Rugged

by Lila Monroe

  He laughs. “Does that make me the loser? Because I don’t feel like one.”

  “First runner-up,” I say.

  “Ah. Then maybe we’re due a celebratory dinner?”

  I tilt my head, pretending I actually need to think it over. “I accept.”

  We end up at a cutesy local diner down the street. I’m probably still over the legal driving limit after all those drinks at the bar, and I haven’t eaten a square meal since breakfast, but more than either of those things I can’t resist one last opportunity to convince Flint that this renovation show could be a truly great idea.

  I mentioned the terrier thing, right? That terrier’s now in full force.

  I order coffee and a cheeseburger with the works, opting for sweet potato fries so I can pretend I’m eating my vegetables. Flint follows my lead. I like a man who can take direction. After our coffees are poured, I lean forward and clear my throat.

  “Uh oh,” he says, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Are you about to tell me you have even more surprises up your sleeve?”

  I sip my coffee and smile, calculating my next move. I’m still a little light-headed from the tryst in the alley, but instead of feeling awkward around Flint, it’s like the ice has broken between us. Alright, Laurel. You can still win this battle. All you have to do is fight Flint’s icy coolness with the flames of your conviction.

  “Well for starters, I surprised myself when I got on a plane and flew three thousand miles to chase after a man who I thought showed promise on his audition tape. I haven’t done anything that ridiculous since my junior prom.” When my date and I got caught skinny dipping by some Jehovah’s Witnesses, but I keep those details quiet. Some memories you prefer not to discuss.

  “I may have overreacted when you showed up,” he admits, stirring a packet of raw sugar into his cup. Point, Team Laurel. But I don’t gloat.

  “From your perspective it was probably creepy,” I offer generously. “I mean, what would I have thought if you just showed up at my door?” Besides ‘come in and take your clothes off, yay’? I take another sip of coffee but I’m still buzzed, my body all warm and tingly. Then again, maybe it’s the afterglow of the rendezvous behind the bar.

  Flint grins. “More ballsy than creepy. I appreciate balls on a woman.” He pauses. “Not the best word choice, but you know what I mean.” He looks over at me again. “Honestly, I thought your phone call was a joke at first. But then I asked Callie, and she told me she sent the video in to some reality production company. I didn’t realize anyone was ever going to see it.” He sighs and runs a hand through his (glossy, flawless) hair.

  “Is Callie your wife? Girlfriend?” Don’t sound too interested, Laurel. Don’t get weird. “Sounds like she’s invested in your…career.”

  “Sister. Older sister,” he says. That shouldn’t be such a relief.

  “I always wanted a sister,” I blurt. “‘Only child syndrome,’ I guess.”

  He grins. “And I always wanted to be an only child. The grass is always greener when you’re a kid with siblings. I’m lucky to have them though, I know that now.”

  Our food arrives and we dive into our burgers and fries, which taste like ambrosia of the gods. I feel more relaxed than I have in a long time, just sitting here in a cozy booth chatting with this flannel-clad hunk, slightly drunk and devouring a pile of delicious fried food that I’d feel guilty touching with a ten foot pole in LA, that glamorous city of pressed juice, quinoa and kale. He’s being so friendly now, and I can be friendly too—

  No. I hit the brakes on that thought, then steer it off the road and out of traffic. This is a business meeting, not a date, despite what may have occurred beforehand. I can’t be having unprofessional feelings about the prospective star of my potential show. Herman Davis told me I had one shot, and nothing can go wrong. Panting after some hot guy, mucking up a potential professional relationship? That is a buffet of things that could go wrong. As hot as Flint is, he’s not worth ruining my career over. So I stop ogling him, and start imagining millions of American women ogling him every Thursday night at primetime. I plaster a confident smile on my face, and get back to talking TV.

  “I believe that Callie sent us the tape because she saw something special in what you do. And honestly, I have to agree with her.” I grab a few sweet potato fries and think while I’m chewing them, angling for the best way to convince Flint. “I’m the most hopeless person with a hammer and nail on the planet. I can barely keep up with ‘the pointy end goes through the wood.’ But after watching your tape, I wanted to go down to Home Depot and stock up. You made me want to learn the right side of a nail.”

