Rugged (17 page)

“Mmm, as an honest to God man’s man, I
so
agree,” Raj says, starting up a game of Candy Crush on his iPad. I’m glad my assistant producer trusts me enough again to get back to heartily slacking off on the job in front of me. It’s comforting, really.

“Are you serious, Laurel?” Flint asks me. There it is, that rugged, masculine ‘you poor, neglected child’ look he gets when I mention my upbringing in suburbia. “You’ve never fished?”

“For compliments, yes.” Rim shot. I love me. The entire room groans, and Flint shakes his head.

“All right. Go put on some old jeans and boots. I’ll teach you.” He gets up, as Jerri and the director of photography are already on the phone and assembling a crew.

“What? Here? Now?” And what does he mean ‘old’ jeans? I’m wearing a pair that’s been around seven months. That’s as ancient as it gets.

“No time like the present.”

“Make fish while the sun shines. A fish in the hand is worth two in the brook,” I add weakly, trying to joke. Flint pauses, looking ruggedly bewildered. I shrug. “I can keep going.”

“Please don’t,” he says. “Now come on. This’ll be great, I swear.”

“Fine,” I sigh, ignoring Jerri giving me an urgent shove. “If it makes the star of our show happy.” We get up.

“I think I’m going to respond very well to my new celebrity status,” Flint deadpans, brushing past me on his way out the door. I’m not blushing. It’s not like the mere touch of his body makes my skin flush.

Sanderson, Laurel. Don’t forget Sanderson.

“Say hello to the great outdoors for me,” Raj smirks, flashing me a little wave. He’s still snuggled up on the couch, glued to his iPad screen. He cracks a grin. “Yes! Next level! I’ve been trying to get there for, like, ever.”

Real shame to have to grab his iPad and snap it shut. Such a shame. Raj looks like I just tore his
Star Trek: Next Generation
Data figurine out of its pristine packaging. I tuck the offending Apple technology under my arm.

“It’s so nice of you to come along and lend your support,” I say.

“You have to come in here,” Flint calls to me, standing knee-deep in the river. It courses by, the afternoon sun glinting and rippling off of it. Flint’s got his fly fishing pole, and he’s wearing some kind of rubber suspenders. Are they called waders? Let’s call them waders. Rubber pants are not enough to shake Flint McKay’s colossal sex appeal, but they jostle it a little bit.

“I’m a shore dweller,” I call. Jerri’s grumbling beside me, trying to set up the shot and get the boom mic out over Flint. He waves me over. I struggle not to make a face as the bottoms of my shoes get cold and muddy.

“I’ve got an extra pair of waders. Maybe they’re a little big for you, but they’ll work.” He’s not taking no for an answer. Keeping the talent happy
is
top priority. But why can’t keeping him happy involve a spa day, just once?

“He’s got a point,” Jerri tells me, guiding me up the hill. “He’s always at his most relaxed with you in the frame. You’re like the Flint Whisperer.”

Groaning, I dig through the van to find those stupid rubber pants. A few minutes later, I’m sloshing out into the river, wincing as the cold water rises up around my legs. I’m going to go numb. I can feel it. Flint’s waiting for me, one hand out for me to take. I don’t grab him, even though I’m a little unbalanced. If I’m going to keep from making an unprofessional ass of myself on this shoot, not touching him is going to help. A lot.

“Come on, nature girl,” Flint says, handing me a fishing rod. The camera’s trained on our faces. “Now. You know what this is?” He pats some kind of round thingy with a crank on it.

“It, ah, sharpens your pencils,” I say, blanking on the appropriate term. And screw it; I’m out in the damn mud with a bunch of cameras in my face. I’m dishing out some payback. “You know, for those Zen fishing moments when you have a brilliant idea, but your pencil’s too blunt to write it down? Happens all the time.”

“Much as we men of the wild appreciate your understanding of our philosophical musings,” he says, the deadest of pans, “this is called a reel.” He pats it.

“Much like,” I say, turning for the camera slowly, “Reel World Productions, finest production company in all the land?” I smile, a vacant, wide-eyed grin.

“Yes,” Flint says, following my cue and turning back as well. His voice sounds forced and cheerfully robotic. “Reel World. I’m so glad I’ve given my firstborn child in exchange for fame. And free teeth whitening to boot.” He imitates my hollow grin, even giving thumbs up. The men behind the cameras are trembling with suppressed laughter. Talk about shaky cam.

“Can we get serious?” Jerri snaps, though I can hear her struggling not to crack up.

“We can cut this later, right?” I ask through my teeth, still grinning.

“Fine. Do what you want. But we need some usable footage before it gets dark,” Jerri calls. Flint and I return to the business of fishing. Damn, I’m starting to tremble.

“You’re freezing,” he says, sounding alarmed. “Look, if you’re too cold—”

“No. Ratings. Must fish.” I force my teeth to stop chattering, and slosh over a tiny bit to stand closer to him. What can I say? He gives good body heat.

“Here.” Flint touches my shoulder, and I instinctively flinch. He pulls back and glowers, swiping a hand across his stubbled chin. “Hey. Laurel. Talk to me.”

I close my eyes tight. I do not want to have this conversation when I’m numb and there are cameras and fish everywhere.

“Everything all right?” Jerri shouts. Crap. I take a deep breath.

“I’m good. Just…show me how to fish,” I tell Flint. He watches me a moment longer, his gaze shrewd. “Look, I’m still adjusting to this…being on camera thing. The sooner we do this, the sooner I can dry off.”

Flint’s perfect mouth is still compressed in a hard line, but he nods.

