Being professional is hard. I don’t mean the showing up for work on time, mainlining coffee, putting in fifteen-hour days part. That’s a cakewalk. But being around Flint all the time is quickly becoming impossible. Every time he laughs, or explains something, or wipes his forehead, or coughs, or breathes, or exists, all I can remember is us together in my bed. And that makes me worry about my job, which means I keep my distance from him. And that makes him feel like he’s done something wrong, leading us into a tailspin of awkward everything.
What’s worse is that he’s more than just a hot guy. I’ve drooled over hot men before, and once they forget to pick you up for a date, or spend all evening talking about how women are overly critical and don’t understand how economical it is for guys to still be living with their parents, or discussing their new indie band, Charismatic Megafauna, you get over it. But Flint’s a decent guy on top of everything else. He shows up early on set just to bring fresh coffee and donuts for the crew. He even remembered that Raj’s favorite is cinnamon maple, and that Jerri only has mint tea in the morning. He’s never had a single diva moment, or yelled that a thirteen-hour shoot is taking too long. Everyone seems to think he walks on water. While I know that’s a lie, given our fishing expedition, I see what they mean. He’s nearly the perfect human.
Which is why it’s so damn hard to stay away from him. And so utterly necessary.
But at least it’s Sunday, which means we’re not filming. I wake up, take a shower, and get dressed, happily humming to myself. I’ll get a clear head, maybe go into town and walk around. You know. Take a personal day. And by personal, I of course mean I’ll run a few errands for production, maybe look for some specific furnishings for the house. You know. A professionally personal day.
I drive into Northampton, which is probably the cutest town in the northeast. Many of the streets are a cheerful red brick, and the shop windows are already bright with early Christmas lights. If I weren’t so addicted to adrenaline and rush hour traffic—okay, maybe not that last one—I’d consider moving here and putting down roots. Nothing too fancy, maybe get a romantic little house on top of a hill. With a great big dog, and a large, stubbly, broad-chested man, and a fireplace with a bear skin rug, and then in the evenings we get a fire going and disrobe and—
Poor bearskin rug.
There’s some kind of farmers’ or merchants’ market going as I walk along, white tents flapping in the November breeze, jars of homemade preserves and smoked ham for sale. I head away from the food—the cinnamon-y, buttery, mouth-watering food—and walk along a row of adorable storefronts. I’m hunting for a cozy furniture shop. We haven’t shot any footage at Flint’s house yet, and that’s coming up real soon. I thought the stuff he owned was fine, but apparently Raj sent photos of the interior to someone at the network, and now they’re worried that it looks too IKEA bland. Too boring. Spice up those white walls! Hang pelts and the heads of small woodland creatures! I’m not going that far, but if they want more authentically rustic? Fine. I’ll take care of it.
First thing I need is a nice couch. I don’t want leather, since that’s a little too modern urban chic, but it can’t be something covered with cutesy fabric either. A rustic man’s couch. You know. Something hewn from boulders and wrapped in barbed wire.
One antique shop, the Old George, looks inviting. A wooden sign with a smiling, bewigged man painted on it tells me there’s probably antique perfection waiting within. I step inside, breathing in the scent of mothballs and waxed pine. A gold and crystal chandelier hangs from the ceiling, casting light on velvet armchairs and straight-backed dining room chairs. Most of these items are too cute for my needs, brass beds and dainty wingchairs with matching footstools, but you never know. I’m walking around the store, poking around price tags, when I hear someone coming in from the back.
“Keep moving. A little to the left. No, my left. Okay, now your left.” Two men come in, hauling some kind of sideboard that probably stored enough linen and table settings for an entire regiment of British officers at one time. The first guy is sweating hard, short but burly. Behind him, Flint enters, taking as much of the weight as he can.