“Hold on,” Flint says, reaching down and sliding my shoes off. “It’s full service here at McKay Tipsy Transportation.” I have to let him go, reluctantly. He puts the shoes next to my bed and winks at me. “All right?”
My whole body is on fire. “All right,” I say, hearing how throaty my voice sounds. I slide my arms around him again, slowly. He doesn’t pull away as I kiss him. His mouth is warm against mine, and the smell of him, the musk of his cologne, the wood from his workshop, it drives me crazy as he folds me into his arms. Every molecule in me seems like it’s on fire. His kiss is scorching, melting everything inside of me.
And just like that, he breaks it off.
“I’m sorry,” he says, shaking his head. “That was a real jerk move on my part.”
“What?” I say, feeling bewildered as he slides off the bed, apology written all over his face. “No it wasn’t. It’s all right. It’s fine, everything is fine.”
“No, it’s not. You’re drunk, and taking advantage of that would be terrible. And you’ve seen how complicated things get when we...jump into things.” He shrugs.
“Flint—”
“I don’t want to keep having the same morning-after talk, about how we won’t do this again. So let’s just not. Let’s act like adults.”
His words feel like an elbow strike to the gut during Krav Maga sparring. No, worse. I’m so bowled over by being called an immature hornball that I can’t even speak.
Flint, seemingly unaware, moves toward the door. “You rest up, and I’ll see you tomorrow.” He turns the knob and slips out before I can say anything.
I flop back onto the bed, replaying that moment over and over, trying to figure out where I went wrong, and how it all went south so fast—or didn’t go south at all. Ha. Get it? Funny me. But none of this is funny, actually. What if I just ruined everything with Flint? What if now he just thinks I’m that girl who likes to hook up when she gets drunk?
I groan and bury my face in the pillow. Dammit, what have I done?
20
The next day, I slink into work, popping a couple of aspirin and generally feeling humiliated. The bright sunlight makes my temples throb, and I groan. Why didn’t I get a pretend hangover to go with my pretend drunkenness? It’s official. I have no tolerance for tequila. Flint’s already hard at work when I step up next to him. Jerri, who’s been talking a shot through with him, walks down the hill with Raj to discuss something.
Flint looks at me. We have a moment alone. “I wanted to apologize about yesterday,” I start, but Flint instantly waves his hand.
“Don’t even think about it. Forgotten,” he says. “I’m amazed you’re able to stand this morning.” He smiles at me again, that wonderful, kind smile telling me that he doesn’t feel like he missed an opportunity. That whatever irresistible pull I’ve felt between us this whole time was all in my head. That I didn’t need to worry about repeating the Brian Sanderson fiasco, because it was never going to happen. Flint turns and cheerfully walks off, yelling to one of his men. I go over to the craft table and pour myself a strong cup of coffee. So. That’s it, then. No big deal. Already forgotten.
Somehow, that feels so much worse.
A few days later, I’m starting to lose my mind. Every shot brings us closer to the end of our show. Closer to the time when I have to leave on a jet plane, all my words unspoken. I’d sort of hoped that there’d be a problem with construction, something that might delay us a little longer, but Flint and his crew are doing the perfect job, and the house is almost completed. They’re sanding the wood, or massaging it, whatever happens when they’re close to the finishing stage.
I’m standing with a cherry danish in hand, watching as Jerri and the crew are about to finish shooting for the day. Flint’s on the front stoop of the house, waiting to go inside. This is the moment before the ‘big reveal’ of the interior to the audience.
“All right,” Flint says to the camera. “The moment has arrived.” The camera follows him over the threshold, into the house, and then…
“Cut!” Jerri yells. Flint and the guys come back outside. She nods. Her cheeks are bright red from the cold, but she looks pleased. “All right, I think that’s the best we’re getting of the sun for the rest of the day.” She nods at the sky, where the light’s been blanketed by a sudden fleet of clouds. “McKay, I’m going to want some extra footage tomorrow, so be sure to get your beauty sleep.”
“So I’ve become a—what’d Raj call it? Lumbersexual?” he deadpans. Jerri laughs hard and pats his shoulder as she turns and heads down the hill. Flint and the others walk with her, joking and clowning around. He grins and nods at me as he passes, then leaves without a second glance. Just me up here, all alone with my rogue danish. Too bad we didn’t get more of an interior shot. I would’ve loved an excuse to wander inside.