  You. Me. Nail. Snort. I’m not drunk. I may have ingested twice my usual cocktail limit, but I am sooooo not drunk.

  “If she’d told me what she wanted the tape for, I never would’ve agreed,” Flint says. He taps his finger on the rim of his coffee cup, his brows drawing together in a scowl that looks hopelessly sexy on him. “I’m the last guy to get painted up and stuck on television. That’s not me, Ms. Young.”

  So formal, all of a sudden? Two can play at that game. I nod. It’s time to attack from a different angle. “I can see where you’re coming from, Mr. McKay, but I really don’t think you’ve thought this through,” I say. “Imagine what you could get out of this.”

  “All right,” Flint says, his voice going hard, and I see a muscle flex in his jaw. “I could get my privacy destroyed, and my family’s. I could trade the survival of my legitimate business for temporary fame that I don’t even want. I could get to deal with executive level vampires who exist only to suck every good, decent emotion out of people, then let them put a zoom lens on whatever manufactured emotions Hollywood thinks will sell me best on TV, and watch them turn hardworking honest folks like myself and my crew into empty shells with really great hair and fake tans.” He pushes his empty plate aside and folds his arms. “Is that what you see me getting?”

  Fuck. I instinctively lean back in the booth, putting a little more distance between us. It’s not that I’m afraid of him, but man, I did not expect that level of heat. There is a massive chip on his shoulder that should probably be spackled. And the only way I’ll know how to do that is if he agrees to do this damn show.

  “No, of course not,” I say. Think, Laurel. You always want the talent to believe you’re on their side. “You’re not wrong about the vampires, though. Most of the executives I know haven’t seen their reflections since Reagan was president.” I try for the flat, sardonic tone. Flint pauses…and laughs.

  “Well, I’m glad you see my point,” he says. He waves the waiter over and hands him a credit card to pay for our meal. It’s a nice gesture, and I thank him, but it also means he’s getting ready to split. I have to move fast, because I’m pretty sure if I let him walk out that door, my chances of making this show happen are back to zero.

  “So you don’t want the fame. I respect that. But the money? Think of what a successful show can do for you, for your life. Your family.”

  The waiter returns and Flint signs the check, and after he tucks his wallet away he stands up and shrugs. “I don’t want that kind of money. I’m sorry I can’t give you what you want, Ms. Young. But as Jagger once said, we can’t always get what we want. Well, he actually said ‘you,’ but I figured the adjustment makes it fit better with thematic universal longing.” His voice is a flat drawl, but his gaze softens a little. Universal longing, eh? What does Flint McKay long for?

  As I trail him out the door and back down the street to our respective vehicles, I can’t help desperately grasping at whatever straws I have left. “Is this a personal universal problem?” I ask, making sure I don’t sound too eager. “Because try me.”

  He looks over at me with that deep, calculating yet soulful gaze—the one that makes me yearn to measure up…and stops dead in his tracks. “Ever heard of McKay’s Hardware and Lumber? I know you’re not a do it yourselfer.” He looks like he knows he’s going to have to explain it, but is
just waiting for confirmation.

  I think, and remember going down to the hardware store with my father when I was a kid. Granted, he was only going down there to hire somebody to do work for us, but I remember the store. It was an old brown building with a McKay’s sign out front.

  “I have.” I perk up, surprised. “There was one in Columbus. That’s you?”

  “My family. But I’ll bet you haven’t seen too many McKay’s stores around recently, have you?” He’s got me there. I don’t pay a huge amount of attention to hardware stores, but I know Home Depot. McKay’s, not so much. “Well, there you have it. We’ve shut down three locations in the last fifteen months. My uncle opened the first McKay’s in 1957. And now the business is barely treading water.” He starts walking again, his strides purposeful, but he can’t hide the sadness that slumps his shoulders.

  “That’s a pretty good run,” I say, trying to be helpful. We reach my car and I hop up and down a bit in the cold, hoping it doesn’t look like I’m bored or anxious to leave.

  “There’s no such thing as ‘pretty good’ in my family. McKays don’t quit, and we don’t close. It’s an inherited trait.” He shakes his head and slides out of his brown leather jacket, wrapping it around my shoulders. “Looks like you’re freezing.”

