Rugged(56)

“Yes,” I gasp, finally pulling back to catch my breath. In between pants I manage to say, “I’d love to have dinner with you.”

“Good,” he says, nodding. He gives me that warm smile and I think I actually melt into a literal puddle. The kind that must be mopped up with paper towels.

Flint takes my hand, and we head down the hill together. I can hardly process what just happened, and I know I should be on Cloud 9, so why do I still feel that little twist of fright deep inside my stomach? Is it the Sanderson thing again? No, it’s not that. That might be the least of my problems.

What I’m afraid of is reality. Not the false reality we’ve built here on set, but the one waiting for me after the LA crew packs up and heads home.

What then?





21


I have to turn the music on while I get ready for dinner, just so my excited shouting doesn’t bleed through the walls. As soon as I got back to the inn, I hopped right into the claw-foot tub and took the fastest shower known to man. Now I’m standing in the center of my room wearing my nicest, laciest lingerie I own. Every outfit I brought with me is flung on my bed, a tangle of sexy-yet-work appropriate skirts and body-hugging wrap dresses. Come on. It’s not that hard, Laurel. Pick one. Just one.

I’m being ridiculous, of course. With Flint, there isn’t a wrong outfit choice. Actually, if I went in jeans and a red checked flannel, he’d probably think it was sexy. With that thought I’m almost—almost—ready to give up and throw it on.

“You can do this, Young. Project sexy confidence,” I say to my reflection, while the Bangles comes on in my iTunes library. Yes. I will walk like a damn Egyptian. That is very confident, all two dimensional and shit.

I’m trying to choose between two outfits as I hold them up, dress in one hand, blouse and matching skirt in the other, and stare in the mirror.

That creeping doubt surfaces in my mind again, replaying the old favorites: Brian Sanderson, the Hollywood black list, Ohio, possible eternal heartache. I put the outfits down and close my eyes. Think, Laurel, and think fast because it’s almost time to go. Am I actually making the same mistake Sanderson did? I sit on the edge of the bed, crumpling one of my nicer dresses by accident. I smooth it out, still considering.

All right, forget the fact that I’m about to leave Massachusetts. We’ll cross that historic, Revolutionary era bridge when we come to it. And honestly, forget Sanderson too. His mistake was shouting his love to the world and speeding off into the sunset on camera; that’s not going to happen to me.

Finally, one last loathsome thought surfaces: Tyler Fucking Kinley. When I first started seeing Tyler, I thought it was wonderful. I thought he was wonderful, and my instincts turned out to be f*cking awful. Should I mix business with pleasure again?

Then I have to shake my head. “Even if it’s a mistake, Flint is worth one million Tyler Kinleys,” I mutter. I choose the black lace dress and slide into it. “More like seven million, if I’m honest.” It’s true. Flint can be unpredictable, as our surprise kiss showed. But I know, in the deepest part of myself, that he’d never hurt me. It’s weird to feel so wild—having hot, unprofessional sex with the star of my show is pretty dangerous—ana andd yet so safe at the same time. Weird, but good.

Finally, I’ve got the perfect pumps, the right lipstick, and I’m ready to go. Downstairs, I hear Flint chatting with Mrs. Beauchamp. She smiles at me as I come down the stairs, and Flint stands up.

Whoa.

The flannel and denim are gone. He’s wearing a nice jacket, with a collared, button down black shirt. You can appreciate how broad his shoulders are in this outfit, and his suit really hugs the rock hard contours of his body. His hair is slicked back, just enough to look good, not overdone, and he hasn’t shaved—which is just as well, because I love the rasp of his stubble against my cheek, my body, my…everything.

His eyes trail over me, top to bottom, drawing out the flush in my skin. I see a spark of pure, X-rated animal lust flare in his gaze before he covers with a family friendly smile that’d be fully appropriate for all demographics. Guess I chose the right dress.

“No tool belt?” I say, keeping my tone light as I walk up to him.

“It’s in the car,” he says.

The drive out to Montague is easy. We discuss the day’s shoot, falling into a natural rhythm. When he reaches for my hand, jolts of electricity run up and down my arm, and although I could jump on him right now in the car I force myself to hold back, because I like the idea of letting the anticipation build. Also I don’t want to cause a collision.

The best part, though, is The Bookmill. It’s housed in a cozy red building, right next to the churning river. The moonlight ripples on the water, a breathtaking sight. As we drive in, I see a painted sign reading The Montague Mill 1834. Twinkling white lights are strung along the entrance as we get out of the truck and walk down the path.

“Flint, this is incredible,” I say.

“Try not to swoon before the appetizers,” he teases, pulling me in for a long, intense kiss that all but incapacitates me. God, if he keeps it up these panties will be ruined. I pull away slowly, trying to shake off the hardcore lust weakening my knees.

“I’m not the swooning type,” I lie. Winking at him, I walk on. I need to stop grinning like an idiot, but damn if it isn’t hard.