Poor bearskin rug.
There’s some kind of farmers’ or merchants’ market going as I walk along, white tents flapping in the November breeze, jars of homemade preserves and smoked ham for sale. I head away from the food—the cinnamon-y, buttery, mouth-watering food—and walk along a row of adorable storefronts. I’m hunting for a cozy furniture shop. We haven’t shot any footage at Flint’s house yet, and that’s coming up real soon. I thought the stuff he owned was fine, but apparently Raj sent photos of the interior to someone at the network, and now they’re worried that it looks too IKEA bland. Too boring. Spice up those white walls! Hang pelts and the heads of small woodland creatures! I’m not going that far, but if they want more authentically rustic? Fine. I’ll take care of it.
First thing I need is a nice couch. I don’t want leather, since that’s a little too modern urban chic, but it can’t be something covered with cutesy fabric either. A rustic man’s couch. You know. Something hewn from boulders and wrapped in barbed wire.
One antique shop, the Old George, looks inviting. A wooden sign with a smiling, bewigged man painted on it tells me there’s probably antique perfection waiting within. I step inside, breathing in the scent of mothballs and waxed pine. A gold and crystal chandelier hangs from the ceiling, casting light on velvet armchairs and straight-backed dining room chairs. Most of these items are too cute for my needs, brass beds and dainty wingchairs with matching footstools, but you never know. I’m walking around the store, poking around price tags, when I hear someone coming in from the back.
“Keep moving. A little to the left. No, my left. Okay, now your left.” Two men come in, hauling some kind of sideboard that probably stored enough linen and table settings for an entire regiment of British officers at one time. The first guy is sweating hard, short but burly. Behind him, Flint enters, taking as much of the weight as he can.
Oh, shit. Even on my day off he swoops in, sleeves rolled and biceps flexed, to surprise me. It’s like the damn universe has its hand on my shoulder saying, go on. Have another romp, for old time’s sake. Good luck with your career; look at those abs. I’m about ready to peel out and run for my car, knocking over preserve stands by the dozen, but it’s too late. Flint spots me, and gives a sharp jerk of his head. “Hey!”
“Need a hand?” I ask, inwardly cursing. They finally deposit the wooden monstrosity. Short and burly puffs out his cheeks, mops his forehead with a flowered handkerchief, and gives a thumbs up as he goes out the back again. Flint shoves the sideboard more firmly into place.
“Sure you’re not stalking me?” he asks with a grin.
I try not to laugh maniacally. That’d be hard to explain.
“Need to budge it?” I say, walking up and pushing on the sideboard, desperate for something to do. The sideboard doesn’t move. It’s as embarrassing as it sounds.
“We’ve got it covered. What are you doing here?” Flint asks, pushing the huge piece of furniture so it’s flush against the wall. Well. I loosened it up for him.
“Shopping for you, actually. We need to do some refurbishing at Casa McKay.” I expect the groans, and I get them.
“Let me guess,” Flint mutters, wiping his forehead. “Network note?”
“You’re catching on,” I say. Truth is, Flint doesn’t know the half of it. We’ve gotten some footage of Callie and Jessa, and I protected him from one exec’s idea that Callie should lose ten pounds if she’s going to be on TV. I think Brother Bear would fly out to LA and go on an ass-kicking rampage if he knew. “I promise it won’t be painful.”
“So what, I have to learn to live with pastel? I will literally sell my business before I own anything lavender,” Flint says.
“No pastels. Since you’re here, let’s see what we can do. Come on, show me your fantastic taste.” Flint scoffs, but walks with me. Inwardly, I groan. Try to avoid a guy like the plague, and get shoved together with him for an afternoon of antiquing.
Hell, maybe this is karmic payback. I should’ve told him the idea as soon as Davis’s cronies brought it up. This is Flint’s house we’re talking about redecorating, after all. If he doesn’t get a say, who does? I just didn’t want to spend time fighting my urge to swoon into his arms while inhaling furniture polish. There’s only so much a girl can take.
“This is too ritzy for me.” He picks up a price tag for something and scrunches his face. “Damn. I reupholster and deliver for Kathy, so I know what this stuff is worth. They’re overcharging by double.”
“Then it’ll be perfect. The producers love things that are too expensive.” A lie, but whatever. Let’s revenge-spend some cash. “Here.” I nudge him over to a long, low couch. It’s kind of mid twentieth century, sort of
Mad Men
but with a darker, more somber color scheme. Hopefully, Flint won’t invite his most charming and misogynistic friends over to drink gin martinis on this baby. “Well? Doesn’t it scream you?”
