“Down to the eight ball,” Flint says, readying himself and shooting. It’s close, but the shot just misses. We’re tied. He hands me my cue. “Chalk up and get in there.”
As I accept the cue, my hand grazes his again, for one brief second, and again, sparks bubble in my blood. Flint winks, then steps aside to let me play. Is he doing it on purpose? I have to ignore the brief touches and the deep, sexy rumbling of his laugh. Focus, Laurel. Go for the Firefly gold, which is probably Carl’s old bowling trophy and a free drink. Using my laser producer focus, I look down the length of the cue and see the smug little eight ball just sitting there, acting like he owns the place.
I haven’t had too much to drink. I just like to imagine inanimate objects mocking me. Helps me concentrate.
I shoot, and the white ball cracks so satisfyingly against the offending eight ball that it shoots across the table and lands in the corner pocket. I win the game. This calls for a classy victor’s speech. I’ll shake Flint’s hand, congratulate him on a game well played—
“Did that hurt? The beat down I just laid on you?” I ask him, sashaying my hips back and forth. Screw it, I don’t go in for classy all that much. I work in Hollywood.
Fortunately, Flint isn’t the sore loser type. He laughs hard, then grabs me up and swings me around, very quickly. It’s a playful hug he’d give his sisters. I’ve seen him behave this way before. All very brotherly. So why do I practically feel myself melt against him? And why, when he returns me to my feet, does he look at me with a heat that doesn’t make me think of cozy family bonding at all? Unless your last name is Lannister, that is.
“You play to win,” he murmurs. I think that idea pleases him; a smile quirks up the side of his mouth.
“Guess you could say I’m competitive,” I reply, my carefree tone belying how fast my heart’s beating. Across the bar, I notice Raj glaring in our direction with his arms crossed. What? Just a little friendly, professional bonding going on over here.
“Damn, the girl’s a master,” Bernie says, whistle-laughing as he sets up for another game. “Rare I get the pleasure of seeing anyone beat you, McKay.”
“She divided and conquered my troops,” Flint says, gazing down at me. “She’s like a shorter, West coast Napoleon.” Despite Raj’s eyes still shooting laser beams at me, I’m still pressed up against Flint’s body, and neither of us seems to be moving away. If only I could feel his arms around me, one more time…just for the road…
“Helluva lot better than the rest of us,” Bernie continues, apparently oblivious to whatever’s happening between Flint and me. Which is a good thing, damn it. “Man, last person I ever saw beat you was Charlotte. You remember?” Bernie laughs and pushes his cap up his head. “She’d never let up, that woman, ‘til she got her way.”
And just like that, I’m out of Flint’s arms. He takes a step back, the heat in his eyes quashed. Even Bernie notices it, because he clears his throat.
“I mean, just saying—”
“Why don’t you two keep playing? I’m going to get another beer,” Flint says, and heads for the bar. Bernie shakes his head and keeps setting up.
“What was all that about?” I ask. It’s not that my ears perk up as soon as another lady’s name is mentioned. No, not at all. My ears just naturally look like this. All perky and what not.
“Eh, it’s not a big deal,” Bernie says. He starts ordering the balls by solid and stripe. Meanwhile Raj saunters over to us, his checked yellow shirt and skinny jeans setting him apart from the crowd. His eyes are narrowed, but although I’m expecting a tongue-lashing of the un-fun variety, instead he unexpectedly gets in on the game.
“Can I play too?” he asks, slumping against one of the truckers. They all shoot each other looks, but shrug and let him in. “I love you fellas
so
much. We’re a manly buncha bros.” Then he hugs one of them. Ah. I see how it is.
I leave Raj to his ‘manly’ bro-bonding and go find Flint at the bar, staring into a beer he hasn’t touched. Grabbing the stool next to him, I smile. “You feeling all right?”
“Think I’ve had too much to drink.” That’s a lie and we both know it, but I’m not going to press.
“Yeah. It’s getting late. I should probably head back and get some sleep.” I grab my purse and pat him on the shoulder. Platonic patting, of course.
“I’ll walk with you.” He throws on his jacket.
I don’t move. “Uh…you sure about that?” I’m definitely not too intoxicated to realize we’re treading in dangerous territory here, given that Flint and I have a proven track record of post-bar night lack-of-self-control.
“Relax. I’m not gonna assail your honor,” he says.
But I like assailing. As the Styx song goes, come assail away, come assail away, assail away with me.
