Rugged(70)

“I’m not afraid of work,” Flint says. Davis’s gray, bushy eyebrows shoot up. I think he likes Flint. He tends to like people who get the job done.

“We’re starting a major line of promotion,” I tell him, keeping my voice bright and my gaze slightly to the left of where he’s sitting. I don’t want to get lost in his eyes and stop talking, or burst into tears. Bad business etiquette. “Over the next few weeks, we’ll be shooting interviews to run exclusively on Bravo and their website, YouTube channel, etc. We’re also going to get you coverage with some print media, and of course a few daytime talk shows.”

“Daytime talk show? Like sitting on a couch with a bunch of ladies drinking out of oversized coffee mugs?” He seems kind of baffled by this. I shrug.

“It’s the demographic. Maybe you can teach The View how to level out a wobbly armchair.”

“We want your face to be everywhere,” one of the executives gushes, flinging his manicured hands around. “Building hype is the most important thing right now, and I don’t think it’ll be hard to get women to go crazy for you.”

Of course, Flint doesn’t care about thousands of women going gaga over him. He just needs to concentrate on one woman. One flawlessly beautiful, recently-returned-to-his-brawny-arms woman. I may start banging my head on the conference table.

“I don’t mind playing along and building hype, as you call it,” Flint says, leaning back in his chair. “But I’m not going to make myself look like some kind of *. Not for any kind of money.”

Davis smiles, looking contented. “That’s just what I expected you to say. And I’m glad. You have no idea how refreshing it is to not hate someone I’m working with.”

All the executives around the table blink at each other and kind of roll away from Davis. He looks at me as well, and nods. I guess I’m also on the ‘not hate’ list. Oh, the places you’ll go by not being repellent and morally bankrupt. That should’ve been in the Dr. Seuss book.

“And I’ll be right next to you, every step of the way,” I tell Flint. I keep trying to smile, and it keeps not working out the way I want it to. It’s kind of a crazy-eyed grimace.

“When do I get to see an episode?” Flint asks, obviously ignoring me. He looks sharply at all the guys crowded around the table. “I’d like to make sure it didn’t change in big ways. You know?” Smart move. A lot of bad magic can happen in the editing bay.

“That’s the first order of business,” I say, still keeping my voice bright and happy. I’m a way better actor than I ever thought. Maybe I shouldn’t have settled for third spearman in my high school’s production of Julius Caesar. “We’re having a premiere party tonight.”

“Tonight?” Flint echoes, looking a bit concerned. “That’s pretty soon.”

“Oh don’t worry,” one of the sycophants says, practically oozing across the table at Flint. “It’s not like the actual premiere premiere, with everyone there to flash the cameras and ogle and pinch. Just a party for a select few industry folk.”

“Ogle? Pinch?” he growls. Those two words should never come out of Flint McKay’s mouth. But the man keeps on going.

“It’s strictly network. You know? Higher ups, all the heavies. They want to see how amazing you are. And that’s a reason to celebrate, isn’t it?” I swear, this guy is practically panting with the thought of all those Hollywood bigwigs in one room, shaking hands and talking up the glories of Flint McKay. And the thing is, I think they really might. Flint frowns, a sign that all is not well.

“Like I said, I’ll be with you the whole time,” I say. This time, he looks at me, and I see clearly that this idea isn’t his favorite. And hell, why should it be? Even if he got his happily ever after, we never officially broke things off. Never talked about why I stormed out of there. Never discussed maintaining some kind of decent professional working relationship. Instead, I’ve been avoiding him at all costs.

So not only do I have to spend an entire month up in Flint McKay’s perfect, un-haveable face, I also have to walk on eggshells. If he gets grumpy, or stressed, or just pissed about the way I knocked him aside and ran for the hills, it could affect marketing. No one wants a surly star on Good Morning America. My shoulders tense, and my temples instantly throb. There is not enough Excedrin in the world for the stress headaches I am about to have. The future of the show, my career, my sanity; it all hangs in the balance.

God, why did I ever sleep with him? Apart from the fact that it was glorious? Already, I can feel the heat creeping into my cheeks. Mercifully, no one notices, especially Flint.

“And just think, we’re going to have a small celebratory dinner at Mr. Chow’s afterwards. All on the network’s dime, of course,” another of the oily executives—let’s call him Number Five—says. All the men in the room chuckle and nod at each other. Well, I can’t blame them for that. Never turn down a free meal in Hollywood.

I’m not sure I’ll be eating anything, actually. Even sitting next to Flint right now, my stomach’s all tied up in knots. No, I won’t be able to eat a bite. Unless they have the crab puff things again. With that plum dipping sauce. Then I might be able to—no, I’ll still be too stressed.

Soon after that, the meeting wraps up. We all rise, and I walk Flint out of the room. We should be able to walk around together, after all. No reason to be awkward. It’s not like we slept together and then he got back together with his ex-girlfriend (alright, ex-fiancée, dammit) who looks like a way hotter, more polished version of me, pshaw. Why do you say these things?