“It screams,” he says, raising his eyebrow. “It screams, ‘Get away from me, McKay.’ Laurel, none of the stuff in this store is me.”
I know he’s not lying. As nice as his house is, all the furniture in it is pretty boring and utilitarian. “But now we get to upgrade you. We’ve got to think rustic bachelor pad, you know? Man of the wild, gone wild?” I can tell that’s not making him happy. He’s scrunching up his forehead and rubbing the back of his hand across his stubbled chin, which is sign number one that he’s not into this.
“So we need a pine paneled sauna? Freshwater bed? A neon sign outside that says ‘Hooves and Hoes Welcome?’” he says, sounding more and more annoyed.
“No. And did you just make up Hooves and Hoes on the spot?” I say, amused. “Actually, a waterbed might be good—” But before I can continue, Flint shakes his head.
“No way,” he says. Actually, snaps would be the better verb. “Call your boss, tell them they can’t touch any of my stuff.”
“Flint, it’s just stuff, like you said. We can bring it back. It’s not like—”
“You know my neighbors are gonna watch this show, right?” He swipes a hand through his hair and backs up; the grizzly’s been cornered, and he’s getting pissed. “All they’ll see is me making an ass out of myself for some stupid company in Hollywood.”
“Reel World isn’t stupid,” I say hotly. We employ a lot of stupid people, but there’s a difference, dammit. “We’re trying to appeal to a demographic, Flint. It’s nothing personal. We need to make you look like a rugged single man. Which you are,” I say, following him through the store and down the hall to the loading area. The other guy is trying to move an entire armoire on his own, fighting against the tall, mahogany megalith. Flint goes to help. I keep talking. “We have to make your life TV presentable.”
“My life
is
presentable. Maybe it’s not what asshole executives think is all right, but it’s fine for me. And if that’s not good enough—” he grunts, pulling the armoire out of the truck by himself. He doesn’t get to finish the thought, because I jump in.
“It is! But there has to be some magic at work. You know? Illusion.” Damn, I feel like an asshole siding with the blood-sucking Hollywood suits, but Flint has to fit a romantic profile to a certain part of the audience, namely single women and restless housewives. Does that suck? Hell yes. But it’s the way to make money.
I walk alongside Flint as he puffs his way indoors, his arms trembling a little under the sheer weight of the furniture. He sets it down at last, wipes his forehead, and turns to me. His jaw tenses.
“Maybe out in Los Angeles, it’s okay to feel like everyone knows your private business. That’s not me, though. That’s not how I grew up, and that’s not the people I live with.” His voice turns a little softer. “You can pack up and go home when this is all over, Laurel. But I have to live here. I’m not going to be a laughingstock.”
It’s like arguing with a sexy mule. But I close my eyes and sigh. He’s right. What the hell business do we have walking in, telling him to change himself, buying things to shove into his house without his permission? What am I doing?
“All right,” I say quietly.
“All right? As in, I won?” Flint sounds genuinely shocked and delighted. “Wow, that’s the easiest you ever went down.”
I can’t respond to that, because I instantly flash to That Night behind the bar. Just the mere thought of it sends a white-hot burst of anticipation through my core. Damn, I was so, so close to this being a normal platonic conversation.
“It was wrong of me to try buying furniture without talking to you,” I go on. “We can leave your place as it is. I’ll talk to the network.” And get an earful, but hey, I’m in Massachusetts now. I’m an honorary Masshole.
“Thank you. I mean it.” Flint’s voice warms, and he puts a hand on my shoulder, very briefly. “I know they’re riding you pretty hard.”
Riding hard. Oh my God, is he doing this on purpose? I pretend to stretch, so his hand falls off my shoulder. Good. Less dangerous.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say. We walk out of the store, and right on cue, my treacherous stomach rumbles.
“You up for some lunch?” Flint asks. My grumbly stomach does a way-too-excited little flip at the thought. Calm down, Laurel. It’d be two good buddies going to lunch. Two good, platonic buddies. Lunching and what not. Like buddies do.
“You buying?” I ask, grinning. Flint’s face suddenly falls.
“Shit. Spoke too soon. I er, got a thing, actually,” Flint says. He rubs the back of his neck. I’d like to imagine he looks regretful.
