It’s not just me being creepy. Development called after they saw the dailies, asking if we could get a little more flesh in the footage. They even specifically used the phrase ‘money shots.’
I’ve also been killing it in the professional arena—even Raj has stopped giving me the suspicious stink-eye, and Flint and I have behaved ourselves admirably. Mostly by ignoring each other every time the cameras are off, but that’s okay. It’s for the best.
Finished reviewing, I head downstairs. Flint’s waiting in the lobby, eyeing a collection of eighteenth century muskets on the wall. It’s a smaller production meeting today, just us two and Raj and Jerri, and the director of photography. We all settle down in the den, and I notice that Jerri’s got a plate of cranberry scones laid out next to her. And that she keeps sneaking them, whimpering in pleasure as she munches. Can’t blame her. Baked goods like this don’t exist in the gluten free shops along Melrose Avenue.
“So how’s it going?” Flint asks, quirking an eyebrow at me.
“In a word, perfect. You’ve completely turned this around,” I tell him. He smiles, lighting up his golden brown eyes. Gorgeous as they are, I resist swooning or getting tongue-tied. I’ve mostly gotten immune to his charms. Mostly. “Now we need to add touches of local color,” I say. Flint tenses a little; he’s still afraid we’re going to try shoehorning in a cheap love story. “Genuine color. Jerri suggested it, actually,” I say, looking over to our fearless director and waiting for her to wipe crumbs from her mouth.
“Color. Exactly,” she says. “What do you like to do for fun, McKay? Any hobbies?”
“Croquet and basket weaving,” he says, his face a mask of seriousness. Everyone stares at him blankly, and he cracks a grin. “I’m messing with you. It’s just what you’d want, Jerri. Fishing, hiking. Used to go hunting with my dad, but I’m not so into that anymore.”
“Too bad. That would’ve really sold in our rural markets,” Raj says, sighing at the lost ratings.
“Fishing is great,” I say, all but clapping my hands. “I love fishing.” By that, I mean I love fish. And by that, I mean I love sushi. But yes, fish.
“You’re a fisherman?” Flint asks, genuine interest on his face. “I mean, fisherwoman?”
“Me? Never. But I love the idea of you fishing.” I look to Jerri, who’s slurping some tea. “What do you think? Take a couple of steadicams out to the river, record Flint against the afternoon sun. It’s a real man’s activity.”
“Mmm, as an honest to God man’s man, I so agree,” Raj says, starting up a game of Candy Crush on his iPad. I’m glad my assistant producer trusts me enough again to get back to heartily slacking off on the job in front of me. It’s comforting, really.
“Are you serious, Laurel?” Flint asks me. There it is, that rugged, masculine ‘you poor, neglected child’ look he gets when I mention my upbringing in suburbia. “You’ve never fished?”
“For compliments, yes.” Rim shot. I love me. The entire room groans, and Flint shakes his head.
“All right. Go put on some old jeans and boots. I’ll teach you.” He gets up, as Jerri and the director of photography are already on the phone and assembling a crew.
“What? Here? Now?” And what does he mean ‘old’ jeans? I’m wearing a pair that’s been around seven months. That’s as ancient as it gets.
“No time like the present.”
“Make fish while the sun shines. A fish in the hand is worth two in the brook,” I add weakly, trying to joke. Flint pauses, looking ruggedly bewildered. I shrug. “I can keep going.”
“Please don’t,” he says. “Now come on. This’ll be great, I swear.”
“Fine,” I sigh, ignoring Jerri giving me an urgent shove. “If it makes the star of our show happy.” We get up.
“I think I’m going to respond very well to my new celebrity status,” Flint deadpans, brushing past me on his way out the door. I’m not blushing. It’s not like the mere touch of his body makes my skin flush.
Sanderson, Laurel. Don’t forget Sanderson.
“Say hello to the great outdoors for me,” Raj smirks, flashing me a little wave. He’s still snuggled up on the couch, glued to his iPad screen. He cracks a grin. “Yes! Next level! I’ve been trying to get there for, like, ever.”
Real shame to have to grab his iPad and snap it shut. Such a shame. Raj looks like I just tore his Star Trek: Next Generation Data figurine out of its pristine packaging. I tuck the offending Apple technology under my arm.
“It’s so nice of you to come along and lend your support,” I say.