His hand reaches for mine, stopping me.
“Wait. I wanted to say—just, thanks for helping me out today. I know I’m not the world’s biggest camera personality,” he admits. “But you really stepped up and saved the show. Saved me.”
“My pleasure,” I say. “We’re a good team. At work. Like, as colleagues.”
“That’s what I meant,” he nods. But I see disappointment in his eyes. And by golly he’s still holding my hand, which I’m not at all pulling away from him. Oh boy.
“Yes. Right,” I murmur. We should be in bed. Right now. Separately. Though actually, there’s a bed all on its lonesome upstairs, and it simply adores company—
And then, before my libidinous traitor of a brain can go any further, Raj’s warning comes rushing back to me and a name starts flashing before my eyes in neon colors:
Brian Sanderson.
I can’t believe I was being such a stubborn jackass—Raj is right. This is exactly how Sanderson’s life exploded. First he got cozy with one of the stars of his show. Then he grabbed Maribelle DuJour, helped her steal her husband’s yacht, and took off for Mexico so they could elope. I’m sure it seemed like a fantastic idea at the time, but now he’s the laughing stock of the entertainment industry. No one will ever hire him again.
That can’t be me.
Brian was an established, well-respected producer, protected by the executives. It took him literally destroying his own show to get them to cut him out of the business. I won’t get the same leniency. These exec bastards are looking for one reason, just one good reason, to write me off as a hormone addled, scatter brained womanchild, trying to finagle her way into the boys’ club using her feminine wiles instead of her smarts.
That first night Flint and I hooked up was understandable; everyone’s entitled to a one-night fling in an alleyway every now and then, especially if they’ve had the week from hell and there’s a few gallons of scotch and a man hotter than a blowtorch thrown into the mix. And the second time? Well, we thought we’d lost the pitch. It was a ‘so-long, nice knowing you, let’s just screw away all our failures before we never see each other again’ bit of farewell sex. But now that we’re working together in a professional capacity, hopefully for the foreseeable future, it’s my big chance to screw up in front of the whole network and all those douchebags just waiting for me to fuck up.
So even if Flint’s not as over what happened between us back in LA as I thought…even if that makes me happier than it should…this cannot happen. Ever again.
“Laurel,” Flint says, frowning. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“I can’t,” I say, taking my hand from his grasp. And then my phone rings. I’d ignore it if it weren’t Jerri’s specific ring tone, but I have to grab the call. “Hey,” I say, listening as Jerri mostly-soberly fills me in on tomorrow’s call time and set up. I try to get off the phone as fast as I can, but it’s too late. Flint has already stepped off the porch.
“Call time?” he asks as I hang up.
“Oh-six thirty,” I say, mentally kicking myself. That was my moment to be brave, to tell him exactly how conflicted I’m feeling and why. And now that moment has passed. “So. See you tomorrow?”
“See you tomorrow,” Flint echoes, and heads down the street. Good. That’s where he should be heading: away from me and my four-poster feather-pillowed antique bed. Groaning inwardly, I go upstairs to my room and start to get ready for sleep. Rest. That’s what I need. Not calisthenics. Just a few hours of blissful, restorative unconsciousness.
Instead of conking out, all I can do is stare at the ceiling while a barrage of thoughts swirls through my brain. I will not be Brian Sanderson. I will not destroy my career, or Flint’s. This show is the best thing that could happen to both of us, and if that means we have to sacrifice our not-a-relationship in order to succeed, then so be it.
But as I roll over and give my feather pillow a few self-righteous punches, I can’t help but remember Flint in my bed, his breath against my neck, his hands, his cock…
Screw it. I jump out of bed, march into the bathroom and yank back the shower curtain. I’m going to need to make it a cold one.
16
It’s amazing what a week can do. Seven days later, I’m sitting at my cute, ornately carved wooden desk and reviewing the footage we’ve shot. Flint’s become a complete natural. Well, maybe not complete—I’m still in frame, working alongside him—but look at everything we’ve accomplished. He and his team have finished laying the foundation. The framework for the walls is up. There’re even a few luscious money shots of Flint with his shirt off, the light sweat of exertion shining on his broad shoulders, his biceps bulging.