That’d be Claire, in accounting. And I can’t hold her at fault; it’s like he bathes in pine and crystal springs. Still, he’s got a point, and I clap my hands.
“All right, we’ve got a month to go, people. Confirm appearances on every morning show in town, buy up those billboards, and start skywriting the premiere date. Let’s promote, sell, and celebrate,” I say. Everyone cheers as I guide Flint down the hall. I keep my eyes fixed straight ahead, refusing the temptation to look over at him. I make sure there’s a nice little distance between us. For a minute, we have nothing to say.
“Are you actually going to skywrite?” he finally asks. I think he’s legitimately concerned.
“No, but we’re printing the invites to the premiere after party on these really thin slices of wood. You’ll love it.”
“Yep,” he says, clearly straining to sound casual. And that’s it. We pause outside my office door. I don’t think either of us really wants to go in and let ourselves marinate in uncomfortable feelings in one small room. The hallway dissipates it, makes eau de awkward less pungent. So now we’re standing here, hands in pockets, wondering when someone is going to come and rescue us.
Maybe if Charlotte were here, she could break the ice. I try not to think about it. And I try not to think about how Flint looks right now, leaned up against the wall. His face is blank, his eyes meeting mine. He isn’t looking away. Well, he’s not a coward, Laurel. All I can think about is going over to him, laying my head against his chest, letting his arms wrap around me…
No. That chapter’s over. Start another one that begins with the words ‘I was so over Flint McKay, and had a bevy of oiled cabana boys eager to respond to my every whim.’
I’m not much of a writer.
“So.” Flint clears his throat. “I guess this is it.”
At first I think he means ‘this is the end of the nonversation,’ but then I gather he’s talking about start of promotion. “Yep. Ah, yes. Starting. We all start somewhere.” I try that megawatt grin that guys love so much, and get exactly zero response. He looks at the wall instead of me. We are off to such a flying start. “Was the trip okay?” I ask, clutching at things to talk about.
“Fine,” he says. He squares his jaw in the silence. Great. Is there any way I can excuse myself and go jump out the window?
“You, uh, came to LA alone?” I imagine Charlotte, her sleek dark hair pulled back into a bun, sitting beside him on the plane. Holding his hand, smiling, reassuring him that she’ll be waiting for him back at the hotel. That seeing me won’t be as bad and awkward as he thinks. This idea makes me want to recreate Edvard Munch’s painting ‘The Scream.’ By, you know, screaming. Against a backdrop of surrealist coloring.
“Nope. Didn’t bring anyone. Callie wanted to come, of course. She was ready to throw the twins into the cargo hold.” He smiles weakly.
“She’s making a run for Mother of the Year,” I say. Small smile from Flint again, then silence. I would pay for someone to come down the hall and hit me in the face with a pie. Nothing can be more uncomfortable than this.
“Laurel?” Raj walks over. And thank God, he isn’t holding a pie. He nods, a hand pressed against his ear so he can listen to his Bluetooth, and says, “The execs want you guys in the conference room. Now.” He throws one last searching glance between me and Flint, turns on his heel, and zips away, eager to keep up with the higher-ups’ demands.
“Here we go,” Flint mutters. He doesn’t love the executives so much, not since our first meeting when they told him he was a piece of meat they wanted to use as bait for the horny women of America. Executives are good at getting you to hate them. Well, maybe they’ll be better this time, I think to myself as we walk down the hall. Maybe they’ll be well behaved.
And maybe I’m the long lost heir of Imelda Marcos. Though that’d be great for my shoe collection.
“You are going to flip for this,” one of the executives tells Flint when our mountain man is uncomfortably seated in a plush leather spinning chair. The executives are lined up on either side of the long conference table, with Herman Davis, head of development, perched at the top. Davis is the only one not floored by the Flint McKay, God of Beauty show. He polishes his glasses and coughs.
“I mean it,” the executive continues, beaming. “It will rock your world.”
“Or you’ll hate it. As I suspect you will,” Davis says, cutting through the bullshit as he is wont to do. “We’ve got a full schedule ahead for you, McKay.”