“My life is presentable. Maybe it’s not what asshole executives think is all right, but it’s fine for me. And if that’s not good enough—” he grunts, pulling the armoire out of the truck by himself. He doesn’t get to finish the thought, because I jump in.
“It is! But there has to be some magic at work. You know? Illusion.” Damn, I feel like an asshole siding with the blood-sucking Hollywood suits, but Flint has to fit a romantic profile to a certain part of the audience, namely single women and restless housewives. Does that suck? Hell yes. But it’s the way to make money.
I walk alongside Flint as he puffs his way indoors, his arms trembling a little under the sheer weight of the furniture. He sets it down at last, wipes his forehead, and turns to me. His jaw tenses.
“Maybe out in Los Angeles, it’s okay to feel like everyone knows your private business. That’s not me, though. That’s not how I grew up, and that’s not the people I live with.” His voice turns a little softer. “You can pack up and go home when this is all over, Laurel. But I have to live here. I’m not going to be a laughingstock.”
It’s like arguing with a sexy mule. But I close my eyes and sigh. He’s right. What the hell business do we have walking in, telling him to change himself, buying things to shove into his house without his permission? What am I doing?
“All right,” I say quietly.
“All right? As in, I won?” Flint sounds genuinely shocked and delighted. “Wow, that’s the easiest you ever went down.”
I can’t respond to that, because I instantly flash to That Night behind the bar. Just the mere thought of it sends a white-hot burst of anticipation through my core. Damn, I was so, so close to this being a normal platonic conversation.
“It was wrong of me to try buying furniture without talking to you,” I go on. “We can leave your place as it is. I’ll talk to the network.” And get an earful, but hey, I’m in Massachusetts now. I’m an honorary Masshole.
“Thank you. I mean it.” Flint’s voice warms, and he puts a hand on my shoulder, very briefly. “I know they’re riding you pretty hard.”
Riding hard. Oh my God, is he doing this on purpose? I pretend to stretch, so his hand falls off my shoulder. Good. Less dangerous.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say. We walk out of the store, and right on cue, my treacherous stomach rumbles.
“You up for some lunch?” Flint asks. My grumbly stomach does a way-too-excited little flip at the thought. Calm down, Laurel. It’d be two good buddies going to lunch. Two good, platonic buddies. Lunching and what not. Like buddies do.
“You buying?” I ask, grinning. Flint’s face suddenly falls.
“Shit. Spoke too soon. I er, got a thing, actually,” Flint says. He rubs the back of his neck. I’d like to imagine he looks regretful.
“That’s cool,” I say, taking a step back. He probably remembered that lunch is too date-like. Which is good, because I sure as hell don’t want a date. I am all dated out, thank you very much. Are we two good, platonic buddies or what? So not lunching. “I’ll see you around—” Before I can finish my sentence, Flint’s eyes light up.
“Why don’t you come with me? I’ve got a couple sandwiches in the car if you’re hungry.” He pauses. “I mean, you are hungry. Obviously.” My stomach growls again. Yes, Ignatius, we heard you the first time.
I named my stomach. Don’t judge.
I shouldn’t go with Flint. I really shouldn’t…
“What kind of sandwiches?” I ask. My priorities are in order. Ignatius agrees.
“Ham and havarti on rye. And I can give you a free tour of the countryside. Come on.” He gestures to his truck, parked by the curb. “The pickup chariot awaits.”
All the pep talks I’ve had with myself—bad idea to be alone together, bad idea to be near each other—they evaporate. I mean, it is ham and cheese, after all.
We drive through Northampton and out into the countryside. At first I thought it’d be awkward as hell, but it feels very easy, scarfing sandwiches (my diabolical stomach is finally satisfied), laughing, bobbing along to some classic rock on the radio. Turns out we’re both fans of AC/DC, which is good. I’d hate to think I surrendered to the carnal embrace of a man who thinks “Shoot to Thrill” is a terrible song. The road winds through the trees, and the rolled down windows let in sweet, fresh air. Finally, we hit another, much smaller town. It’s the kind of place that looks run down in a dangerous sort of way. The houses are mostly unpainted plywood, and they probably don’t even have electricity. There are few cars parked haphazardly, and kids are running around barefoot. Considering how chilly it is, that’s kind of shocking.
We drive up a little further, and park alongside a few other trucks. A whole crew of people is hard at work, hammering and sawing and walking around an emerging two-story structure. It looks like they’re building a house, a decent house, as a woman with two kids stand to the side. The woman points at the frame, and smiles at her children.
“Where are we?” I ask, puzzled but intrigued.