“You have to come in here,” Flint calls to me, standing knee-deep in the river. It courses by, the afternoon sun glinting and rippling off of it. Flint’s got his fly fishing pole, and he’s wearing some kind of rubber suspenders. Are they called waders? Let’s call them waders. Rubber pants are not enough to shake Flint McKay’s colossal sex appeal, but they jostle it a little bit.
“I’m a shore dweller,” I call. Jerri’s grumbling beside me, trying to set up the shot and get the boom mic out over Flint. He waves me over. I struggle not to make a face as the bottoms of my shoes get cold and muddy.
“I’ve got an extra pair of waders. Maybe they’re a little big for you, but they’ll work.” He’s not taking no for an answer. Keeping the talent happy is top priority. But why can’t keeping him happy involve a spa day, just once?
“He’s got a point,” Jerri tells me, guiding me up the hill. “He’s always at his most relaxed with you in the frame. You’re like the Flint Whisperer.”
Groaning, I dig through the van to find those stupid rubber pants. A few minutes later, I’m sloshing out into the river, wincing as the cold water rises up around my legs. I’m going to go numb. I can feel it. Flint’s waiting for me, one hand out for me to take. I don’t grab him, even though I’m a little unbalanced. If I’m going to keep from making an unprofessional ass of myself on this shoot, not touching him is going to help. A lot.
“Come on, nature girl,” Flint says, handing me a fishing rod. The camera’s trained on our faces. “Now. You know what this is?” He pats some kind of round thingy with a crank on it.
“It, ah, sharpens your pencils,” I say, blanking on the appropriate term. And screw it; I’m out in the damn mud with a bunch of cameras in my face. I’m dishing out some payback. “You know, for those Zen fishing moments when you have a brilliant idea, but your pencil’s too blunt to write it down? Happens all the time.”
“Much as we men of the wild appreciate your understanding of our philosophical musings,” he says, the deadest of pans, “this is called a reel.” He pats it.
“Much like,” I say, turning for the camera slowly, “Reel World Productions, finest production company in all the land?” I smile, a vacant, wide-eyed grin.
“Yes,” Flint says, following my cue and turning back as well. His voice sounds forced and cheerfully robotic. “Reel World. I’m so glad I’ve given my firstborn child in exchange for fame. And free teeth whitening to boot.” He imitates my hollow grin, even giving thumbs up. The men behind the cameras are trembling with suppressed laughter. Talk about shaky cam.
“Can we get serious?” Jerri snaps, though I can hear her struggling not to crack up.
“We can cut this later, right?” I ask through my teeth, still grinning.
“Fine. Do what you want. But we need some usable footage before it gets dark,” Jerri calls. Flint and I return to the business of fishing. Damn, I’m starting to tremble.
“You’re freezing,” he says, sounding alarmed. “Look, if you’re too cold—”
“No. Ratings. Must fish.” I force my teeth to stop chattering, and slosh over a tiny bit to stand closer to him. What can I say? He gives good body heat.
“Here.” Flint touches my shoulder, and I instinctively flinch. He pulls back and glowers, swiping a hand across his stubbled chin. “Hey. Laurel. Talk to me.”
I close my eyes tight. I do not want to have this conversation when I’m numb and there are cameras and fish everywhere.
“Everything all right?” Jerri shouts. Crap. I take a deep breath.
“I’m good. Just…show me how to fish,” I tell Flint. He watches me a moment longer, his gaze shrewd. “Look, I’m still adjusting to this…being on camera thing. The sooner we do this, the sooner I can dry off.”
Flint’s perfect mouth is still compressed in a hard line, but he nods.
“All right. Let’s show you how to cast. Maybe you should watch how I do it first.” His voice is tighter now; he knows not to touch me.
“Okay,” I say, watching as he takes out his rod. Heh. Rod.
Man, even that stupid phallic joke does nothing for me.
“Hold down the bait casting reel button with your thumb,” he tells me, demonstrating. He puts his pole back, then slings it forward. “Release the thumb. Let the bait draw the line out.” I watch as the line whips through the air, a graceful scrawl against the sky. “You push the button back down to slow your spool,” Flint says, demonstrating again. The bait lands perfectly in the stream with a delicate ripple.
“Nice,” I say, genuinely impressed. “So I’m supposed to do the same?” I look down at the rod in my hands. If it had eyes, they would be rolling at me right about now, saying things like ‘Oh honey, no.’
“It’s all in the wrist,” Flint says casually, starting to turn the crank on his reel. Or whatever this turn thingy is. “Do what I told you, and there’s no way you can foul up.”
“Oh Mr. McKay, ‘no way you can foul up’ is pretty much a challenge to the god of fouling up to come down from on high and smite us,” I say. Flint barks out a laugh.