“If she’d told me what she wanted the tape for, I never would’ve agreed,” Flint says. He taps his finger on the rim of his coffee cup, his brows drawing together in a scowl that looks hopelessly sexy on him. “I’m the last guy to get painted up and stuck on television. That’s not me, Ms. Young.”
So formal, all of a sudden? Two can play at that game. I nod. It’s time to attack from a different angle. “I can see where you’re coming from, Mr. McKay, but I really don’t think you’ve thought this through,” I say. “Imagine what you could get out of this.”
“All right,” Flint says, his voice going hard, and I see a muscle flex in his jaw. “I could get my privacy destroyed, and my family’s. I could trade the survival of my legitimate business for temporary fame that I don’t even want. I could get to deal with executive level vampires who exist only to suck every good, decent emotion out of people, then let them put a zoom lens on whatever manufactured emotions Hollywood thinks will sell me best on TV, and watch them turn hardworking honest folks like myself and my crew into empty shells with really great hair and fake tans.” He pushes his empty plate aside and folds his arms. “Is that what you see me getting?”
Fuck. I instinctively lean back in the booth, putting a little more distance between us. It’s not that I’m afraid of him, but man, I did not expect that level of heat. There is a massive chip on his shoulder that should probably be spackled. And the only way I’ll know how to do that is if he agrees to do this damn show.
“No, of course not,” I say. Think, Laurel. You always want the talent to believe you’re on their side. “You’re not wrong about the vampires, though. Most of the executives I know haven’t seen their reflections since Reagan was president.” I try for the flat, sardonic tone. Flint pauses…and laughs.
“Well, I’m glad you see my point,” he says. He waves the waiter over and hands him a credit card to pay for our meal. It’s a nice gesture, and I thank him, but it also means he’s getting ready to split. I have to move fast, because I’m pretty sure if I let him walk out that door, my chances of making this show happen are back to zero.
“So you don’t want the fame. I respect that. But the money? Think of what a successful show can do for you, for your life. Your family.”
The waiter returns and Flint signs the check, and after he tucks his wallet away he stands up and shrugs. “I don’t want that kind of money. I’m sorry I can’t give you what you want, Ms. Young. But as Jagger once said, we can’t always get what we want. Well, he actually said ‘you,’ but I figured the adjustment makes it fit better with thematic universal longing.” His voice is a flat drawl, but his gaze softens a little. Universal longing, eh? What does Flint McKay long for?
As I trail him out the door and back down the street to our respective vehicles, I can’t help desperately grasping at whatever straws I have left. “Is this a personal universal problem?” I ask, making sure I don’t sound too eager. “Because try me.”
He looks over at me with that deep, calculating yet soulful gaze—the one that makes me yearn to measure up…and stops dead in his tracks. “Ever heard of McKay’s Hardware and Lumber? I know you’re not a do it yourselfer.” He looks like he knows he’s going to have to explain it, but is just waiting for confirmation.
I think, and remember going down to the hardware store with my father when I was a kid. Granted, he was only going down there to hire somebody to do work for us, but I remember the store. It was an old brown building with a McKay’s sign out front.
“I have.” I perk up, surprised. “There was one in Columbus. That’s you?”
“My family. But I’ll bet you haven’t seen too many McKay’s stores around recently, have you?” He’s got me there. I don’t pay a huge amount of attention to hardware stores, but I know Home Depot. McKay’s, not so much. “Well, there you have it. We’ve shut down three locations in the last fifteen months. My uncle opened the first McKay’s in 1957. And now the business is barely treading water.” He starts walking again, his strides purposeful, but he can’t hide the sadness that slumps his shoulders.
“That’s a pretty good run,” I say, trying to be helpful. We reach my car and I hop up and down a bit in the cold, hoping it doesn’t look like I’m bored or anxious to leave.
“There’s no such thing as ‘pretty good’ in my family. McKays don’t quit, and we don’t close. It’s an inherited trait.” He shakes his head and slides out of his brown leather jacket, wrapping it around my shoulders. “Looks like you’re freezing.”