I couldn’t, from our tiny little cottage in the cotton field, understand why any woman would cheat on Cole Masten. How greedy could a woman be?

“They’re talking about pushing filming back.” Ben stood on my front porch, his shoulder slumped against the door frame, his cell phone hanging limply from his hand. It’d been ten days since the head crack heard ‘round Hollywood.

“What?” I swung the door open wider and waved him in.

“I had to drive all the way over here; my cell isn’t working. Thank God I checked email.”

“That storm last night,” I murmured, helping his dramatic self to a chair before he went full queen and collapsed. “Cell service is always hell after a storm.”

It wasn’t exactly the storm’s fault as much as it was Ned Beternum, who let his goats graze the field he leased to Verizon. Even though the cell giant had threatened legal action several times. Even though his goats loved to chew the juicy wires that magnetized the thing. Heavy rains typically flooded his west acreage, so Ned would move them into the higher field, giving us all weak service until Verizon flew someone in to fix things. We, as a town, didn’t really care. We’d survived without cell phones for thousands of years, didn’t much use them anyway. That was what home phones were for. And if you weren’t home, that was what answering machines were for. No need to fix a system that wasn’t broken. Who wanted to be available twenty-four hours a day?

“September,” Ben wheezed, his hand reaching out, and I grabbed my iced tea from the coffee table and passed it to him. “That’s what they are saying now.”

“September.” I tried to see the reason for Ben’s agony. “That’s good, right? Gives us an extra month.”

“Yeah. Peachy. You’ll have more free time to crack peanuts and crochet mittens.” I hid a smile. “Delays in filming are bad, Summer. Ominous. Expensive.”

“Wait a minute.” I frowned. “That’s not what you said earlier.” I adopted a deeper, yet feminine voice. “The Fortune Bottle isn’t crashing, Summer. Movies don’t fall apart over this.” I mimicked his dramatic hand gestures, and he stared at me, a grimace on his pretty little face.

“Was that supposed to be me?”

“Yes.”

He finished a sip of tea and wiped at his brow with a monogrammed handkerchief. “Please don’t ever do that again.”

I snorted… but I swear it was ladylike. “Ditto.”

He sipped more tea, and I sat on the couch, my bare feet tucked underneath my butt. There was a companionable silence as I relaxed back against the cloth, my eyes closing.

“At least they aren’t talking about the girls.”

I cracked an eye open. “What?”

“Cole’s fucking his way through half of Hollywood right now. I haven’t seen that hit newsstands yet.” The gossip was delivered in a hushed voice, Ben’s hands happily clapping as if he might be the next stop on the Cole Masten Penis Train.

“Is that newsworthy?” I didn’t know that a newly single actor screwing would be any big surprise to anyone.

“Is any of this newsworthy?” He leaned forward and picked up the closest magazine, an OK! that I bought because it was a dollar cheaper than the others. “Kelli Gifford shares her punch recipe!” he read off the cover in an excited fashion, then tossed it back down. “It’s all crap, and yes, a detailed accounting of Cole Masten’s bedroom activities would certainly be newsworthy. His publicists must be working overtime.”

Ben had a point. I’d certainly pay three bucks to read about Masten’s actions in the sack. Hell, with my level of sexual inactivity, I’d pay three bucks to read about Ben’s actions in the sack. Or even Ned Beternum’s goats. Or… well, I think you get the picture. It’d been a long time. Nobody since Scott. Three long years.

My pity party was interrupted by the clink of ice in Ben’s drink. He looked down at the glass, and I stood up to get him a refill. Opening the fridge, I pushed any thoughts of Cole Masten and sex out of my mind.

CHAPTER 18

9:27 AM. The redhead knelt on the bed over Cole’s face, her legs trembling on either side of his head, her smooth thighs cool against his skin. She panted his name, her fingers in his hair, pulling then releasing, a string of motions she wasn’t even aware of doing.

“I can’t,” she gasped, one hand reaching wildly back and grabbing at the flat plane of his stomach, her body bucking against his mouth. He held her in place, his mouth devouring, tongue fluttering against her clit, all of his focus on getting her up and over this mountain.

Well, almost all focus. He closed his eyes for a moment, holding off his own orgasm, the mouth on his cock, talented, and he moved one hand off the redhead, reaching down and threading his fingers through the hair of the blonde, her movements never stopping, never slowing—a perfect blowjob.

The redhead was close, his mouth soaked with her juices, her taste everywhere, the sweetness of a woman. She fought him, her mouth begging, wanting more but unable to handle it until the moment that she broke, her guttural cry loud and long, his fingers biting into her skin as he held her down, his mouth carrying her through, stretching it out gently before she rolled off his face, her body twitching against the bed as he propped himself up, his hand pulling at the hair of the blonde, pulling her off his cock and up to his mouth.

She tasted like masculinity and he kissed her hard, then pushed her away, rolling to the side of the bed and standing, his cock at attention, ready for more. He pulled open the bedside table drawer and grabbed at the pile of condoms, pulling one out and sticking the foil piece in his mouth, tearing it open with his teeth. “On your knees,” he ordered, their bodies scrambling into place, and he felt, in the moment before he knelt back on the mattress, his hand gripping at the first arched ass, a stab of loneliness. Loneliness. A new emotion that was growing increasingly familiar. Two women before him now, the prior night spent with their legs entangled with his, their hands on his skin, and he’d laid there, in the dark, and never felt so alone.

He pulled the girl backward and onto his cock. Listened to her moan and tried to find validation in the sound.

“You’re late.” Brad DeLuca barked the words, hanging up a call and tossing his cell onto the white linen tablecloth, the iPhone hitting a glass stem with a loud crack.

“Sorry. Business to attend to.” Cole sat down, a waiter appearing, fresh water set out with lemon.

“Bullshit.”

“What?” Cole looked up.

“Pussy isn’t business, and this, right now, is the most important thing in your life, so when we make an appointment, keep it.” DeLuca leaned forward on the table and stared at his client.

He’d been trying to get DeLuca to LA for two weeks and a lecture was the first thing out of the man’s mouth? Cole stared at the man warily, an eyebrow raised. “You work for me, you know that, right?”

When the attorney laughed, it was a low chuckle, one born out of confidence and experience, and one with absolutely no trace of humor in it. The man stood, a grin on his face, and pulled a card from an inner pocket of his suit. “Here.” He set the business card down before Cole, one finger tapping at the white surface. “This is Leonard McCort. He’ll put up with your bullshit and cover your ass in court.”

Cole felt a moment of panic. “But, you’re the best.” Justin had confirmed it, vetted DeLuca, already had confidentiality paperwork signed, retainers paid, a suite at the Chateau Marmont booked. Not to mention the phone calls, filed responses already in play. The man couldn’t waltz out now.