“You know what a PA is now?” I say, laughing nervously. See? Totally not awkward conversation we’re having. We sure do talk about PAs all the time.
“Production assistant,” he says proudly, leaning back against the antique wing chair he’s settled in. It creaks a little, more designed for delicate corseted ladies than six-foot something tall muscle men. Wearing flannel, naturally. “Wait. Or was it personal automaton?” He quirks an eyebrow. Hilarious. Yes. Laugh at joke to diffuse tension. Good plan. Ha ha. See, I laugh. Why talk so weird in head voice?
“You’ll fit right in at this meeting,” I say. Both of us go a little quiet at that. Flint’s not totally on board with my brilliant vision yet. He’s agreed to this show mainly to promote (and hopefully save) his chain of hardware stores. If the show tanks, so does his business. He looks uncomfortable, although maybe it’s because of all the lace doilies.
But if Flint looks out of place in Mrs. Beauchamp’s cozy little parlor, he’s a veritable fish out of water—stuffed and mounted over the inn’s mantelpiece—when my production team rolls in a second later.
“Why is there a wooden moose in the hall?” Raj, my assistant producer, asks when he swans into the room. He cracks a piece of very hipster gum, and unwinds his enormous rainbow-colored fuzzy scarf. “Ugh, there are, like, seasons here. How do we survive?” He falls back onto a sofa, all skinny bodied, liquid ease, and pulls out his iPad. Flint watches everyone else file in, looking more and more like a stubbled, caged animal with every minute that passes. He doesn’t say anything, but his right leg starts jiggling.
When my team is all assembled, sitting on little claw-footed footstools and drinking some lovely ginger tea out of dainty cups, I clear my throat and get the party started. And even with Flint sitting on the other side of the room, making me hyper aware of every movement of my body—and of his—I’m excited. This is it. Dream achieved.
Now on to the next step.
“Okay, folks. We’ve got twenty-eight days to film eight fabulous episodes and build one glorious house. For the number crunchers, that amounts to about ten incredible migraines per week.” A couple of people laugh. Laurel Young: come for the production meeting, stay for the sort-of not-jokes.
“And I’ll be building this glorious mountaintop house all on my own?” Flint asks, bemused. He’s got a teasing light in his eye. “I gotta rip my shirt off and get going right now, or can we wait until after lunch?”
Again, teasing. But there are three women—and one man—in the room who shift in their seats when Flint mentions taking his shirt off. Actually, judging by the angle of his wrist, I think Raj is surreptitiously taking pictures of Flint with his phone.
“You don’t have to do the whole thing yourself,” I say, keeping my voice bright and my smile wide. Flint’s eyes meet mine again, and I’m instantly transported back to that night in my apartment, with his hand and mouth all over my body, both of us breathing hard as we rode ourselves closer to—
Okay, say something before you go all glassy eyed, Laurel. People are staring.
“Practical talk,” I say, clearing my throat. “We’ll have a construction crew working alongside our star. Flint, you said you have a team assembled?”
“They’re already up the mountain,” he says, nodding. “They have the plans, and they’ve started on the foundation. Pouring concrete and waiting for it to dry tends to not make for great viewing.”
“Excellent.” I kind of want to do a jig in front of the whole room. So far, everything’s on schedule. “So while the concrete does its thing, we’ll just go ahead and get some shots of the sexier aspects of construction—”
“Sexier?” Raj drawls, raising a brow as he types fast on his iPad. “Nothing like some titillating roofing.”
I’m not sure if that’s a sexual innuendo or not, so I let it go. “Flint, you’ll guide us through the most essential parts of building the house. We get you talking over the plans, outlining some logistics, see if we can get a shot of you silhouetted against the sunset.”
“Why would I be starting work at sunset?” he says, giving me a deadpan look. I give him a work-with-me-here smile; it’s the magic of Hollywood, oh studly one.
“Then we shoot you working with your crew, the camaraderie between you,” I go on. Silently, I add: I know it’s autumn, but if you can get your shirt off once in a while that’ll be a big ratings help. “Maybe, if it’s all right with the guys, we get a little bit of you hanging out in town afterwards.” Something simple, a couple of beers and some pool. Maybe shirtless pool…