“Laurel. This is Sabrina Jones, Herman Davis’s assistant. He wants to know when you’re planning to come in to his office today.” I blink, and quickly check the caller ID to make sure I’m not being punked. But no, it’s definitely the office. Sabrina sounds confused. “Didn’t you get the email?”
“What email?” My head is pounding now, and so’s my heart. I sit down on the couch.
“I’m supposed to let him tell you,” Sabrina says, dropping her voice. “But they loved your pitch. They think Flint’s the genuine article. And I mean, not that my opinion matters here, but he’s freaking hot. I’d watch the hell out of that show, and I hate everything we do.” She can’t keep the glee out of her voice. I’m not sure I remember how to speak. Loved the pitch. Genuine article. All the not-firing words I could ask for.
“You mean we got the pitch?” A huge smile breaks over my face.
“Yes! Look, let me transfer you. It may take a second.” She puts me on hold. I let out a huge scream. Oh my God! We did it. Flint’s going to save his business, I’m going to save my career, and we’re going to be working together…
All the time.
In a professional capacity.
Oh God.
As if on cue, Flint enters. He sees me and smiles.
“Hey. Forgot my—” He notices my dumbstruck expression, and stops. “What’s going on?” He looks concerned.
I smile weakly. “Congratulations,” I tell him. “You’re going to be a star.”
13
Back in 1775, a certain rider named Paul Revere took a midnight gallop around the Massachusetts countryside, calling out, “The British are coming, the British are coming!” Nowadays, if he were passing around Northampton, he’d more likely shout, “Production is starting!” And he’d be equally terrified.
I pull up to the Beauchamps’ bed and breakfast, parking my car right in front of a dried-up looking jack o’lantern. Halloween’s come and gone, but Laurel Young is here to stay. I get out and take in a lungful of that bracing Massachusetts air. Hello again, Berkshires. I return to you a champion, bringing the spoils of reality television in my wake. The inn’s door opens, and dear old Mrs. Beauchamp steps out onto the porch. She’s wearing her signature outfit of high-waisted jeans, pearls, and cardigan, and is carrying her ever-ready porcelain coffee pot. She grins and waves a handkerchief at me.
“Laurel, dear! Everything’s all set up. Come in, come in.” She turns and bustles back inside, while I hoist my laptop bag over my shoulder. The rest of the luggage can wait. Production meeting comes first.
Inside, there’re enough crocheted tea cozies and antique wooden rocking horses to make you think you’ve gone back to all the most adorable parts of the eighteenth century. An old whaling harpoon hangs over the door to the inn. There’s even a sweet, life-sized wax figure of a wig-wearing, blue-coated General Washington—that is, until he blinks and shuffles off upstairs. Mrs. Beauchamp’s husband. He’s a little eccentric.
Okay, so it’s kind of weird here. But as soon as I knew I was heading back to Massachusetts for work, I called the inn and requested an extended stay. What can I tell you? Best cranberry scones on the planet. And feather beds so soft it’s like you’re actually sleeping on a cloud. Not that I’ll be getting much sleep once production starts.
I hear the slam of car and van doors outside as the rest of my team arrives. I’m the first one into the den, the home of all our future meetings. I shove a Raggedy Ann doll aside and sit down on a chaise, taking out my laptop and gearing up for notes. While my Mac boots up, I take a moment to luxuriate. This is it. My first production meeting, with me as the producer. Captain of the ship, master of the house, creator of the hottest new do it yourself show on prime time. And there’s nothing here that I can’t handle. Except…
“Laurel.” Flint McKay stands in the doorway, tall and broad-shouldered enough that you worry about him squeezing into the room. Even the low, throaty sound of his voice sends a flurry of anxiety through my body, along with an answering heat wave between my thighs.
Right. There’s the part where I slept with our big star. Minor issue.
Flint picks his way around some footstools and sits down opposite me. My heart speeds up, and I cross my legs and try to think about snow, baseball, Mr. Beauchamp. Nothing works. The memories of Flint’s body wrapped around mine are still too strong.
Flint smiles.
“How’ve you been?” he asks. Which makes sense. We haven’t spoken in about a week, since the day I got the call green lighting our show. Since the morning after we slept together. Since the instant he got into the most awkward taxi in the history of anything and left me pacing in my apartment with no idea what to do next.
“I like your new PA,” he says, nodding at the Raggedy Ann that’s smooshed up next to me. Kind of glad she’s here, honestly. A girl can use a comfort object.