Rugged (7 page)

“Is he the reason for your interest in…the hardware side of life?” I ask. Man, I need to get better with my rustic vocabulary, stat. Flint eyes me for a second, but I put the camera on the table. It’s off. No spying on my part. He nods.

“He got me started working at the local branch when I was twelve years old. At first it was small stuff like sweeping the floor, learning to work the register. Then he saw I had an interest, so he trained me up. Circular saws, power drills, hammer and nails, everything. He was a carpenter originally, and a genius at it.” His eyes really light up. He even chuckles to himself. Chuckles! That’s not something I ever thought I’d see from him on tape. “Biggest project he had me help with was restoring an old house in town. I mean heavy duty, stripping it to the foundation and building it back up. He wasn’t trying to make any money off it. The lady who lived there, Mrs. McCallister, was about eighty-nine. She lived alone, couldn’t keep on top of the repairs, so we did the whole thing for her at no cost. Even found a way to put in one of those home wheelchair lifts, did the electrical work and everything.” He nods, lost in the memory. “She was so happy she cried.” The sincerity is there. Wow. I actually feel tears coming to my own eyes.

“So Cortland gave you a thorough education,” I say. Slowly, I turn the camcorder back on and film. Flint notices, but nods. He’s okay with it.

“It surprised the hell out of him when I ended up going to Dartmouth.” Flint shakes his head, laughing. The sound is deep and musical, and I feel the song of it reverberating in my panties.
Focus, Laurel!
“Sometimes even I can’t believe it. Looking back, I can’t explain what I was thinking. Maybe it was the rebellious phase every nineteen-year-old goes through. I went the finance route for a while.”

“Seriously?” I know I’m not supposed to sound like I think the star of the show is bullshitting me, but I can’t quite believe it. “No offense, but you look like the kind of guy who’d whittle his own diploma from the University of Badass.”

“Hold on.” He goes into the back of the storeroom and comes out with a dusty frame. He actually has to wipe the glass down before turning it toward me. “Here. Summa cum laude. MBA from Columbia University.”

Columbia? New York City? “You probably fit in about as well as a round peg in a square hole. No, wait. Boulder. A huge, manly boulder in a small, urban square hole.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment. And yeah, I started working for Goldman Sachs right after graduation. But my heart wasn’t in it.” His gaze darkens again. “I didn’t want to spend my life moving other people’s money around, doing dirty deals, hurting people, and pretending like I was some kind of god. Besides, I figured out I wasn’t the type of guy to leave the woods. Being away, it was like tearing my heart out. So I quit, came back, and took up co-running the family business.” He closes his eyes a minute. “Then Uncle Cort died, and the whole thing fell to me. That was right around the time the financial problems started.” He shrugs. “If it’s not one thing, it’s another.” I can hear how much it weighs on him, but he just shrugs it off. It’s kind of incredible.

“You’ve been handling the problems,” I say. Part of me really just wants to make him smile again. The sight of it was intoxicating.

“Maybe, but we’ve been treading water ever since.” He looks up at me, the liquid brown of his gaze smoldering. “You honestly think this show can turn that around?”

“Yes,” I say, instantly. Both because I want it to be true, and because it’s what he wants to hear right now. “So. Are you ready to start over?” I look through the lens again, focusing on the chair.

“I’m kind of uncomfortable when it’s just me alone,” he says. Then he stands up and pats the table. “Teaching people, though, that’s more my speed. Come on.”

Whoa, hold on. Him teaching means me being taught, and I start to sweat at the thought of it. Maybe because being on camera gives me hives—there’s a reason I’m a producer, after all. Or maybe because, despite my resolution to do absolutely nothing in the ‘flirting with Flint’ department, the idea of falling on my face or accidentally hammering my thumb in front of him is ultra humiliating. I don’t want him to see that side of me. It’s a pride thing. Clearing my throat, I try to laugh it off.

“I have two left feet when it comes to making things. Two left thumbs? I mean it, I’m terrible.” I flush a little.

“Please. I don’t know how I’m going to do this otherwise,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets and squaring his jaw. I get the feeling that asking for help isn’t something he does very often. Shit.

Well, it’s only the sizzle reel. And we can edit me out later, anyway.

“All right,” I say as I tentatively put the camcorder in the right spot for filming and walk around to stand beside him.

“Everybody can do a little basic work,” he says, that perfect smile reappearing. Talking about his uncle, the family business, it’s definitely relaxed him. He even gives me a wink. Already, I can hear the gasp of women all across the country.