“All right. Let’s show you how to cast. Maybe you should watch how I do it first.” His voice is tighter now; he knows not to touch me.

“Okay,” I say, watching as he takes out his rod. Heh. Rod.

Man, even that stupid phallic joke does nothing for me.

“Hold down the bait casting reel button with your thumb,” he tells me, demonstrating. He puts his pole back, then slings it forward. “Release the thumb. Let the bait draw the line out.” I watch as the line whips through the air, a graceful scrawl against the sky. “You push the button back down to slow your spool,” Flint says, demonstrating again. The bait lands perfectly in the stream with a delicate ripple.

“Nice,” I say, genuinely impressed. “So I’m supposed to do the same?” I look down at the rod in my hands. If it had eyes, they would be rolling at me right about now, saying things like ‘Oh honey,
no
.’

“It’s all in the wrist,” Flint says casually, starting to turn the crank on his reel. Or whatever this turn thingy is. “Do what I told you, and there’s no way you can foul up.”

“Oh Mr. McKay, ‘no way you can foul up’ is pretty much a challenge to the god of fouling up to come down from on high and smite us,” I say. Flint barks out a laugh.

“Don’t worry, I made an offering of a breakfast burrito earlier today,” he says, playing along, his voice pitching even lower and deeper. The tension’s eased again, thankfully.

I snort and nudge him, readying my rod. Jerri’s been pretty quiet so far, usually a sign that we’re on the right track. She believes in letting the magic happen when it’s there. The truth is, with Flint at my side, it’s hard to make the magic stop.

Stop thinking about magic. And Flint McKay. Focus on fishing, and keeping the blood circulating in your feet. I stamp up and down, still eyeing Flint. That’s right, focus on staying warm. Do not focus on watching him reel the line back in, his arms rippling with muscle, the spray of the river dampening his shirt so that it clings to his chiseled physique, the…you know, maybe I love fishing after all. A little too much, perhaps.

This whole expedition is becoming dangerous.

“I think I should head back up,” I tell him, turning around to wade away in my, well, waders. But Scott, one of the cameramen, gestures for me to get back in the water.

“No, stay there. You two are hilarious together,” he calls, grinning.

“Besides, you haven’t cast yet,” Flint tells me. He moves closer. “Can I help you?” He’s asking to touch me, and he doesn’t want me to flinch again. Taking a deep breath, I force a smile.

“Sure thing.”

Flint puts a hand on the small of my back to guide me next to him. Wouldn’t you know it; my shivering all but disappears. The cold water isn’t a factor anymore. My numb feet don’t bother me.

I bait my hook, pull back, and whip my arm forward, releasing the line too early. Instead of sailing elegantly through the air, it erupts into a startled kind of squiggle, tangling instantly. I nearly get poor Scott through the lip, which would mean a very awkward emergency trip to the hospital.

“Sorry!” I cry, wincing as I pull the line back. Scott waves, but also takes a few steps back.

“You’ve got to keep your wrist loose, but your arm straight,” Flint says, putting his rod down and getting behind me. I’m pressed up against him, and my cheeks flush. I can’t have him touching me without being reminded of his hands on my waist, steadying me as I rode his body. His eyes burning into me, pupils dilating as he came close to—

“We’re running out of battery!” Jerri calls. Damn, I think I’ve been drooling.

“Here we go,” Flint says. He helps my line of motion, helps me throw the line out in a clear, sweet movement. “There. You’re a natural,” he says, leaning down to my ear.

“Yep. Au naturale, that’s how I do,” I say, stepping away so fast I trip on a river rock and nearly collapse. But I find my balance.

I try again, solo this time. The line whips forward, perfectly thrown, and the bait hits the water. The little red and white plastic bobbing thing bobs along. Aw, so cute.

“Nice. Now reel it in, slowly,” Flint says, clapping his hands. I start, watching the line cut through the water. But then I hit some resistance. Huh. Weird. Maybe it got caught on a submerged tree branch or something. Or maybe it’s…

“I think I caught a fish!” I sound a little like an excited kid, shrieking gleefully as I start to reel it in, but c’mon. I caught a fish! I’m a fisherwoman! The fisher queen!

“Great job,” Flint says, whooping excitedly. “Okay, keep it steady. Slowly reel. Slowly.” I forget all about our tension, my inhibitions, everything. Right now, my whole world is fishing. The Tao of Being Awesome at Everything by Laurel Young.

“This is so easy,” I tell Flint. Feeling a little full of myself, I even look over my shoulder at the camera. Yeah, check me out, America. I’m a goddess. “If I’d known it’d be like this, I’d have—”

I don’t get to finish that thought, because the stupid fish at the end of the line decides to make one last great lunge for freedom, and takes me with him. I stumble forward, pull back hard on the line…which snaps. And he’s gone, swimming off to some fishy riverside bar for a stiff drink and a story about how he cheated death today, trying to impress all the lady flounders.

Oh damn. I feel myself tilting, tilting. I flap my arms, but it does no good. I fall backwards, splashing fantastically, and wind up sitting on my ass in the freezing water. Now it’s not just my feet that are numb. My teeth chatter. It’s cold! And wet! And watery! Why are rivers full of cold water? And why is my crew laughing at me?

“Are you okay?” Flint splashes to me and reaches down to help me up. Shaking so hard I nearly start vibrating, I nod.

“Great. At least this part’s going on the cutting room floor,” I say with some relief as he pulls me to my feet and we rush for dry land.

“Oh, don’t bet on it,” Jerri yells, practically rubbing her hands with glee. “This is a killer promotional shot.”

Huzzah. I think I’ll go join the fish for a drink.

17

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—