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  Back then, that joke had been sort of charming. Tyler had been sort of charming. There was no expensive cologne, no popped collar, no frosted hair tips. He’d been working at Reel World for a while—five years, in fact—and his hunger to finally make it to a full-on producer after all that time was kind of endearing. “I just can’t seem to land an idea with a great hook,” he’d told me over drinks on our first date.

  Hook. Reel. The bad jokes write themselves.

  I’d told him I thought he had potential. Granted his ideas weren’t really great, but with some punching up from yours truly, they got better. Mostly, I’d been responsible for taking all the boobs out of his pitches. Tyler had been floored by my ideas. So much so that he came home with me that first night we had drinks, and nearly every night for the next sixteen months afterward.

  It had been fun, talking in bed post coitus, discussing our ideas, sharing our hopes and dreams. It’d felt like a partnership. And did I mention he was hot? Like men’s Mach3 Turbo Razor ad on a billboard on Hollywood Boulevard hot. Like Nordic Track infomercial hot. Sriracha hot. If I’m honest, a lifetime of being the mousy brunette had sort of set me up with a Tyler-shaped hole in my self-esteem, just waiting to be exploited. Live and learn. I guess the next guy I date will have to be in his forties, balding, and with a heart of literal gold. Maybe that will teach me. Then again, maybe not.

  “What about the secret, sexy lives of Renaissance festival employees?” he’d said one night. “Like, girls in those low-cut Ren Fair gowns? Wouldn’t that sell?”

  “Those aren’t really period appropriate,” I’d replied gently. “Although you could do something like The Bachelor, but have it in period costume. You know? Women have to vie to win the heart of an actual prince, and learn how to survive 16th century court life. So it’s sexy, sure, but also competitive and interesting.”

  “Huh,” he’d said. “Wish I’d thought of that.”

  Then, one day Tyler went in for a big pitch meeting without telling me. He used my Bachelor at the Court idea, charmed the right executives, and now is riding high with his long-coveted producer job. And me? When I told him how angry I was, he only winked and said, “I’ll make you my personal assistant. How’s that sound?” He’d tried to kiss me, and I’d stomped on the inside of his foot.

  Our relationship deteriorated pretty quickly after that. My resentment seemed to grow in direct relation to his mushroom-clouding ego, both of which were now totally unbearable. His shiny new producer status rotted him from the inside out, and I watched it happen before my very eyes. I finally gave him the “it’s not working” speech a few months ago—and his response was a hearty laugh in my face. Apparently he’d never considered our relationship ‘official’ to begin with.

  You might say I’m still dealing with the breakup.

  You might also say that if I did half the things to Tyler that I fantasized about on a daily basis, I’d be in jail serving a life term, or five. But what doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger, right? And as far as I’m concerned, the best revenge is runaway success.

  Which means it’s my God-given duty to kick this douchebag’s ass at work.

  “So. Tell me some of your brilliant ideas,” Suze says, waving for another margarita. I down the rest of my whiskey. Always polite to keep up.

  “Um. Zero gravity romance? Love and science aboard the international space station?” Why does my head hurt?

  “You’re not trying,” Suze says. She leans forward, a concerned look on her face. “Listen, I can see about getting you hired on Love Lorne in Melbourne, if you want.”

  She doesn’t believe I can do it. “I’m trying! I am! It just feels like Tyler sucked all the good out of me.” Which is pretty much all he was good at sucking…heh. Okay, I probably shouldn’t have another drink. “I’m going to lose this, aren’t I?” I want to curl up into a ball and let the world go by without me. I hate this despairing feeling. That’s not who I am. Am I really going to let Tyler the jackwad win again? Do I want to admit defeat? Never.

  “Think about what inspires you,” Suze says, giving me her best comforting smile. “What makes you unable to turn away from the screen?”

  I groan. “That’s just it. Tyler’s what Reel World wants. It’s all about big boobs and low IQs. How am I supposed to compete with that?” I have this gross, nauseous feeling. Though a lot of that may be because of the whiskey. “Screw it!” I slam my fist on the table. “I won’t let him win. I’ll chase him ‘round the moons of Nibia before I give this pitch up,” I say, completely bastardizing Wrath of Khan. I get to my feet, stumble a little, and grab my phone to call for Uber.

