Rugged by Lila Monroe Page A

stunts we’ve pulled before, and when executives look at Flint, they’ll see pure beefcake. Granted, Flint could put any of them through a wall, but it doesn’t matter. He’ll be vulnerable in ways he’s never been before.
    I’m the only real defense he’ll have.
    “That I can promise,” I say slowly, letting the words sink in, and meaning them.
    “Can you really?” he asks, his voice gruff.
    “Normally, I’d say no.” Being honest usually works, and Flint nods warily. “But this time, this time I’ll make sure. It’s the one thing that will always stand. It goes on the top of the production notes for every episode: no making Flint look like a fool.” I almost lean my head against his shoulder, which is completely insane. But there’s something comforting about standing out in the crisp air, having a beer and talking. Just talking. But it’s not just that. It’s him. It’s so easy being with him.
    “I trust you, Laurel,” he says. His voice has gone deep and soft.
    “You do?” I shouldn’t sound so surprised; not great for instilling confidence. But Flint smiles.
    “I saw you wrestling with telling me the truth. Then you did. You passed the test.” He clinks bottles with me.
    “Well. I always did great on tests,” I say, weakly smiling.
    “I’m sure,” he says, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His touch lingers warmly, tracing the edge of my ear, pinching the lobe between his fingers in a move that sends a hot shock straight between my legs. “Laurel.” His voice is low. I’m dizzy.
    “Flint—” My breath catches in my throat, but he quickly pulls his hand back and turns away.
    “Sorry,” he says, suddenly distant. “I didn’t mean to—”
    The back door flings open, and Callie stands there with her hands on her hips.
    “Do I need to come out here and get you—” She pauses, looks from her brother to me. A sly smile creeps onto her face. “What’s going on, kids?”
    “Nothing.” Flint and I say it in unison, which isn’t weird at all. Meanwhile, my heart feels like it’s skidding around from the top floor to the bottom, squealing all the way.
    “Well, come on inside. It’s dinnertime.” She turns and leaves, and Flint and I take up our beers and go, neither quite looking at the other.
    The meal goes by way too quickly, and soon after the homemade apple crumble (with vegan caramel, courtesy of Jessa), I’m wrapping my rarely used scarf around my neck to head home.
    “Sure you don’t need me to drive you?” Callie asks as she sees me to the door. I shake my head.
    “The inn’s actually a ten minute walk away. One nice thing about not living in the back of beyond,” I say, playfully shooting a look at Flint, “is that you can just walk places.”
    “Fancy that, a Los Angeles girl who likes to walk instead of drive. I think I’ve seen everything,” he returns. To my surprise, he grabs his jacket. “Come on. I can’t let a young woman walk home all by herself at night.”
    “I have pepper spray on my keychain,” I say, my back going up just a little bit. I took two years of Krav Maga; I can look after myself.
    “Pepper spray and bottle opener. You’re like a Swiss Army knife,” he says, sounding impressed.
    “And a fuzzy monster toy as well.” I take it out of my pocket so he can meet Harold properly. Harold’s a purple ball of fluff with googly eyes. I love him.
    “You still have room for keys, right?”
    “Sometimes.” I smile. “All right. You can walk me home.”
    We say goodbye to Callie and the others and head out, slowly crunching through the autumn leaves on the sidewalk. We stroll mostly in silence, and I try to focus on enjoying the sights of the neighborhood instead of letting my mind linger on what happened between me and Flint on the porch before dinner. It was nothing, just another misstep. It would be terrible if it had gone any further. So why do I feel so disappointed?
    Quit sulking and soak up the New England