“There won’t be any forced meet-ups, right?” he says. His voice gets that wary, growly edge to it, and he leans back in the creaking chair. “I know this isn’t a dating show, but that jackass back in LA told us—”
“Right, Kinley,” I say. No need to hide the animosity from this team. Most people below producer and executive status at Reel World hate Tyler with a passion. Everyone grunts in solidarity. “Don’t worry. We’re doing a quality show. No smut. No nonsense.”
“No smut?” Raj says, finally perking up from his place on the sofa. He sounds more distraught than that time Amy Pond left Doctor Who. I had to keep bringing him chocolate for days. “No smut?”
“No smut,” I say firmly, throwing a hard glance at him. Raj grumbles, puts on his lime green ski cap with the poof ball on top, and sulks. “First day’s filming starts tomorrow. We’ll still be working on the foundation, right?”
Jerri, our director, takes over at this point. She’s a short, busty redhead with a sassy punk-rock haircut that Rihanna would be proud of, a trademark leather jacket, and a serious no-tolerance policy for bullshit. It’s why I wanted her in the first place.
“McKay. Talk me through what you need,” she says, putting her elbows on her knees and leaning in. She’s even wearing construction boots. I can tell he likes her immediately.
I look over Raj’s notes after Jerri’s done, talk over things with our director of photography, and generally start feeling kind of giddy. Here I am, running my own production meeting. If only Mom could see me now, what would she say?
Probably, “That’s nice, Laurel. I still think you should get certified as a CPA, just in case this TV thing falls through. Your shirt collar isn’t starched, incidentally. Here, have some of that microwave ravioli I remembered to heat up for you.”
Ah, family.
Finally, the meeting wraps up. A couple people, like Jerri and Raj, are staying at the inn. The rest are parked at a Marriott on the edge of town, and need to get moving. The autumn sun’s going down, casting golden light that slants through the windows as we all walk out together. It’s trees and mountains and red-yellow-orange leaves as far as the eye can see, and man is it gorgeous. I even catch an appreciative whistle from our assistant cameraman. If you’ve got to shoot a show in western Massachusetts, fall is definitely the time.
The others leave, and Jerri and Raj are sniping at each other as they walk upstairs. That leaves only Flint and me, all alone except for a collection of Mrs. Beauchamp’s great-grandmother’s porcelain dolls. Which stare at you. Creepily. No matter where you move in the room.
“So,” Flint says, fixated on a particularly fascinating spot on the wall, away from me. “I, uh, guess I should head out. Chance didn’t get his afternoon walk, so the house is probably a smoldering wreck at this point. A smoldering wreck with a Great Dane in the center, holding a leash in his mouth.”
“Say hi for me,” I say, examining the most extraordinary pattern on the carpet. As Flint starts to leave, I groan. “Wait. This is ridiculous.”
Flint heaves a sigh of relief as I follow him out onto the porch. “It is.”
“We’re a pair of consenting American adults. I mean, we were. Consenting, that is. Still American and adult, unless something’s changed in—”
“You’re rambling,” he says, but he’s smiling again.
Good. My rambling is charming. Rambliness? Ramblance? Whatever.
“The point is,” I say, “we’re working together now. We had a good time—”
“A very good time,” Flint echoes. His eyes catch mine, and pretty much everything inside of me melts in the Jacuzzi of good sex memories. Memories only. Put the memory sign on the door and don’t forget to mop up before you leave.
“Right. But it was a one-time very good time. Actually, I guess it was technically a second-time very good time. Regardless, we won’t be repeating it. Okay?” Why does my voice squeak on that last word? And why does this conversation feel so damn familiar? Oh yeah, because it is.
“Okay,” he says, nodding, that muscle in his jaw flexing for just a moment. “No repeats. Just work. Lots of hard, focused work.” Mmmm why does that sound so hot? He leans closer, and now there’s an edge to his voice. “I do have some experience with that, believe it or not.” I hope that edge I’m hearing is determination, not the first sign of troubled waters between us. I mean, he’s agreeing with me, right? We’re both agreeing to put an end to the sexy shenanigans and get this show on the road. It’s for the best.
“Then I’ll see you bright and early for work, partner,” I say brightly. I even punch him good-naturedly in the shoulder. See, a couple of stalwart companions working together. Then I kind of inwardly scream, because punching good-naturedly hurts, dammit. Especially when your target is Flint McKay, musclebound brickhouse.