Okay, no more karaoke night. Ever.
We say good night to the people nearby, and start toward the door. Raj’s eyes follow us the whole way there, but before Flint and I can get outside I find myself swept up in a drunken hug from my assistant. “Following in Sanderson’s footsteps is career suicide,” he whispers in my ear. “I’m trying to help you, Laurel. Don’t do this.”
“Do what?” I ask indignantly, pulling away from Raj. “I’m not doing anything.”
His eyes narrow in that judgy way of his, but before he can get out a reply, Flint claps Raj on the shoulder in a friendly but firm farewell and hustles me out the door.
“My assistant thinks he’s my babysitter,” I explain to Flint, shaking my head.
“You don’t strike me as the type of woman who needs one,” Flint says.
Well, now. That puffs me up a little, puts the spring back in my step. I know Raj is going to give me hell at work tomorrow morning, but at that point I’ll be able to tell him that Flint walked me home and then
nothing happened
and therefore Raj has no basis for his silly little accusations and better not be all up in my business no mo’. So there.
And then Flint’s hand goes to my lower back, and I have to ignore my suddenly very alert body, reminding myself that we’re friends, we’ll always be friends, and it’s never going to be anything more than a professional relationship. Just like we agreed.
We stroll down the street, passing the carnage of the fading Halloween season. There are bales of hay with paper skeletons on them, waving at us. It used to be sort of like this back in Ohio, but the sky wasn’t this beautiful, velvety country dark. Also, there wasn’t a phenomenally hot man squiring me about town. So far, it’s all an upgrade.
We get to the Beauchamps’ front porch, and I listen to the heavy thud of Flint’s boots as he comes up after me. Only to drop me off at the door, of course. Like the perfect gentleman that he is.
“Thanks for not being a jerk about the pool thing,” I say. When his eyes get the danger light, like I’m going to bring up the mysterious Charlotte again, I rush to add, “About me winning. A lot of guys would get pretty irritated about the booty shaking victory dance.”
“It’s fine. But that booty shaking…” he says, grinning widely. The tension evaporates. “That was probably my favorite part.”
“Ah.” I do not at all start to blush. Not even a smidge. “Well. Guess I’ll be seeing you on set then,” I say, turning away. “’Night.”
His hand reaches for mine, stopping me.
“Wait. I wanted to say—just, thanks for helping me out today. I know I’m not the world’s biggest camera personality,” he admits. “But you really stepped up and saved the show. Saved me.”
“My pleasure,” I say. “We’re a good team. At work. Like, as colleagues.”
“That’s what I meant,” he nods. But I see disappointment in his eyes. And by golly he’s still holding my hand, which I’m not at all pulling away from him. Oh boy.
“Yes. Right,” I murmur. We should be in bed. Right now. Separately. Though actually, there’s a bed all on its lonesome upstairs, and it simply adores company—
And then, before my libidinous traitor of a brain can go any further, Raj’s warning comes rushing back to me and a name starts flashing before my eyes in neon colors:
Brian Sanderson.
I can’t believe I was being such a stubborn jackass—Raj is right. This is
exactly
how Sanderson’s life exploded. First he got cozy with one of the stars of his show. Then he grabbed Maribelle DuJour, helped her steal her husband’s yacht, and took off for Mexico so they could elope. I’m sure it seemed like a fantastic idea at the time, but now he’s the laughing stock of the entertainment industry. No one will ever hire him again.
That can’t be me.
Brian was an established, well-respected producer, protected by the executives. It took him literally destroying his own show to get them to cut him out of the business. I won’t get the same leniency. These exec bastards are looking for one reason, just one good reason, to write me off as a hormone addled, scatter brained womanchild, trying to finagle her way into the boys’ club using her feminine wiles instead of her smarts.
That first night Flint and I hooked up was understandable; everyone’s entitled to a one-night fling in an alleyway every now and then, especially if they’ve had the week from hell and there’s a few gallons of scotch and a man hotter than a blowtorch thrown into the mix. And the second time? Well, we thought we’d lost the pitch. It was a ‘so-long, nice knowing you, let’s just screw away all our failures before we never see each other again’ bit of farewell sex. But now that we’re working together in a professional capacity, hopefully for the foreseeable future, it’s my big chance to screw up in front of the whole network and all those douchebags just waiting for me to fuck up.
