“Hold on. You’re not saying that—”
“That I’m going to fly out to Massachusetts, drive right up to this guy’s door, and hand him a once in a lifetime opportunity? I’m not saying it. But I’m steadily implying it with my actions. Here, watch me imply some more.” As Suze gapes, I start the process of getting, hopefully, a nice window seat.
This is crazy, I think as I guide the rental car along a particularly sharp turn. I’ve got the windows rolled down, and the smell of a blustery Massachusetts evening floods the car. It’s pretty spectacular, actually. I’ve never been to the Berkshires before. It’s all rolling hills and sprawling valleys out here. It’s dark outside now, but the sunset was astonishing. The sight of the red afternoon sun dipping below a fiery canopy of autumn leaves almost had my jaw on the floor.
I’m not much of a nature girl. My idea of wildlife is spotting a drunken group of Vermont Avenue hipsters on Saturday night. But the air up here is bracing and clean. I feel like every breath is scrubbing out my city-living lungs, complete with turndown service and complimentary pillow mints. I haven’t been in country dark in a while, and the blackness ahead of me is velvet smooth.
My GPS directs me down a winding dirt road and up to the front porch of a colossal house. I park and gape up at the building. I guess I’d expected a tiny little woodland shack—maybe a rocking chair on the porch, with a hunting dog snoozing alongside—but this place is a craftsman’s delight. Aside from the enormous front porch, the house is two large stories, with gabled windows and upstairs balconies. I kill the lights, get out, and walk up the stairs. My footsteps sound like cannon fire in the quiet night.
“You can do this. You have the aura of a panther,” I whisper, repeating something a party psychic told me one time. I knock on the door, and wait. Nothing. There’s a glowing doorbell to the side, and I ring. A lovely, bell-like chime sounds through the house. It’s not one of those annoying buzzers.
I hear heavy, booted footsteps heading for the door. Pulling my shoulders back, I smile. My eyes go a little wide. This is completely insane. But right now, insane’s what will probably see me through.
“Yes?” Flint McKay opens the door and looks down at me. He frowns. “Can I help you?”
The video does him no justice. He’s six feet of tall, lean muscle. He doesn’t wear any of that cloying cologne that the LA jerks wear—there’s a bracing pine and musk scent about him. All this brawny goodness makes Tyler look like a Barbie doll. My mouth is watering already, just admiring the view.
“Do you need help?” Flint says, articulating every word neatly. He’s looking concerned now. All right. Show time.
“My name’s Laurel Young,” I say, offering him my hand to shake. He just looks at it and I pull it hastily back. “I’ve left you a couple of messages about my production company, Reel World. I think your potential is explosive, Mr. McKay. I feel so strongly about it that I flew all the way out here from Los Angeles just to make you an offer. I want to pitch your home improvement show to my executive of development, and I want to make you a household name.” I smile up at him. “What do you say to that?”
For a minute, he looks at me. There’s a grin playing at the corner of his luscious mouth, a gleam in his eyes, and I can practically see the glory of my future success unfolding before me. This is it! I got through to him. He’s totally in, I can feel it.
Then, without speaking a single word, he steps back and slams the door in my face.
4
I stand there, frozen in shock. What the hell? Surely I got that wrong. Surely instead of slamming the door in my face, he said, ‘Why yes, I would love to be on television, allow me to give you a rugged back massage as thanks for flying out here with such stupendous news. Here, take a seat, I have whittled a chair for you.’
Okay, that clearly did not happen. So I knock again, harder this time. For a minute I wonder if he’s going to let me stand out here all night, but he finally flings the door open and comes out. He’s wearing a brown leather jacket and a closed expression.
“Nope,” he says, shutting the door and pushing right past me and down the steps. “I’m not buying. Climb back in the car and go home to your noise pollution and brain-frying electromagnetic waves. I don’t want any part of this.” I chase after him, almost toppling over when my heel sinks into the grass. I don’t get that problem much in LA.
“We haven’t discussed terms,” I say, toddling over as he climbs into his truck—yes, he has a rusted red pickup, which is so perfect—and hits the ignition. “I can make it worth your while.”