“Never lose the rustic charm,” I say, trying to keep my cool with the way he’s looking at me. It’s purely friendly, of course, but still intoxicating. “It’s what’s going to sell the whole show.”
“Sell.” He makes a face. “I hate to think of selling myself. I can’t help it.”
“That’s probably the smart way to think in reality TV,” I say, finally shutting down the camcorder. I breathe a long sigh of relief. “The ones who really go off the rails are the ones who start seeing their whole lives through the camera lens. That’s when it gets creepy.”
“That’s not going to happen to me,” he says, decisive.
“I won’t let it. I promise,” I say. I stack the plywood to give myself something to do, then dust my hands, making a face at the dirt on them. That makes him laugh.
“All right. I’m putting myself in your very clean, capable hands, Ms. Young,” he says. Okay, Laurel. Don’t blush, don’t get lusty-eyed. He doesn’t mean that way, after all. “Do you want to try something simpler?”
“Like what?” I ask. He considers for a minute.
“Maybe nailing two pieces of wood together?” he asks, grinning. I lightly smack his arm, and he laughs again. God, that is a wonderful sound. It’s like rich, manly velvet.
Before we can get around to the instructional nailing (not that kind, not that kind), Flint’s cell phone rings. He grabs it. “McKay. Hey, Josh, what’s going on?” He takes a few steps, nodding as he listens. “You want it today after all? All right, give me half an hour to get everything loaded. I’ll see you there.” He hangs up and makes a face. “I hate to do this, but I’ve got to run out. Two chairs and a sofa I redid, the guy wants them today. He said tomorrow, but I guess he got back into town early.”
“It’s fine,” I say, packing up my camera. I would’ve liked to shoot the rest of the day, just to give the deadline more room to breathe, but you do what you can with what you have. “I need to go back to the inn and plan the budgets anyway.”
“That sounds like a wild time,” he says. There’s the deadpan voice I’ve been missing all afternoon.
“Truly, excel spreadsheets and I know how to get down and dirty. I’ve also got to arrange your flight out to LA for the pitch.”
“Oh. Right,” he says, sounding a little uncomfortable. “I forgot there was a trip element to this whole trip thing.”
“Come on, you lived in New York. LA’s not much different.”
“Apart from the traffic, the smog, and the assholes. Relax,” he says, holding up his hands. “There are plenty of assholes in New York. I know the drill. I’m in. We’ll pitch like our lives depend on it.”
Which they do, in a way.
“Fantastic. You won’t regret this. I swear.” I hold out my hand. “See you tomorrow, then? We can maybe film a little at the hardware store. Show you in your natural habitat.” I grin.
“Sounds good. Tomorrow,” he says, shaking on it. His hand is rough, callused but warm. Mine feels small and fragile in his grip. It’s not the worst feeling in the world. Our eye contact lingers, and I fend off another round of intense blushing until he finally lets my hand go. Did that long handshake mean something? Or was his mind just elsewhere?
Don’t be stupid, Laurel. Time to nip this in the bud. Clearing my throat, I make a decision that I hope is for the best. “Look, Flint. I’m really glad we’ll be working together, and I look forward to continuing our professional relationship, but I just want to say that whatever happened last night—”
“Don’t even worry about it,” he says, cutting me off. “That was really, uh, out of character for me. I don’t know what I was thinking. It was—”
“Me either,” I blurt. “I mean, clearly if we’re going to be working together…”
He nods. “Right. We should probably just forget it ever happened.”
“Right,” I agree. “Onward and upward. See you tomorrow bright and early.” I tuck the camera under my arm and we stand there awkwardly for a moment.
“I guess I should head out,” Flint says, leading us out of the workshop. I try to ignore the pang I feel as I follow him across the yard, back toward the house.
7
“Would you like me to sort your chakras while you wait for your eggs?” the waitress asks me the next day. I blink at her, just starting to feel the effects of my first coffee. “Like, not to make you feel awkward, but your crown and your third eye are so close together.” I’m back at the local diner where I had that first date (meeting, Laurel, it was a meeting) with Flint—and now that I’m sober I really notice the cute checkered tablecloths, the antique bric-a-brac decorating the walls, the sugar bowls shaped like hens. It’s adorable, but my waitress definitely ups the quirk factor.