“Not me. My parents used to call people to come in and do everything for us. I got to sit in my room, with my immaculately made bed and my immaculately dressed dolls, and try not to muss up the carpet fibers,” I tell him. He frowns.

“Damn, that sounds terrible. You never did projects with your dad? Make a birdhouse, anything?” He sounds like he pities me. My face is on fire.

“We had some of those expensive crystal sugar feeders for hummingbirds,” I say weakly. Flint is not impressed; but it’s not like I crave his approval, for God’s sake. I don’t! Mostly. He grunts.

“That’s it. We’re going to make you a damn fine birdhouse. Follow my lead.” He takes out some plywood, and goes to his workstation to pull out a saw. Just like that, out of nowhere. “All right, now I’m going to get behind you.”

Mmmm. So many, many dirty things that could be said. So very little time to say them. Instead, I force myself to stay professional and allow Flint to hand me the saw. He stands behind me, putting his hand on top of mine to adjust the grip.

“The trick is to jigger it a little bit first, create a groove for the blade,” he says. He demonstrates, making fast little cuts with the saw. The wood starts to yield to him. “There. Hard part’s done. Now you need to give it a few long, easy cuts. Back and forth, back and forth.” His hand’s on the small of my back, his other hand on my arm as he guides the motion. I’m undone. Him being this near, with this much body heat and flannel, is completely overwhelming. I feel my cheeks burning, and an answering fire kindling down below.

“Is this good?” I ask breathlessly, my voice a little too throaty, awkwardly pulling my arm back.

“Well, close. It’s sort of—careful!” he says, as I somehow manage to bring my arm way too far back and send the saw flying. It warps and whines through the air, and Flint dodges out of the way as it crashes to the ground, upsetting a pillowy mound of sawdust. Crap. Instinctively, my gaze snaps to the camcorder. Hopefully I can edit this section out, but honestly, it might make a funny bit for the sizzle reel. Which means Davis is going to see me making an ass of myself. Ah, show business.

“If the zombie apocalypse ever comes, promise not to arm me with a saw,” I groan as I pick the tool up, feeling like a, well, tool. My face flushes hotter in embarrassment.

“That should probably be a segment on the show, right?” Flint says, helping me up and grinning. “‘Flint McKay’s Guide to the Zombie Apocalypse.’ Sounds kind of badass, don’t you think?”

“Oh man, forget home renovation. We’ve found our new paranormal superstar.” I still feel awkward standing in front of the camera, being recorded like this. But I can’t help laughing a little, and Flint joins me.

“You more of a baseball bat person?” he asks. “You know, for knocking in undead heads?”

“Probably more of a ‘get in a fast car and drive away, looking for a good isolated motel with WiFi’ kind of person,” I say, giving a guilty shrug. “I’m city tough. If you need someone to get you a table at Mr. Chow’s during the dinner rush, call on me.”

“Well, there’s nothing wrong with those skills,” he says, putting the saw away. “There’s something nice about city girls. They’ve got a quick way of thinking and talking. I like that.” He grins, the dazzle factor blinding me. “After all, those years in New York weren’t a total loss.”

“Never lose the rustic charm,” I say, trying to keep my cool with the way he’s looking at me. It’s purely friendly, of course, but still intoxicating. “It’s what’s going to sell the whole show.”

“Sell.” He makes a face. “I hate to think of selling myself. I can’t help it.”

“That’s probably the smart way to think in reality TV,” I say, finally shutting down the camcorder. I breathe a long sigh of relief. “The ones who really go off the rails are the ones who start seeing their whole lives through the camera lens. That’s when it gets creepy.”

“That’s not going to happen to me,” he says, decisive.

“I won’t let it. I promise,” I say. I stack the plywood to give myself something to do, then dust my hands, making a face at the dirt on them. That makes him laugh.

“All right. I’m putting myself in your very clean, capable hands, Ms. Young,” he says. Okay, Laurel. Don’t blush, don’t get lusty-eyed. He doesn’t mean
that
way, after all. “Do you want to try something simpler?”

“Like what?” I ask. He considers for a minute.

“Maybe nailing two pieces of wood together?” he asks, grinning. I lightly smack his arm, and he laughs again. God, that is a wonderful sound. It’s like rich, manly velvet.