  “Where are you going?” Suze asks, looking alarmed.

  “I’m going back to the office. There’s gold in them thar old casting submission tapes, and I’m going to find a nugget if it kills me.” So saying, I stride purposefully out of the bar, then come back a minute later to get my purse off the chair. I only forgot it for a second, dammit.

  “Why did I think this was a good idea?” I mutter, chin in my hand as I click through digital file after digital file. Oh, right, whiskey can make anything look golden. A couple of hours and a cup of coffee later, and suddenly common sense bows back into the picture. I keep watching the auditions, shaking my head in disbelief. Can just anyone send us a tape? Some of these are normal, young women sitting and talking to the camera about their sordid love lives. Others are just peculiar.

  One video starts with a man in bib overalls, a straw hat, and nothing else. He grins at the camera. “My name’s Ignatius Butterstock, the king of the Pig Mambo.” I watch as he gets his three prize hogs out, turns on the soundtrack to The Mambo Kings, and starts dancing with the first pig. It looks as confused as I feel. Skip.

  One video shows a guy with his shirt off and a greased and glittering six-pack of abs on prominent display. I perk up. He winks at the camera. All right, sexy and geared towards the female gaze. Off to a good start.

  “Juggling chainsaws has always been my passion,” he says, and picks one up from off camera. As he revs it, he says, “Drunken Chainsaw Juggling would be a great show—” I click off really, really fast.

  “Why are there so many weirdos in the world?” I push back from my desk and rub my pounding head. The office at two AM is a terrifying place. Rows and rows of empty cubicles, with the only sound the click and whirr of the air conditioning coming on and off. What am I doing? I should call it a night, Uber it home, and sleep with a bottle of aspirin right next to my bed for tomorrow’s epic hangover.

  I’m slinging my purse from off the back of my chair when I notice one more file, just sitting there and waiting for me to click on it. Oh, why the hell not? Maybe it’ll be something more amusing than the hog mambo guy. Though that would be pretty hard to top. I click play and sit back, feeling my eyes beginning to slowly close.

  And that’s when I get a glimpse of the hottest man I have ever seen in my life.

  “Are you taping?” he asks the person behind the camera. He’s standing there, hands in the pockets of his jeans, as casual as anything. A worn, red flannel shirt is absolutely hugging his broad shoulders. The sleeves are rolled, revealing the rock-hard contours of arms that look like they could be sculpted from marble. He looks at the camera with a quiet ease, like he knows he’s got this, whatever this is. God, those eyes. They’re a warm golden brown, glowing with intensity as he stares at me—er, the camera, he’s staring at the camera.

  His jaw is square and rock hard, with a distinguished cleft in the chin. I can make out the outline of his jaw through the stubble, which he rubs the back of his hand across. His hair is a chestnut brown, with glints of red that spark like embers in a fire when he catches the light in the perfect way. I think any way he caught the light would have to be perfect.

  I haven’t had that much to drink. I’m aware enough to realize the rarity before me. You could write a poem about this man’s physical perfection.

  “Are you ready?” he asks, cocking an
eyebrow. I sit up, almost ready to apologize to him when the camera holder says,

  “Yeah. Here we go. So, state your name.”

  “Why?” He grins, crinkling the corners of his eyes and lending his whole expression a warmth that starts melting me on the spot.

  “Because intros are fun.” The voice is teasing and female. “Go on.”

  “Flint McKay.” He looks about ready to roll his eyes. “Here to introduce you to the fabulous world of drywall. Once you have experienced its many mysteries, you will dare to question your place in the universe. For surely, to hang a sheet of drywall is to see the face of God.” He makes his voice even deeper and richer. The sound of it makes me hungry.

  The camera holder—definitely young, by the sound of her voice—scoffs. “Come on, you said you’d—”

  “All right, all right.” Flint shakes his head, a lock of that reddish brown hair falling into his eyes. Instantly, I want to brush it away. Slowly, letting my fingers trail through the silky—

  Laurel! Calm down!

