Rugged (6 page)

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 stomach 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.

“Hungry?” Callie laughs. I’m about ready to grab the skillet for myself, call it ‘my precious,’ and run screaming into the night. Nothing like a Gollum routine to get you ready for the day.

“I haven’t had a good old fashioned breakfast in a while.” Right now if I were home, I’d be enjoying an almond milk latte and a low calorie yogurt. Have I mentioned that Los Angeles has its problems?

“Sit down. Eat. Then tell me about how my brother’s going to be an instant celebrity.” She grins as we sit at the breakfast nook. She even brings out the fresh-squeezed orange juice. With pulp. I think I love this woman.

“I showed your footage to a few of my colleagues,” I say, readjusting the truth slightly. Hey, Suze counts as a colleague. “They went crazy for Flint. I mean, sexy man of the woods teaches women how to become self-reliant home renovators? It’s feminist
and
caters to the female gaze. The ratings could explode.”

“It’s so weird to hear my brother described as ‘sexy’ in a professional way,” Callie laughs. I almost apologize, but she seems to think it’s hilarious. “Seriously, though, I am so freaking excited. I’m a certified reality TV junkie.” Callie gets up for a second when Lily starts banging her plastic sippy cup on her chair’s tray.

“They have treatment for that sort of affliction these days,” I say, mock-serious.

“No, it’s too late. I’m gone. When I’m home with the kids, trying to pick mashed up Cheerios out of the carpet, I flip on
Housewives of Cancun
and just feel myself relax by the poolside, cabana boys all around me.” Callie takes a sip of juice, and closes her eyes in bliss. “And
The Engagement.
Just the thought of Derek McClintock getting down on one knee…” she says, sighing.

“Or both?” I add. I can’t help myself. That gets us both snort-laughing. “I’ll pass that on to marketing. I’m sure they’ll be very interested. But don’t worry, your brother isn’t going to be overtly sexualized.”

“Good, because the words ‘overtly sexualized’ and ‘your brother’ kind of put me off my bacon.” Callie takes a crispy bite. Screw it; I grab another couple of pieces for myself. I haven’t had pig this good since Tyler’s hipster faux-BBQ. Actually, I didn’t eat anything at that party. Pork chops are too mainstream, apparently.

“Speaking of, where’s Flint? I thought he’d be around?” I not so discreetly go in for another helping of home fries. Can Callie just move to LA and feed me?

“Out back in his workshop. He’s probably seeing if he can create a carburetor out of maple and pine.” Callie takes a deadpan forkful of eggs. “It hasn’t been going well.”

“Well, combustible engine and wood combos have a way of curtailing a person’s ambitions,” I say. That makes Callie laugh again. We clink juice glasses.

“I thought reality TV people would be all willowy and tanned and platinum blond, you know?” she says.

“We short, milky brunettes thank you for your surprise,” I say. She waves her hand.

“I mean that as a compliment! I was afraid I was gonna have to run out to the store to pick up some Tofurkey and kale.”

Wiping my hands on a napkin, I look around. “Real talk here. I’m kind of surprised at all the exposed beam, huge window, Restoration Hardware chic of this place. I didn’t think Flint hankered to be ‘modern man of the woods.’”

“It wasn’t really his idea,” Callie says. For the first time, her smile falters. “The potential owner, er, dropped out. Didn’t want to buy. So he sort of inherited the place.”

“Who’d he make it for?” I ask. Then I see, from Callie’s quickly downcast eyes, that maybe I shouldn’t have asked that question. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

At that moment, the screen door slides open, and a wolf erupts into the room. It bounds across the kitchen, its huge paws scraping and slipping across the waxed floor.

“Bubby!” Lily screams gleefully, clapping. The monster lopes over and puts his paws on the chair to lick her face, then Callum’s. The children pull his ears and squeal with glee. Okay, now that my heart’s out of my throat, I can see it’s not actually a wolf. Just a dog the size of a Shetland pony. Kind of cute, actually.

Until he comes over for some Laurel love. I stand up, and get knocked over by the beast. He starts licking my face like crazy. My world becomes drool.

“Chance! No!” That’s Flint, and he pulls the huge, snuggly pooch off. Chance sits by his master’s leg, gazing up adoringly with his tongue hanging out. And when I get a look at Flint, I almost start panting, too.

Flint has a shirt. In his hand. As in, it’s not on his body, which is laid bare and spectacular for all the world—meaning me—to see. His broad shoulders are perfectly sculpted, and his muscled chest has a light sheen of sweat. The abs are rock solid, and a fine trail of hair leads down to…a hidden area. I might need to relearn how to breathe. CPR, the kiss of life, maybe Flint could volunteer…

His sister is here, and there are children, dogs, and bacon present as well. What’s wrong with you, Laurel? Remember the ‘code red, no lust’ rule? Remember that thing you’re not supposed to remember, and what an unprofessional idea it was?
Focus!

“Sorry about that. He’s a monster.” Flint gives me a hand and helps me up. Callie groans.