“That’s cool,” I say, taking a step back. He probably remembered that lunch is too date-like. Which is good, because I sure as hell don’t want a date. I am all dated out, thank you very much. Are we two good, platonic buddies or what? So not lunching. “I’ll see you around—” Before I can finish my sentence, Flint’s eyes light up.
“Why don’t you come with me? I’ve got a couple sandwiches in the car if you’re hungry.” He pauses. “I mean, you
are
hungry. Obviously.” My stomach growls again. Yes, Ignatius, we heard you the first time.
I named my stomach. Don’t judge.
I shouldn’t go with Flint. I really shouldn’t…
“What kind of sandwiches?” I ask. My priorities are in order. Ignatius agrees.
“Ham and havarti on rye. And I can give you a free tour of the countryside. Come on.” He gestures to his truck, parked by the curb. “The pickup chariot awaits.”
All the pep talks I’ve had with myself—bad idea to be alone together, bad idea to be near each other—they evaporate. I mean, it
is
ham and cheese, after all.
We drive through Northampton and out into the countryside. At first I thought it’d be awkward as hell, but it feels very easy, scarfing sandwiches (my diabolical stomach is finally satisfied), laughing, bobbing along to some classic rock on the radio. Turns out we’re both fans of AC/DC, which is good. I’d hate to think I surrendered to the carnal embrace of a man who thinks “Shoot to Thrill” is a terrible song. The road winds through the trees, and the rolled down windows let in sweet, fresh air. Finally, we hit another, much smaller town. It’s the kind of place that looks run down in a dangerous sort of way. The houses are mostly unpainted plywood, and they probably don’t even have electricity. There are few cars parked haphazardly, and kids are running around barefoot. Considering how chilly it is, that’s kind of shocking.
We drive up a little further, and park alongside a few other trucks. A whole crew of people is hard at work, hammering and sawing and walking around an emerging two-story structure. It looks like they’re building a house, a decent house, as a woman with two kids stand to the side. The woman points at the frame, and smiles at her children.
“Where are we?” I ask, puzzled but intrigued.
We get out, and Flint grabs his toolbox out of the truck flatbed.
“Habitat for Humanity,” he says, as we walk toward the building. One of the working guys sees Flint and waves. “I volunteer. It’s a good group of people.” He shrugs.
“This is incredible,” I say. Already, my mind is abuzz with possibilities. We can get interviews with the people they’re helping, the poorer the better. There must be someone with almost no teeth, or really weathered skin, you know: something picturesque. American squalor, and Flint McKay’s the man to combat it. We can call the crew right now. Jerri wouldn’t mind shooting an extra day for this. In a flash, I’m dialing on my cell. “Hold on, let me sound the alarm—hey!” I say, shocked when Flint grabs my phone, shaking his head. He looks deadly serious, his warm brown eyes smoldering.
“This isn’t for the cameras,” he says. Before I can say anything else, he holds up a hand. “No, Laurel.” He can tell what I’m about to say before I even start. “This is a deal breaker for me. See these people?” he says, gesturing at the woman with her kids. “They don’t have much. They can’t afford to buy a real home. They don’t deserve to have cameras in their face. You get it?” He looks at me, wary but hopeful.
I look over at the woman and her two adorable children. One of them grins, revealing a missing front tooth. There she is: the dentistry challenged little girl I wanted to shove on camera in front of the whole country. What’s wrong with me? I didn’t see her as an excited kid; I saw her as a ratings spike. I never considered that these people were, well, people. I can’t believe I’ve let Hollywood turn me so…Hollywood.
“No cameras. It’s like this never happened,” I say instantly, pocketing my phone. Flint grins. “Got an extra hard hat?” I ask, pointing at the yellow one in his hand.
“You want to help?” He sounds surprised, but pleased. I snatch the helmet from him and put it on my head. It droops in my face, but I can adjust the chinstrap. I think.
“Let’s…nail things!” I say. Enthusiasm for the win.
Actually, watching Flint record his show has taught me a few nifty tricks. He has to go help out on the second floor with a few other guys, leaving me to fend for myself. They’ve put me to work fortifying something at the corner of the house. At first I thought it’d be a nightmare, but I’m surprising myself. I’ve got a nail at a correct angle and am confidently knocking it in without Flint even having to tell me what to do. As I work, I hear him come back down the stairs. He looks amazed as he crouches beside me.