  “First off, you want to get the width of your wall,” Flint says, picking up a measuring tape and pulling it open. I can see it, right now—every woman watching this show would dream of those hands zipping down the back of their dress with such ease. “Cut your sheet so it’s about a quarter inch shorter than that,” Flint says, looking into the camera again. He goes through the motions, and I enjoy the sight of his muscled back stretching as he displays the drywall. His jeans hug a tight, spectacular looking ass.

  I know I’m being a little creepy right now, but no one else is around. So work that fabulous ass, drywall man.

  Also, he’s actually great at explaining. I’m not much of a do it yourself type person—I was raised by people who called someone else to hang a picture—but the ease with which Flint shows off his abilities, the careful discussion of everything to do with drywall, it’s amazing. It almost makes me want to go down to the hardware store at first light and start on some home renovation.

  It also makes me want to go home and dust off my trusty vibrator, because every time Flint looks in the camera, or winks, or even—God help me—takes off his flannel shirt so that he’s only in a tight, clinging white tee, I feel heat pooling between my legs.

  “Remember,” Flint says, pointing at the camera. “We tack with nails, but we fasten with screws.” You could definitely fasten something with a screw right here, sir.

  I’m starting to worry about my sanity.

  Finally, the video is over. Flint displays a seemingly perfectly hung bit of drywall. “Feast your eyes.” Flint bows deeply, then grins. “Okay, Callie. Good enough?” A V of sweat has appeared around the front collar of his tee shirt, giving me a glimpse of impossibly sculpted pectorals.

  “Good job,” the camera girl replies, laughing. The video turns off. I’m left trying to pick my jaw from up off the floor.

  Who is this renovation god? And when did he send us this tape? I scroll through the information on hand. His name’s Flint McKay, from Massachusetts. We first got this video about ten months ago. To think it’s been languishing in a pile all this time. Then again, I can sort of understand how it happened. Doing home repairs isn’t exactly Reel World’s focus. We’re a boobs and bombastic revelations type of company. But to have a sex god teaching home improvement, that would certainly bring in the ladies. And that strange combination of studliness and craftiness would really differentiate this show. Another girls in bikini show would just be white noise. But this…

  I can already feel myself bouncing in my chair from excitement. Fingers trembling, I look up the contact information. With his phone number in hand, I hesitate. It’s not even six on the east coast. Maybe it’s too early to call?

  The thought of Tyler’s smug face and his underage boob jobs decides me. My fingers fly across my phone’s keypad, and I wait. One ring, two rings, three. No answer, but it goes to voicemail. I take a deep, calming breath.

  “Hello, this message is for Flint McKay. My name’s Laurel Young, and I’m a producer at Reel World Entertainment in Los Angeles.” Little white lie on the producer thing, but who cares? When Davis picks up this show, I will be a producer. “I’ve reviewed your video submission, and I think this has a lot of potential. Please call me back so we can discuss further.” I leave him my number, hang up, and nearly start hugging myself. I’m a freaking genius. Soon, all of female America will be gazing soulfully into the eyes of Flint McKay. And they might even pick up a couple of good drywalling tips while they’re at it.

  3

  Two days later, there’s still no reply. Every morning I check my messages, sure that today’s going to be magic hot guy answer day. But I’m always disappointed. I’ve tried calling that number again, twice. There was an email on file, and I sent him a message. Played it cool, didn’t even add twenty exclamation points in the subject header. No emojis in the body of the email. Pure professional class, but no reward. Zip. Nada. Any other words for barren and desolate nothing, please bring them forward.

  I watch the tape over again, almost trying to convince myself that I was really super drunk that night. But every time Flint looks up with those warm golden brown eyes, or when he reveals the muscled expanse of his body, I shake my head. This guy is the whole package.

  “Suze,” I call, waving her over to my desk. She crouches next to me while I play the tape back. “Tell me if I’m crazy, but what do you think of this? Hot or not?”

  Suze watches the video with her mouth practically hanging open. I expect her tongue to roll down and across the desk, Looney Tunes-style. “Where did you find this guy?” she asks, leaning closer. I’m afraid she’s going to try making out with the screen.

