Rugged(64)

I wake in the middle of the night, the light in Flint’s bedroom still murky with pre-dawn. When I turn my head to look at Flint, I find him staring up at the ceiling with his arms crossed behind his head. I wonder if he’s slept at all.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“I can’t believe you have to go back to LA so soon,” he whispers. “Do you have to leave?”

I try to laugh, but it comes out like a sigh. “I have to get back to work. You know that.”

He rolls over, propped up on his elbow, absolutely irresistible. “You can just get a job at the Firefly. Be the bar wench. Guys around here, they love their wenches.”

“Who doesn’t love wenches?” I ask, trying to laugh. Instead of arguing or pressing the matter, Flint laughs too. Then he rolls over toward the window and goes quiet. Part of me wants him to beg me to stay; part of me is terrified to even think about the possibility. But that’s not the point. Right now, all I have to do is enjoy this moment.

And I do. Wrapping my arm around Flint, I walk my fingers down to his cock and grip it firmly in my hand. He groans, which has quickly become my favorite sound on the planet. Time to quit moping and live in the now. And as long as the sun’s not up yet, we still have time.





24


Despite the fact that I’ve been up all night having the best sex of my life, I wake up about fifteen minutes before my alarm goes off. It’s still half dark as I tiptoe through the room, reminding myself where everything is, tripping over my own shoes, running into the wall. I have the grace of an early morning jackrabbit on LSD. Okay. I’ve got my toiletries stowed, my clothes all packed, phone in pocket, laptop in its case, cam—

Camcorder. I stop and actually slap my forehead. I forgot the damn camcorder at the construction site. While that’s not the most necessary piece of technology I own, it cost three hundred bucks, dammit. There won’t be time to swing by there this morning or afternoon—meetings—so I’d better go down. Flint stretches in his sleep and rolls over as I finish dressing and head downstairs. I grab the keys to my rental car, jump in quickly, and head over to the nearly-finished house.

When I pull up to the house, I can see something’s immediately off. A car I don’t recognize is parked directly outside, the front door wide open. Shit. Do I call 9-1-1, or is this one of the crew, or maybe just one of the locals playing lookie-loo now that the big shot Hollywood folk are heading out of town? I may not have a weapon, but I do have my Krav Maga training. I can handle this.

I head up, quiet as I slip inside, and prepare to lay down some serious intimidation tactics. Or mildly serious, depending on how big the person is.

“Okay, freeze. Don’t make any sudden moves,” I say, whipping around into the living room.

Instead of a local yokel in overalls or a couple of young hooligans with spray paint or toilet paper in their hands, I find a woman standing there, looking bewildered as the morning sunlight peeks in through the window. My dramatic entrance is foiled as I nearly trip over myself in surprise. She looks startled. She’s tall, rocking some nice looking stiletto heels, a gray pencil skirt, and a cream blouse, her jacket flung over her arm. Her dark hair’s drawn back in a bun, and she looks at me with big blue eyes.

“Um, hey. Not to be rude, but who are you and what the hell are you doing on my set?” I say, trying to sound large and in charge. Really, it just sounds like a squeak.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t know it was off limits. Charlotte Hemmings.” She holds out her hand. I take it, but immediately freeze. Charlotte? Like…Charlotte Charlotte?

“Laurel Young. Producer. Do you, uh, know anyone from the production?” I say, as not-casually as possible. She nods.

“Flint McKay. His sister Jessa emailed me, said he was building this house.” She looks around, baffled. “She said something about how knowing the foundation had been laid would be good for my wounded soul.” Yeah. Definitely Jessa. She turns in a circle. “I just can’t believe he finally built it.”

“Finally?” I say. My voice has a sharp, instant edge to it. I can’t believe this is Charlotte. I pictured her as a leggy blonde with sexy librarian glasses and a huge rack, but it’s worse than that. She has pale, delicate skin, a long neck, rich brown hair, blue eyes.

She’s me.

That is, she’s a taller, prettier, more collected, better-groomed version of me. Suddenly, standing here, I feel invisible eyes sizing me up through a half-lidded gaze. Comparing me. Settling for me. I imagine Flint in this room right now, glancing between the two of us, deciding I look enough like her to be worth a couple good f*cks.

And then it dawns on me, right before she says it.

“Flint designed this place for me.”

I plaster a fake grin on my face. “Well now, isn’t that just—”

“As an engagement present.”

As a whatthef*ck?

Ground control, we have lost transmission.

There are no words for the five finger death punch that has completely knocked the wind out of me. I can’t move. I can’t think. I can’t breathe.

“I can’t believe it’s finished!” Charlotte goes on, shaking her head. “It’s…it’s beautiful. It’s just perfect.” She’s in awe. Meanwhile, I’m trying not to hurl over here.