Before we can get around to the instructional nailing (not that kind, not that kind), Flint’s cell phone rings. He grabs it. “McKay. Hey, Josh, what’s going on?” He takes a few steps, nodding as he listens. “You want it today after all? All right, give me half an hour to get everything loaded. I’ll see you there.” He hangs up and makes a face. “I hate to do this, but I’ve got to run out. Two chairs and a sofa I redid, the guy wants them today. He said tomorrow, but I guess he got back into town early.”

“It’s fine,” I say, packing up my camera. I would’ve liked to shoot the rest of the day, just to give the deadline more room to breathe, but you do what you can with what you have. “I need to go back to the inn and plan the budgets anyway.”

“That sounds like a wild time,” he says. There’s the deadpan voice I’ve been missing all afternoon.

“Truly, excel spreadsheets and I know how to get down and dirty. I’ve also got to arrange your flight out to LA for the pitch.”

“Oh. Right,” he says, sounding a little uncomfortable. “I forgot there was a trip element to this whole trip thing.”

“Come on, you lived in New York. LA’s not much different.”

“Apart from the traffic, the smog, and the assholes. Relax,” he says, holding up his hands. “There are plenty of assholes in New York. I know the drill. I’m in. We’ll pitch like our lives depend on it.”

Which they do, in a way.

“Fantastic. You won’t regret this. I swear.” I hold out my hand. “See you tomorrow, then? We can maybe film a little at the hardware store. Show you in your natural habitat.” I grin.

“Sounds good. Tomorrow,” he says, shaking on it. His hand is rough, callused but warm. Mine feels small and fragile in his grip. It’s not the worst feeling in the world. Our eye contact lingers, and I fend off another round of intense blushing until he finally lets my hand go. Did that long handshake mean something? Or was his mind just elsewhere?

Don’t be stupid, Laurel.
Time to nip this in the bud. Clearing my throat, I make a decision that I hope is for the best. “Look, Flint. I’m really glad we’ll be working together, and I look forward to continuing our professional relationship, but I just want to say that whatever happened last night—”

“Don’t even worry about it,” he says, cutting me off. “That was really, uh, out of character for me. I don’t know what I was thinking. It was—”

“Me either,” I blurt. “I mean, clearly if we’re going to be working together…”

He nods. “Right. We should probably just forget it ever happened.”

“Right,” I agree. “Onward and upward. See you tomorrow bright and early.” I tuck the camera under my arm and we stand there awkwardly for a moment.

“I guess I should head out,” Flint says, leading us out of the workshop. I try to ignore the pang I feel as I follow him across the yard, back toward the house.

7

“Would you like me to sort your chakras while you wait for your eggs?” the waitress asks me the next day. I blink at her, just starting to feel the effects of my first coffee. “Like, not to make you feel awkward, but your crown and your third eye are so close together.” I’m back at the local diner where I had that first date (meeting, Laurel, it was a
meeting
) with Flint—and now that I’m sober I really notice the cute checkered tablecloths, the antique bric-a-brac decorating the walls, the sugar bowls shaped like hens. It’s adorable, but my waitress definitely ups the quirk factor.

“I…thank you?” I say, not sure about the chakra thing.

The girl’s young, with long, honey blond hair and woven hemp bracelets around her wrists. Turquoise stones hang from her ears. Her nametag reads JESSA, and below in marker, she’s written NAMASTE. “I can feel that your energy is in need of healing,” she says, smiling sweetly. “I can try a little Reiki on you, but I’m afraid it might be too punishing for your aura right now.”

“Eh, I’m okay. Can I just get a refill on my coffee?” I ask, putting down my empty cup. She places her hand above my head, closes her eyes, and inhales deeply.

“You’re a traveler wending her way through life. It’s my privilege to offer sustenance on your journey.” She floats away to get the coffee. I’m not sure how PC her moccasins are, but I’m not going to give her a hard time about it.

The door opens behind me, bell tinkling as a customer enters. Callie walks over, rolling the twins in their tandem stroller. I wave at Lily, who’s got her whole fist in her mouth. She waves back, gleefully. Callum shakes a ring of plastic keys with huge enthusiasm.

“Sorry I’m late, Cal spit up and I had to give him the fastest change known to man. Clark Kent has nothing on me.” Callie slides in, and Jessa brings us our coffee. Callie raises her eyebrows. “Hey, I didn’t know you were on shift today,” she says, reaching up and hugging Jessa. The hippie girl kisses her cheek.