Well, what the hell? It won’t hurt to just peek my head in. The house is solid as a rock. And after everything Flint’s drilled into us about laying a proper foundation, it better be. I open the front door and enter.
The carpets haven’t been laid yet. The wood echoes beneath my feet as I poke my head into the living room. It has those breathtaking, panorama vista windows I noticed in the blueprint. The smoky fall twilight outside is gorgeous. I walk out of the living room and head down the hall, checking in at the kitchen, and then the master bedroom. One step up, and I’m inside. There’s no furniture yet, obviously, but the exposed-beam ceiling slants down, the stone fireplace already built. It’s quiet in here, peaceful and calm.
“Hey,” Flint says, and I jump about seven feet in the air. Once I’ve un-embedded myself from the ceiling beams, I turn back to him, hand over my chest.
“Do you know how close I just came to certain death?” I hold up my hand, index finger and thumb an inch apart. “This is a real generous estimate.”
He walks toward me, tool belt still hanging from his hips. Actually, saunter is a better word. He saunters up, casually rubbing his stubbled chin. It feels like everything he does is in slow motion. I’m transfixed by every detail. And I need to stop that, right now.
“If you’re still alive, why don’t you tell me what you think? I don’t believe you’ve been in here yet.” He’s got that curious, intense look in his eyes. Does Flint care what I think? I’ll try not to let that go to my head. Or any other part of my body.
“It’s brilliant,” I say, shrugging. I know that sounds kind of simple, but I say it with complete honesty. “It feels personal, somehow.”
“What do you mean?” Flint sounds kind of wary. Strange. I clear my throat.
“Like you designed this for yourself,” I say, not sure what else I mean. Flint’s shoulders relax. He nods.
“Something like that.” He walks out of the room with me. “You saw the view, of course? From the living room?”
I mean, I did, but it’s not every day you have the architect and contractor show you around. We head back to the living room, watching the last rays of daylight strike the tops of the trees in a fiery burst. The sky is dusky rose. We’re going to have to leave soon, before it really gets dark. Which is too bad, because I hate to think of leaving this moment. Flint takes me over to the living room fireplace, kneels down, and shows me something carved into the bottom corner of the wall.
“See that?” he says, pointing it out. It looks like a flower. “Sunflowers. There’s one here, one at the other end of the room.” I peer back over my shoulder, and there it is, right across from us. Another little wooden sunflower, freshly carved. “They should match up with each other perfectly.” Flint stands.
“Two sunflowers,” I say. Flowers. Why does that ring a bell? “You didn’t strike me as the flowery type of man. Not that there’s anything wrong with it,” I say quickly.
Flint smiles. “It’s a personal touch. Sort of a stamp.”
“Why sunflowers in particular?” I ask. He shrugs. Again, that maddening quiet falls. He’s brooding again, retreating into himself. Better switch topics, stat. “This has to be amazing. I mean, seeing your vision brought to life on camera,” I say, waving my hand around the empty space like I’m showing it on a game show.
“It’s different,” he says. Now his brow furrows, and he paces back to the windows. There he is, closed off man on the mountaintop again. And I am trying my best not to find it hot.
“So,” I say, walking up to him. He doesn’t respond, so I keep going. “Guess we should head out. Right now. You know. Scoot.” It’s rapidly growing dark outside, and although the wiring is in place there’s no actual electricity in here yet. I can barely see Flint now, just a giant silhouette before me, facing the window.
“Mmm.” Now he looks at me, his jaw tight. My stomach sinks. Maybe the awkwardness is because he wants to talk about how stupid that night in my hotel room was. That he was secretly embarrassed for me, and wants to make sure that I understand we’re
not
a thing. We thinged for one evening—okay, two—and now we are thinged out. That would explain the awkward silence, the showing me minor details on the house. He’s trying to build up the courage to let me down easy. I take a breath.
“Flint, I understand—”
“Fuck it,” he growls. He pulls me to him, lifts me off the ground, and then kisses me so fiercely I’m instantly lost in a blazing torrent of heat and bliss and want.
No, need. I
need
this.
My nails are digging into his broad shoulders, squeezing the muscles there, and he groans with desire that matches my own. His tongue strokes against mine, aggressive and dominant, and I gasp when we pull apart. I lean back to look up at him, safe in his arms. I’m pretty sure if Flint set me down right now, I’d fall over.
