Ah, the enlightened feminism of Tyler the Fuckhead. After he finally leaves, I rub my eyes. It’s not that I agree with him—women can be successful in work and in love, you don’t have to choose for God’s sake—but I am a little worried about the colder, angrier part of me that’s been coming out of hiding in recent weeks. Something about how spectacularly the Flint thing failed has really gotten under my skin.
And, speak of the devil, my phone buzzes. I pull it out and see a text message from Raj. Flint is entering the building. Groaning, I turn and press my forehead against the wall for a minute. And maybe bang it once or twice, just to get the circulation going.
The ride down in the elevator sends my stomach up into my heart, or my heart down into my stomach. Either way, some organs are where they shouldn’t be, and they need to sort themselves out. The doors whisper open. My heels clack as I walk across the marble lobby to the front desk. Tyler’s there already of course, no worse for wear after our little t
te-à-t
te in the hallway, wearing his trademark shit eating grin, his shirt collar popped. A few of those producer and executive weasels are sniffing around, waiting eagerly for their newest, sexiest cash cow.
And there he is. Flint walks through the revolving doors, alone. He’s wearing a black button down shirt, his worn brown leather jacket thrown over his shoulder. The way he strides in, powerful and utterly confident, almost knocks me over. His eyes, normally the warmest golden brown, are hard and sparking. Tyler almost leaps in front of him, wearing a spectacularly oily grin.
“Flint McKay. Star of the show. Sex god of the east coast,” Tyler says, holding out his hand to get in on the action. “You remember me?”
“Unfortunately,” Flint tells him, looking at the hand and not taking it. “Trust me, I’d like to forget.” Tyler’s expression falls. I can’t help but smile. That is, until Flint looks at me, and I feel the color drain from my face. But I’m not going to scurry under the desk and hide. I pull my shoulders back.
“Good to see you again,” I tell him, no crack in my voice. I am blue steel, a black panther, a color combined with something awesome.
“Laurel,” he says, nodding curtly. Is it just me, or does his voice get rougher and lower when he speaks to me?
It’d be unprofessional not to shake, so I hold out my hand. Flint takes it, encasing it in his own large, calloused grip. I am titanium. A second later, he pulls away.
“We’ve got a team upstairs waiting to meet you,” I say. The executives and Tyler are all scattering before him; it’s like they know they’ve been outmanned.
“Let’s go then.” Flint brushes past me and walks toward the elevators. I follow close behind, digging my nails so hard into my palms I might draw blood.
One minute down. Seventy thousand to go.
26
The doors slide open on the fifth floor, and we walk out into an excited group of chattering people. Everyone has gathered to greet our new star. You’d think God himself had strolled in. And judging by the reactions of most of the women, I think that’s a pretty fair analogy. There are some gasps in the back, the strategic tossing of hair or batting of eyelashes. Margie from H/R actually stops breathing for a second. I catch her fanning herself with an office memo.
“Everyone,” I say, clapping my hands and calling the rampaging hormone convention to attention. “This is Flint McKay, star of Rustic Renovations, reality king in the making.” There’s a lot of applause, which I know is killing Flint slowly. He tightens his jaw, always a sure sign he wants to bolt. This much attention has got to be like shoving him on a spit and turning him over a roasting fire, apple in his mouth, shirt off and chest glistening.
Even that titillating and strange image does nothing for me. I’m too depressed right now.
“Great to see you, Flint. Remember me?” Raj, my assistant producer, sidles up and squeezes Flint’s hand. And his bicep as well. I don’t blame him.
“How could I forget?” Flint smiles, cool and gracious, and a flock of women swarm around him.
“I’ve seen some of the footage,” Bethany, one of the script supervisors, says. Has she popped a button on her top? There’s definitely some cleavage happening. “You’re even better looking in real life.” Okay, is she also licking her lips?
“Thank you,” Flint says, giving that charming, bemused smile. Combined with the perfect wave of his hair and the strength of his jaw line, it’s a deadly combination. Bethany seems to purr in contentment. I stand aside, smiling a little. Flint is like an aftershave-anointed mountain man, an alpine Adonis. I should really just start doing marketing’s job for them.
“You got to work with him?” Margie says, coming over to me. I think she’s still fluttering a little. “What was that like?”
Completely perfect, until he broke my heart and I stormed off into the sunrise.
“He’s a real professional,” I say, and leave it at that. She beams, and eventually Flint makes his way out of the group of women and over to me.
“Any chance we can get out of here?” he mutters, barely moving his mouth. “I think one of them started smelling me.”