous, per se.

“Whoa, what is Superman doing now?” Suze says, mouth dropping open. I turn to find Flint climbing up part of the structure, then pulling himself up onto the roof. He seems to be fixing something, but I can’t tell what it is. We half-race up the hill, and I wince. Please Flint, don’t fall off and break one of your perfect arms. Or your perfectly shaped, sometimes rock hard head.

Flint walks along a beam, hands out for balance, and gestures for someone to pass him a hammer and nail. While he works, we stop and look up at him.

“I didn’t know he was an acrobat,” Suze whispers.

“Neither did I.” I sigh in relief as Flint finally swings down, landing perfectly on his feet. A couple of the construction guys clap, grinning. They’re proud of Flint. Jerri, of course, has caught the whole thing on camera.

“So he’s tall, gorgeous, helps homeless kids, and risks life and limb building dream houses. What about this man is not perfect?” Suze whispers, cheering Flint with her latte.

Nothing. He’s completely perfect. That’s the problem.

Flint sees us and ambles over, accepting congratulatory shoulder punches from the guys. “Hey. You must be Laurel’s friend.” Flint holds out his hand to Suze. She practically flutters as she gives it.

“Susan Williams. Nice to meet you.” She turns to me, so Flint can’t see her expression, and mouths ‘wow.’

“Laurel’s told me so much about you.” Flint grins at me. “She’s been so excited about you coming out. And we do like to keep her happy around here.”

“I’ll bet.” Suze flashes me a knowing half smile. Damn.

“Enjoy your visit,” Flint says. He heads back to the cameras.

“So how’s all that been working out for you?” Suze asks, still smirking.

“We should get started on this picnic,” I say, deftly avoiding the question. Deft is my middle name.

We head down the hill and pick up the basket she’s got in her car. As we walk away from the site, I notice that Suze is watching me intently. I am not that interesting.