  “Thanks. It’s my thin LA blood,” I say, pulling the jacket close around me. My body goes instantly toasty, wrapped in the musky pine-scented warmth of Flint McKay’s jacket, and I force myself to banish the alleyway memories that flash through my mind along with the sudden influx of heat. “You were saying not quitting is a family trait?” Something’s buzzing at the back of my mind.

  “Like I said, stubbornness and financial failure is a bad combination. But there it is, my personal universal problem, personally staring me right in the face. I don’t imagine there’s anything you can do for that,” he says, a challenge in his eyes.

  Lightbulb. Bingo. And a million other eureka moments for good measure. Jazz fingers all around.

  “Actually, there’s a lot we can do for you. Think about it.” I hold my hands out wide, my physical language for vision. “The show is practically free advertising for McKay’s Hardware. Home Depot doesn’t have a human face.” Especially not such an attractive, sculpted, stubbled one. “You become the McKay’s promotion. Teach people how to fix their homes with your products.” I wait, and he does seem to be interested. At least, I think the light in his eyes has gone from ‘futilely brooding’ to ‘thoughtfully brooding.’ “Every episode features a McKay’s hardware store. At least one commercial every episode is for McKay’s. This kind of promotion could really turn things around.”

  “Promotion,” he says, like it’s an alien word.

  Don’t stop now, Laurel. Bring it home.

  “It’s just the beginning. There could be a specialty line of tools, carried exclusively in your store, that tie in with the show. The potential for marketing is through the roof. A roof you can then fix, and broadcast to millions of homes.”

  “I don’t like the idea of millions of homes,” he says, decisive. I hold my breath, watching him waver. Then, slowly, “But promotion for the company…you really think that could work?” He sounds like a tentative bear, growling manfully and sniffing around a honey pot.

  I’m not a craftsman, but I do know something about fishing. The line is bobbing in the water; I’ve got a bite.

  “All we have to do right now is shoot a sizzle reel,” I say, physically stopping myself from doing the celebratory dance. Flint gives me a puzzled look. “Three to five minutes of video, just to get a feel for what the show could be. Then I take it to the executives.” He snorts at the mention of the word. “They stay out of the way once production starts, I promise.”

  “You promise?” Flint folds his arms again. “Promises from women rarely work out the way you want them to.” I can hear that he’s joking. But not completely.

  “I can promise that whatever happens, you’ll be happy. If you’re not, we walk away.” Folding my arms to mirror his, I give him my best professional yet sexy smile. Men seem to respond to that one. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll even like it.”

  Flint considers, opening my car door. “All right,” he says at last, slowly, like he’s tasting the words. “I’ll try it.”

  “Really?” Damn, that one came out as a squeak. I clear my throat. Think low voice. Lauren Bacall sexy. “Great, then. I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Okay.”

  “Tomorrow morning. Let’s call it nine. I’ll be home.”

  I grin as I duck into the car, settle into the driver’s seat, and take one last look up at Flint. “You won’t regret this. And if you do, you can always blame it on the beer,” I say, still grinning as he closes the door for me and I drive carefully out of the lot.

  I’m a few blocks away when I realize I’ve still got his jacket on. Ah, well. I’ll give it back to him tomorrow. Tomorrow, when I start shooting the footage. I can edit it perfectly on my computer, run it past Suze. Then, the pitch will be mine. Success imminent. Life back on track.

  I slam my fists on the wheel in triumph and let out a little whoop. Things are finally going my way. All I have to do is keep my hands off of Flint and my eyes on the prize. What could possibly go wrong?

  5

  Excited as I am to get started the next morning, it’s hard to pull myself out of bed. I managed to find the cute little old timey inn just a few miles from the bar, complete with antique spinning wheels in the hallway and Revolutionary war muskets adorning the walls. The four-poster I’m sleeping in has the softest mattress, and the down comforter is filled with the softest feathers that seventy furious geese could provide. The bathroom has a deep tub with clawed brass feet, and Battle of Lexington and Concord embroidered towels. Massachusetts: it’s adorable here.