His eyes, even in the dim light, are dark with lust. I put my hand to his cheek, and I can feel his pulse hammering against my skin.
Flint kissed me. Definitely no misunderstanding on this one.
And
it’s the first time we’ve kissed without any booze involved. And it was even better without it.
“I’ve been wanting to do that for too long,” he says, his chest rising and falling with his deep breathing. He doesn’t put me down, and I don’t ask him to.
“Since when?” I ask. I mean it to sound teasing, but it’s actually a little hushed.
“Since LA. Every day after has been torture. I couldn’t hold back anymore.”
“I’m glad you didn’t,” I say. “But what changed your mind?”
“I don’t know,” he says, but his eyes trace around the room again. “Being in here. Thinking about—” His face shifts; the troubled look passes over his features again as he glances across the living room. “About the show,” he says at last. I get the feeling he was going to say something else, but I don’t press it.
“So. What do we do now? Apart from maybe get a flashlight?” We are in serious near dark here. Flint puts me down, and my shoes echo on the wood floors. Or maybe that’s just my heart.
“I was thinking, there’s a great little place in Montague. The Bookmill,” Flint says as we emerge into the crisp evening air. He smiles. “It’s a converted mill. With, you know. Books in it.”
“Okay.” Well that’s…handy?
“Also has a pretty good restaurant. So if you want I could take you to dinner there, tonight. If you’re interested?” He keeps his voice casual, but I think—I hope—I detect a little note of eagerness.
“Well, I’ve heard the dining around here is also really exquisite,” I say, drawing it out a little. Flint pulls me closer against him and leans in.
“It really is something,” he says, his lips brushing softly against mine. Sparks shoot through my body. Much as I want to keep toying with him, I can’t contain myself. I put my hands in his hair and pull his head down toward me, moaning as our tongues curl around each other, his thrusting deep and steady like he’s fucking my mouth with it.
“Yes,” I gasp, finally pulling back to catch my breath. In between pants I manage to say, “I’d love to have dinner with you.”
“Good,” he says, nodding. He gives me that warm smile and I think I actually melt into a literal puddle. The kind that must be mopped up with paper towels.
Flint takes my hand, and we head down the hill together. I can hardly process what just happened, and I know I should be on Cloud 9, so why do I still feel that little twist of fright deep inside my stomach? Is it the Sanderson thing again? No, it’s not that. That might be the least of my problems.
What I’m afraid of is reality. Not the false reality we’ve built here on set, but the one waiting for me after the LA crew packs up and heads home.
What then?
21
I have to turn the music on while I get ready for dinner, just so my excited shouting doesn’t bleed through the walls. As soon as I got back to the inn, I hopped right into the claw-foot tub and took the fastest shower known to man. Now I’m standing in the center of my room wearing my nicest, laciest lingerie I own. Every outfit I brought with me is flung on my bed, a tangle of sexy-yet-work appropriate skirts and body-hugging wrap dresses. Come on. It’s not that hard, Laurel. Pick one. Just one.
I’m being ridiculous, of course. With Flint, there isn’t a wrong outfit choice. Actually, if I went in jeans and a red checked flannel, he’d probably think it was sexy. With that thought I’m almost—almost—ready to give up and throw it on.
“You can do this, Young. Project sexy confidence,” I say to my reflection, while the Bangles comes on in my iTunes library. Yes. I will walk like a damn Egyptian. That is
very
confident, all two dimensional and shit.
I’m trying to choose between two outfits as I hold them up, dress in one hand, blouse and matching skirt in the other, and stare in the mirror.
That creeping doubt surfaces in my mind again, replaying the old favorites: Brian Sanderson, the Hollywood black list, Ohio, possible eternal heartache. I put the outfits down and close my eyes. Think, Laurel, and think fast because it’s almost time to go. Am I actually making the same mistake Sanderson did? I sit on the edge of the bed, crumpling one of my nicer dresses by accident. I smooth it out, still considering.
All right, forget the fact that I’m about to leave Massachusetts. We’ll cross that historic, Revolutionary era bridge when we come to it. And honestly, forget Sanderson too. His mistake was shouting his love to the world and speeding off into the sunset on camera; that’s not going to happen to me.