I say as we step out of my car, “your job is to mostly stay silent. They’ll want to get a feel for you in the room. Just be polite. If they ask you questions, try to bring everything back to renovation and building. You know? Leave the Hollywood bullshit to me.” I’m starting to talk fast. The click of my heels echoes across the company garage. I check my watch for the tenth time in the last five minutes. We’re not late, are we? I mean, we weren’t late five minutes ago, but what about now? “You can have the Hollywood bullshit,” Flint says, slamming his door and patting the car. “This is a good little machine, by the way.” He sounds impressed “Thanks,” I say, taking some pride in my ’70 Camaro. “I don’t know how to fix cars, but I do know how to drive them.” “That’s the damn truth,” he says, as we walk side by side out of the garage and toward the building. “I thought I was a confident driver. I don’t think we got below seventy the whole way from the airport.”