  I am miraculously not hungover—was it the burger grease or the sweet potato fries?—but I down a few aspirin and a big glass of water just in case. Then I shower and dress quickly, throwing on my most professional jeans and sweater, and head out the door. Mrs. Beauchamp, the proprietress who looks like the world’s cuddliest grandmother, grins as I come down the stairs.

  “Coffee, dear?” she asks, holding up a china pot that General Lafayette probably insulted one time.

  “Thanks, but I’ve got to run,” I say, hustling out the door. There really isn’t a moment to lose. It’s Thursday now, and the pitch has to be ready by Monday. I’ll have to edit most of the day on Sunday, which means we’ve only got three days to figure out the gist of the show and get some killer footage. I leap off the front porch and slide into my car in three seconds flat. My stomach gurgles as I head up the winding road towards Flint’s house. Poor little stomach. I hope Flint’s got some breakfast going. Or at least a granola bar for me to gnaw on.

  In the seat next to me sits my digital camcorder. I would’ve loved to have lugged one of the company’s professional cameras with me, but A. there’s no way I could haul that up and down these hills all by myself, and B. I’d probably get arrested for theft—those babies are not cheap, and they’re not exactly available for loan. Ah well. My iPhone’s good enough that I could probably shoot it all on that, but I think Flint would be concerned about how professional I was. Particularly given our escapades last night. Which, I remind myself, we will never speak of or think about ever again. It was a fluke, it was the alcohol, it was an unprofessional oops. Not to be repeated. As far as I’m concerned, it may as well have never happened. Oh, and see? I already forgot about it.

  I pull up to the house, get out, and walk up the steps. The door opens after my first knock. I put on my best show business, I’m-for-real smile. “Morning. Ready for—”

  “Breakfast?” the woman who answered the door says. She’s bright-eyed and out of breath, as if she’s been running up and down the stairs. She fans herself with one hand and gestures for me to enter with the other. “Come on in. We’ve been waiting.”

  “We?” I say as I step inside, thinking she means Flint. My stom
ach drops. If this is his…then that means last night was…but then a massive crash from somewhere in the house interrupts my thoughts and I jump. “Um, I’m Laurel Young. I’m the—”

  “I know who you are. Be right back. Callum! Lily! Not the tools!” she yells, taking off like some kind of flannelled greyhound. I race after, finding her in the living room wrestling with two very small, incredibly adorable children. One of them, a red-haired little boy, is waving something in his chubby fist.

  “Foose! Foose!” he shrieks gleefully. His mother yanks the screwdriver out of his hand.

  “It’s tools, Cal, sweetie.” She picks him up in one arm, but the little girl is putting something small and metallic into her mouth and slobbering on it. Every mother’s nightmare, and this poor woman’s not even watching.

  “I got it!” I yell, sliding across the floor on my knees and grabbing the child. She spits up a screw into my hand, and grabs a fistful of my hair.

  “Oh God, I think you’re my hero,” the woman says. She takes the screw, blows out her cheeks, and puts a hand to her chest. “No kidding. My savior.”

  “I think savior status means we need to be on a first name basis.” I hold out my hand. “I’m Laurel Young, producer at Reel World.”

  “I’m Callie Winston, beleaguered mother.” She shakes on it. I like her already.

  “You’re Flint’s sister!” It’s not a question. The shining chestnut hair and strong jaw are a dead giveaway. I can’t believe it took me until now to realize it.

  “Older sister. I’m the one who sent you the tape.” She hoists Callum up into the air, and then Lily. Carrying them on either hip, she heads down the hall while they chortle and shriek. “Come on. Breakfast’s on the table,” she calls.

  That is music to my ears. Not just any music. That is like John Williams played by a symphonic orchestra. It’s the Star Wars title crawl of music.

  I didn’t think a beer drinking, truck driving, manlicious man like Flint would have a gourmet kitchen, but apparently I’m wrong about a lot of things. Granite countertops line the area, the cabinets are paneled mahogany, and there’s even a tiled little breakfast nook. Callie pops the two munchkins into high chairs and starts piling eggs, bacon, and home fries onto two plates. My stomach rumbles louder than before.