So even if Flint’s not as over what happened between us back in LA as I thought…even if that makes me happier than it should…this cannot happen. Ever again.
“Laurel,” Flint says, frowning. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“I can’t,” I say, taking my hand from his grasp. And then my phone rings. I’d ignore it if it weren’t Jerri’s specific ring tone, but I have to grab the call. “Hey,” I say, listening as Jerri mostly-soberly fills me in on tomorrow’s call time and set up. I try to get off the phone as fast as I can, but it’s too late. Flint has already stepped off the porch.
“Call time?” he asks as I hang up.
“Oh-six thirty,” I say, mentally kicking myself. That was my moment to be brave, to tell him exactly how conflicted I’m feeling and why. And now that moment has passed. “So. See you tomorrow?”
“See you tomorrow,” Flint echoes, and heads down the street. Good. That’s where he should be heading: away from me and my four-poster feather-pillowed antique bed. Groaning inwardly, I go upstairs to my room and start to get ready for sleep. Rest. That’s what I need. Not calisthenics. Just a few hours of blissful, restorative unconsciousness.
Instead of conking out, all I can do is stare at the ceiling while a barrage of thoughts swirls through my brain. I will not be Brian Sanderson. I will not destroy my career, or Flint’s. This show is the best thing that could happen to both of us, and if that means we have to sacrifice our not-a-relationship in order to succeed, then so be it.
But as I roll over and give my feather pillow a few self-righteous punches, I can’t help but remember Flint in my bed, his breath against my neck, his hands, his cock…
Screw it. I jump out of bed, march into the bathroom and yank back the shower curtain. I’m going to need to make it a cold one.
16
It’s amazing what a week can do. Seven days later, I’m sitting at my cute, ornately carved wooden desk and reviewing the footage we’ve shot. Flint’s become a complete natural. Well, maybe not complete—I’m still in frame, working alongside him—but look at everything we’ve accomplished. He and his team have finished laying the foundation. The framework for the walls is up. There’re even a few luscious money shots of Flint with his shirt off, the light sweat of exertion shining on his broad shoulders, his biceps bulging.
It’s not just me being creepy. Development called after they saw the dailies, asking if we could get a little more flesh in the footage. They even specifically used the phrase ‘money shots.’
I’ve also been killing it in the professional arena—even Raj has stopped giving me the suspicious stink-eye, and Flint and I have behaved ourselves admirably. Mostly by ignoring each other every time the cameras are off, but that’s okay. It’s for the best.
Finished reviewing, I head downstairs. Flint’s waiting in the lobby, eyeing a collection of eighteenth century muskets on the wall. It’s a smaller production meeting today, just us two and Raj and Jerri, and the director of photography. We all settle down in the den, and I notice that Jerri’s got a plate of cranberry scones laid out next to her. And that she keeps sneaking them, whimpering in pleasure as she munches. Can’t blame her. Baked goods like this don’t exist in the gluten free shops along Melrose Avenue.
“So how’s it going?” Flint asks, quirking an eyebrow at me.
“In a word, perfect. You’ve completely turned this around,” I tell him. He smiles, lighting up his golden brown eyes. Gorgeous as they are, I resist swooning or getting tongue-tied. I’ve mostly gotten immune to his charms. Mostly. “Now we need to add touches of local color,” I say. Flint tenses a little; he’s still afraid we’re going to try shoehorning in a cheap love story. “Genuine color. Jerri suggested it, actually,” I say, looking over to our fearless director and waiting for her to wipe crumbs from her mouth.
“Color. Exactly,” she says. “What do you like to do for fun, McKay? Any hobbies?”
“Croquet and basket weaving,” he says, his face a mask of seriousness. Everyone stares at him blankly, and he cracks a grin. “I’m messing with you. It’s just what you’d want, Jerri. Fishing, hiking. Used to go hunting with my dad, but I’m not so into that anymore.”
“Too bad. That would’ve really sold in our rural markets,” Raj says, sighing at the lost ratings.
“Fishing is great,” I say, all but clapping my hands. “I love fishing.” By that, I mean I love fish. And by that, I mean I love sushi. But yes, fish.
“You’re a fisherman?” Flint asks, genuine interest on his face. “I mean, fisherwoman?”
“Me? Never. But I love the idea of
you
fishing.” I look to Jerri, who’s slurping some tea. “What do you think? Take a couple of steadicams out to the river, record Flint against the afternoon sun. It’s a real man’s activity.”