“What’s wrong with you?” Ben watched me in confusion, one perfect brow arched high as I tore through the house, a laundry basket in hand, scooping everything off every surface, my feet slapping at the floor, my damn bathing suit riding up my crack. The tampons, can’t forget those. I rushed into the bathroom, the yellow box dumped in, along with half of the contents of our medicine cabinet. Tonight would be fun, Mama screaming for Preparation H while I fished the remote control out of the loaded-to-the-brim basket.

“Shh!” I hissed at Ben, going through a mental checklist of the things I had time to do versus what was critical.

“He’s not going to come inside.” I heard Ben’s sentence through the fog of self-preservation and skidded to a stop, the laundry basket bouncing, a roll of toilet popping out and tumbling down the hall ’til it came to a stop alongside Ben’s foot.

“What?”

“They’re just coming by to pick me up. They probably won’t even get out of the car.”

Of course. I took my first actual breath in. That made perfect sense. Why would they come in? They probably won’t come to a complete stop—will just roll by and pop open the door, yelling and waving for Ben like he was chasing a train. I set down the laundry basket on the kitchen counter and glanced down at my bathing suit. “Okay. Great. I’m gonna change.”

There was a loud knock on the door, and my eyes flicked to his in panic.

CHAPTER 26

“Are you sure this is the right place?” The porch board under Cole’s left heel was soft, and he shifted his weight onto the other foot, his eyes taking in the embroidered curtain covering the window. Inside, there was the murmur of voices, the shuffle of steps.

“Yes,” DeLuca said shortly, glancing at his watch for the umpteenth time. “This is it.”

They had bypassed the main home and pulled up to a tinier version with two vehicles parked in front—an old Chevy truck and a Ford sedan with Oklahoma plates. The car was probably the scout’s—a rental. The truck… well, who knew what hillbilly would be--

The door swung open, a tall blonde standing there, Cole’s eyes dropping past her face and landing on her swimsuit—a faded black one-piece with jean shorts hastily buttoned as he watched. Her hair was wild and long, as were her tan legs, stretching down forever and ending in pink toe nail polish. Nadia would laugh at that polish, would snicker under her breath and mutter ‘juvenile’ or ‘white trash.’ She’d also raise her brows at the tan, her hand frantic in her bag for some sunscreen, the reminder to apply taken seriously, all while texting her assistant to book her next spray tan.

“Is Bennington here?” Brad rested a hand on the doorframe, his arm blocking Cole’s view of her chest but Cole saw the flick of her eyes from his to the attorney’s, saw the slight drop of her mouth as she looked up into DeLuca’s face. Something inside of him twisted in an ugly manner. The girl had a damn movie star on her front porch and had looked away. He turned away, resting his hands on the worn wood of the porch’s railing and coughed out a laugh at the state his fragile ego had become. Wow. How low had he fallen that a strange girl couldn’t look at another man without him caring? DeLuca was a handsome guy; anybody could see that. Plus, he had the alpha male type testosterone that made women crawl over each other to his side. It was natural for the girl to look at him, for her attention to divert from Cole, especially when he had asked her a question. But still. Three Oscars in his storage unit. Her gaze could have at least lingered.

He turned back to the door, leaning against the railing and crossing his arms, waiting for this round of introductions to pass so they could get to the hotel and he could take a shower. The location scout had appeared, replacing the blonde at the door. Too bad. She’d been better to look at. The scout was hyper, his head bobbing rapidly, his hands occasionally joining in—the combination of gestures and head nods making Cole’s head hurt.

Someone had said something to him. DeLuca’s head was turned, both sets of eyes on him, expecting some sort of an answer. Cole lifted his chin, straightening off the railing. “I’m sorry, what?”

“It turns out there aren’t a lot of lodging options in Quincy but Bennington—”

“It’s Ben,” the man interrupted, practically fawning forward. Behind him, in the doorway, the girl reappeared, a baggy white T-shirt now pulled over her swimsuit, her wild hair contained in a ponytail. Her eyes met his, and he smiled, the Cole Masten smile that unlocked every door. She didn’t smile back. Shit. Everything was falling to hell, including his smile. He made a mental note to have Justin—to have someone—make him a dentist appointment. To practice in the mirror this evening and make sure that everything was working right. Maybe it was her. Maybe she was gay.

“Right,” DeLuca continued. “Ben says the lodging accommodations in town are fairly limited—that the closest town with any real hotels is Tallahassee—”

Cole’s ears perked up at this, his arms dropping from his chest. A college town. Bars. Sexy ass coeds who would beam up to him like his word was God’s. Maybe that would give the ego boost that, right now, seemed to be needed.

“—but I told him that wouldn’t work. That you needed to be in Quincy.” DeLuca smirked at him like he knew what he was thinking.

Oh, right. The rules. Cole slapped a mosquito on his neck in response, feeling a drop of sweat run down his back. “Not to ruin this delightful party,” he waved at another insect, “but could we move this inside? To the air conditioning?”

Bennington and the girl exchanged a quick look, then the girl smiled sweetly. “Certainly. Can I get y’all anything to drink? Some sweet tea, perhaps?”

CHAPTER 27

It only took eight minutes for my hero worship of Cole Masten to nose dive into a sea of dislike. His looks weren’t the problem; if anything, the man leaning against my railing was even better looking than on a movie screen. I studied him when he turned around, when he gripped the railing and looked out on the Holdens’ farm. And I saw a bit of pain—in the hunch of his shoulders, in the chew of his cheek, some torture in the eyes that had turned back around and met mine. I thought then, my hand resting on the doorknob, looking out on the front porch that held two of the sexiest men I had ever seen, that there was something there, in him, something whole and raw and beautiful.

Now, I know what I saw. I know what that something was. It was asshole, pure and simple. It was spoiled rotten—I get what I want because I deserve it, you are beneath me—asshole. I’ve experienced men like him before. Carl Hanson grew up on the same dirt I did, attended Quincy High just like me, danced with me at the Homecoming Dance, and rode dirt bikes with me in the summer. Then he graduated. Went to New York after UGA. Found out what Daddy’s money could buy him, found out what life outside our county line was like, and came back a few Christmases later. Looked so far down his nose at me I could see the specks of cocaine in his nostril. He palmed my ass like he owned it at the church winter social, and I punched him smack in the nose. Broke the knuckle of my index finger doing so, but it was worth it. Mr. Hanson paid my hospital bill. Came over and had tea with Mama and me and delivered a pile of apologies for the asshole that his son had become.