  “Pulled him out of the slush pile. I’ve tried calling and calling, but I haven’t heard anything. Time’s running out.” Ever since finding Flint’s tape, I can’t even think of coming up with another pitch idea. When I’ve got something good between my teeth, I shake it until it gives in. My Patronus is a terrier. It’s like I can see the glinting prize at the end of the race, far in the distance. And this prize has a sculpted torso, stubble, and gorgeous windswept hair. I’m going to bring him to American airwaves if I have to fly to Massachusetts myself.

  “Knock knock,” an annoying voice says. I turn slowly, trying not to scowl or throw up. Tyler’s leaning on my cubicle wall, that douchebag grin stretched across his face. That cologne he’s got on is stifling. Did his new job title come with a gift basket full of stenchy man perfume, or did he actually go out and buy it himself? “You ladies gossiping in here?”

  “If by ‘gossiping’ you mean ‘working like a pair of adults,’ you are so spot on,” I say, getting up and shoving past him. I need some coffee. I could also use some pepper spray and a lit stick of dynamite, but I don’t think the vending machines carry those anymore. Tyler trails behind me, my own personal oily shadow. Lucky me.

  “Why you gotta walk away so fast, Young? Go slower. Gives me a way better show of that fantastic ass.” I can practically hear Tyler licking his lips. The rage starts pulsing behind my eyes. I swear, I will Hulk out on this asshole.

  “You know, there is such a thing as sexual harassment litigation these days,” I say, entering the fluorescent-lit, Clorox-scented kitchen and reaching for a paper cup. Tyler slides in beside me, leaning against the counter. “Though I imagine you need help with some of the bigger words. Say it with me now. Li-ti-ga-tion.”

  “Cute.” Tyler smirks. “And yeah, you could go whining to HR. But you know what happens to little bitches that tell tales. They can’t even produce an Arby’s commercial.” He gets himself a cup of smarmy water. “They’re not team players.”

  “Remind me why I ever thought you were charming,” I say to him, adding half and half to my coffee with murderous intensity. The worst part is, he’s right. I’m stuck with him until I figure out how to claw my way to the top.

  “You know you still want me, Young. I’m the best thing that could happen to you.” He changes
tactics abruptly, lowering his voice so he stops being the megawatt asshole; now he’s the low voltage, seductive asshole. “Come on. We had a good thing going. You get with me, you can distinguish yourself.” He sidles in, leans closer.

  “With me, Tyler, you can have some brilliant new ideas. And you need them right now, don’t you?” I grin as my blow lands. Tyler jerks backward, his bleached and pristine smile shut up like a pocketknife. “That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? The big pitch is coming, and you need content. What fascinating, original notions do we all have to look forward to?” I mockingly clap my hands in glee. “Why, a show all about rating the knockers of Amazonian tribal women? Sexist and culturally insensitive, all in one glorious, mediocre package! You spoil us, Tyler.”

  “I told you, Amazonian Babes was just the first stage of an idea,” he snaps.

  “Funny how all your ideas tend to live and die at the first stage. But you blew it, Tyler. There’s no me to help you out this time. I’m keeping all my bright and shiny ideas to myself.” I pick up my cup, blow on my coffee, and walk out of the room. He follows behind me, and I can feel his seething fury radiating outward. It feels glorious.

  “You think you’re so damn smart,” he says. “But you forget, this is a relationship business. I’m already in and solid, Young. The guys around here fucking love me. I never see you partying at the Standard, or staying at Don Morris’s Malibu house. Bet you didn’t even know Don had a beach house.”

  I’m doing my best to tune him out, but he’s got a worrying point. I think Don Morris and I have spoken about three times. Twice he asked me to hold his calls, even though I wasn’t his damn assistant. It’s a boy’s club and I’m trying to fight my way in.

  “Like I said, Young. I’ve got a team of executives who’d love to back me up on anything I pitch. And you?” He slips in front of me, so that I almost smack into him. He leers at me, dropping his gaze down the front of my blouse. “You’re a hot piece that looks good in a skirt. That’s it.”