“Damn, Flint. Could you try saddling that boy and riding him around? Easier to control that way.” But Callie accepts some enthusiastic Chance kisses. He puts his paw lovingly on her knee. “And for the love of God, dress yourself, will you?”

“I got a stain down the front. I need to throw this in the wash and change before we shoot this thing. Or is the sight of me scrubbing down a shirt not manly enough for your viewers?” he says to me, heading out of the kitchen.

“No, it’s perfect. I can see it now. ‘Next week, Flint McKay shows you how to get dirty…and clean up.’” I wave my hand in the air, envisioning it. “What do you think?” I say to Callie. But she’s too busy snorting with her head on the table. That kicks me off, and pretty soon we’re laughing so hard neither of us can breathe.

“Oh Christ. You two’ve been bonding, haven’t you?” Flint says, coming back in as he yanks on a clean white tee shirt. He looks sweaty, sarcastic, and irritated: absolutely perfect.

“I’ve got another McKay in my corner,” I say, crossing my arms and beaming. “Get used to it. It’s time to make some rustic magic.”

6

Flint and I hike out the kitchen door, through the yard, and into the woods. The air is chilly enough that I’m glad I brought Flint’s jacket (which I returned) and my fleece-lined one as well. Never got a chance to use it in LA. “I have to tell you, I expect the Blair Witch to come storming out at any second,” I say, looking around the woods. “I’ve even got the camcorder.” I turn it on and peek through, getting a stunning image of Flint’s very enjoyable backside walking away from me.

“That was down in Maryland. Massachusetts witches don’t play with their food,” he replies. It takes a second for me to realize he’s making a joke. Everything he says comes out in Sexy Broody Bastard Voice.

He takes me to a shack hidden in the woods, tucked between two oaks. Okay, I’m not completely convinced this
isn’t
the start of a slasher movie. But when he lets me inside, I’m agog.

The workroom is clean and organized. Sunlight comes in through the windows, glinting off the saws and tools Flint has spaced out on his workbenches. Everything has been shined to perfection. The air smells sawdusty, but also strangely sweet. It’s the aroma of cut wood and competence.

“How do we do this?” Flint asks, sitting at a stool behind one of the tables. He crosses his arms, and they bulge nicely with muscle. I train the camera on him and focus.

“Start by introducing me to your favorite pieces. I want to hear how you connect to your work.” Honestly, I’m not a hundred percent sure what the specifics of the pitch are yet, but if I can get more good material like the audition tape, figuring it out will be cake. I lean back against a table. Flint keeps his arms crossed, his jaw tight. “Remember, if we don’t like the footage, we do another take.”

“I’m not relaxing enough, am I?” he asks, standing up and stepping out in front of the worktable. “I can try to be more approachable.” He keeps staring, and a muscle in his cheek jumps. “There. Almost a smile.”

I roll my eyes. “Come on. Find the greatness within.”

“Okay. Say hello to my little friend,” he says, reaching for a chair and sliding it over. All right, a
Scarface
reference. Good place to start. “This is a 1920s art deco original that I’ve been refinishing and bringing back into perfect shape.” Flint glances up at the camera, looking like it’s going to pull a gun on him at any second, and he’s going to kick its ass when it does. His brow furrows as he traces a finger along the back of the chair. “You see the clean lines. That shows it’s. You know. Clean.” He sounds like a fifth grader being put into a suit for his sister’s bat mitzvah. Flint sighs. “This isn’t working, is it?” he says. He continues to glare at the camera.

“When you put on your Murder Face, no. It’s got problems.” I stop recording. “I want to see more of that relaxed, sarcastic fun you were having in your audition.” Keeping up a smile and a calming tone is kind of hard right now; we’ve got three days, and I can feel every second of them ticking away. Not to mention, there may or may not be some sexual tension between us that’s getting in the way of this footage. I’m trying not to notice if said tension is here in the room or not, and trying even harder not to care whether it is or isn’t. Do I want it to be? Would that make all this better or worse? Damn.

“That’s the thing. I didn’t know it was an audition,” he says. He grips the back of his remodeled chair, almost like it’s a shield. “Callie brought over her camera. I thought we were just goofing around. But now, this is all so…” he shrugs.

“Then let’s goof,” I say, deadly serious. The corner of Flint’s mouth jerks up. There, a real smile.
Finally.
“Don’t talk to me about the workspace. Tell me about anything that interests you. Anything that you love, or anyone. Loosen up.”

Flint considers this. His eyes seem to darken for a second, and I wonder if I made a terrible choice telling him to loosen up. I really don’t need to antagonize the mega-hot star of my not-show right now. Especially when we have zero usable footage.

Finally, he says, “Okay. My uncle, Cortland. He’s the one who started McKay’s Hardware and Lumber.” For the first time, the studly-surly air completely lifts from him. He leans against the table, kicks one foot up onto the back of the art deco chair. He just looks comfortable. It’s wonderful, so wonderful I’m not even going to laugh over someone naming their unfortunate son Cortland.