“I’m kind of uncomfortable when it’s just me alone,” he says. Then he stands up and pats the table. “Teaching people, though, that’s more my speed. Come on.”
Whoa, hold on. Him teaching means me being taught, and I start to sweat at the thought of it. Maybe because being on camera gives me hives—there’s a reason I’m a producer, after all. Or maybe because, despite my resolution to do absolutely nothing in the ‘flirting with Flint’ department, the idea of falling on my face or accidentally hammering my thumb in front of him is ultra humiliating. I don’t want him to see that side of me. It’s a pride thing. Clearing my throat, I try to laugh it off.
“I have two left feet when it comes to making things. Two left thumbs? I mean it, I’m terrible.” I flush a little.
“Please. I don’t know how I’m going to do this otherwise,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets and squaring his jaw. I get the feeling that asking for help isn’t something he does very often. Shit.
Well, it’s only the sizzle reel. And we can edit me out later, anyway.
“All right,” I say as I tentatively put the camcorder in the right spot for filming and walk around to stand beside him.
“Everybody can do a little basic work,” he says, that perfect smile reappearing. Talking about his uncle, the family business, it’s definitely relaxed him. He even gives me a wink. Already, I can hear the gasp of women all across the country.
“Not me. My parents used to call people to come in and do everything for us. I got to sit in my room, with my immaculately made bed and my immaculately dressed dolls, and try not to muss up the carpet fibers,” I tell him. He frowns.
“Damn, that sounds terrible. You never did projects with your dad? Make a birdhouse, anything?” He sounds like he pities me. My face is on fire.
“We had some of those expensive crystal sugar feeders for hummingbirds,” I say weakly. Flint is not impressed; but it’s not like I crave his approval, for God’s sake. I don’t! Mostly. He grunts.
“That’s it. We’re going to make you a damn fine birdhouse. Follow my lead.” He takes out some plywood, and goes to his workstation to pull out a saw. Just like that, out of nowhere. “All right, now I’m going to get behind you.”
Mmmm. So many, many dirty things that could be said. So very little time to say them. Instead, I force myself to stay professional and allow Flint to hand me the saw. He stands behind me, putting his hand on top of mine to adjust the grip.
“The trick is to jigger it a little bit first, create a groove for the blade,” he says. He demonstrates, making fast little cuts with the saw. The wood starts to yield to him. “There. Hard part’s done. Now you need to give it a few long, easy cuts. Back and forth, back and forth.” His hand’s on the small of my back, his other hand on my arm as he guides the motion. I’m undone. Him being this near, with this much body heat and flannel, is completely overwhelming. I feel my cheeks burning, and an answering fire kindling down below.
“Is this good?” I ask breathlessly, my voice a little too throaty, awkwardly pulling my arm back.
“Well, close. It’s sort of—careful!” he says, as I somehow manage to bring my arm way too far back and send the saw flying. It warps and whines through the air, and Flint dodges out of the way as it crashes to the ground, upsetting a pillowy mound of sawdust. Crap. Instinctively, my gaze snaps to the camcorder. Hopefully I can edit this section out, but honestly, it might make a funny bit for the sizzle reel. Which means Davis is going to see me making an ass of myself. Ah, show business.
“If the zombie apocalypse ever comes, promise not to arm me with a saw,” I groan as I pick the tool up, feeling like a, well, tool. My face flushes hotter in embarrassment.
“That should probably be a segment on the show, right?” Flint says, helping me up and grinning. “‘Flint McKay’s Guide to the Zombie Apocalypse.’ Sounds kind of badass, don’t you think?”
“Oh man, forget home renovation. We’ve found our new paranormal superstar.” I still feel awkward standing in front of the camera, being recorded like this. But I can’t help laughing a little, and Flint joins me.
“You more of a baseball bat person?” he asks. “You know, for knocking in undead heads?”
“Probably more of a ‘get in a fast car and drive away, looking for a good isolated motel with WiFi’ kind of person,” I say, giving a guilty shrug. “I’m city tough. If you need someone to get you a table at Mr. Chow’s during the dinner rush, call on me.”
“Well, there’s nothing wrong with those skills,” he says, putting the saw away. “There’s something nice about city girls. They’ve got a quick way of thinking and talking. I like that.” He grins, the dazzle factor blinding me. “After all, those years in New York weren’t a total loss.”