“Cole.” He shook her hand, and her grip was firm and strong. Funny. He’d always imagined Southern women to be meek and mild, to avoid eye contact and to yield to their male counterparts. Between Summer and her mother, that image was being reworked.

“Why are you out here, in Ben’s car?”

He tucked his hands into the front pockets of his pants. “Giving him and Summer a chance to talk. She may have kicked me out of the house.” He grinned sheepishly, and the woman laughed.

“You’ll forgive my daughter. She’s intent on leaving me grandchildless. You were probably too tempting to that goal.” She winked, and it was his turn to laugh. This woman was nothing like his mother. Nothing like Nadia’s mother—a stuffy blue-blood who showed prize Greyhounds and fluently spoke three languages. He felt the slip of her hand through his arm, and she gripped it tightly. “Be a dear and help me inside.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He tried the Southern moniker on for size, and the woman laughed again.

“An actor, you say? We need to work on your Southern drawl.”

They climbed the steps, the front door swinging open before their feet hit the top. Summer paused, her face surprised. “Mama. You’re home early. And I see you ignored my voicemail.”

“Oh, you called?” the woman said mildly. “I must have missed that.”

Cole bit the inside of his cheek to hold back a smile, the older woman squeezing his arm before she released it. Summer kissed her mother on the cheek and waited until she passed inside, Ben’s greeting to Francis faint through the screen door. When Summer looked to Cole, her eyes held him in place, his body leaning against the porch’s railing just so his legs wouldn’t go weak. The front door fully shut and then it was just them and the setting sun and the whistling crickets.

“Did Ben talk to you about the part?” He shouldn’t have started with that; he should have made small talk about the weather, or politics.

She nodded. “He did.”

“And?” God, this was stupid. Any other blonde in LA would be on her knees unzipping his jeans for this role.

“And I’m curious about the compensation.”

The compensation. That was unexpected. He coughed back a laugh. The porch floorboards were weak, the house tiny, the truck parked under the tree had rust spots eating through its side. Her whole life could be bought with one bottle of wine from his cellar. He scratched at his neck and met her eyes. They flashed at him, and he composed himself, dropping the grin. “What would you like for compensation?”

“I don’t know.” She crossed her arms in front of her chest, and he mourned the loss of view. “I don’t know what is fair. That’s why I’m asking you.”

“And you trust me to be fair,” he said slowly. Los Angeles would chew up and spit out this girl before she even found her way to an agent’s door. Don’t trust anyone. That was the first rule of Hollywood. He learned that from his first agent, when he was modeling, and the first go-see came up. “Don’t trust anyone,” Martine Swint had snarled, leaning over her desk and pointing one long red fingertip in his direction. “People in Hollywood will build you up just so that they can rob you blind. You gotta be an asshole to not be assholed. Don’t ever forget that.” And he never had.

“I’m asking you for your honest opinion about what a major role in a movie of this size, for someone with my experience, is worth.” She raised her chin.

He took the asshole route. Losing Minka was manna to The Fortune Bottle’s budget, and this slice of Southern Belle was the gift that just kept giving. “A hundred thousand. Your name has negative box office weight; we’ll have to spend a fortune just to get you camera ready, and the filming will take three, four months of your life. That’s being a bit generous, but hey,” he flashed the smile that fixed everything, “I like you, Summer. I think you’d be a good fit.”

She didn’t move, didn’t blink, just stared at him, her eyes narrowing slightly. She had freckles, a light smattering of them across her nose and cheeks. He hadn’t seen freckles in years. Freckles were avoided by sunscreen, concealed by makeup, or lasered off by a plastic surgeon, the records of which would be eventually leaked to the press and made out into something more.

He shifted and she still stared. Maybe he could give her one-fifty. Hell, he could give her five hundred thousand. That was what she was really worth; that was really the minimum for a film this size, with their budget. But if they could get her cheap, then he could pad the film budget, have an allowance for the overages that always came. This was strange, her saying nothing. Maybe it was a Southern thing. California girls wouldn’t shut up—their mouths moved like a biting teeth toy wound all the way up.

“Don’t do that.”

“What?” He straightened off the porch railing.

“That smile thing. It’s creepy.”

He stopped smiling. “Ten million Americans would disagree with you.”

“Then ten million Americans are idiots.”

He said nothing, but decided, right then, that he didn’t much care for this girl. As Ida, her attitude would be perfect—the secretary known for standing up to Coca-Cola executives. But personally, he had enough shit to deal with. A diva as a costar wasn’t something he needed. “Are you interested or not?”

“I’m not.”

His foot stopped halfway back in its step off the top step. “You’re not,” he repeated.

“It’s not enough money. I’m worth more.”

“The toe of your shoe is held together with duct tape,” he pointed out, and she smiled. Smiled. A sweet, sunny smile that was betrayed completely by her eyes, golden knives which could cut through a weaker man’s gut and drag his entrails out for the buzzards.

“How much money I have is not indicative of my worth. If it was, then I would be the lesser individual on this porch.”

“You’re saying you’re not the lesser individual.” That I am. Of all the insults hurled at him, his worth had never been insulted. Then again, in Hollywood, worth was dollars and cents and power. Here, in this conversation, on this porch, they seemed to be talking about something else.

“Out of the two of us, only one of us is being an ass right now.”

“So you don’t want the role.”

“Not for that amount.”

He stepped back, turning away from her and taking the steps off the porch.

“Goodbye, Mr. Masten,” she called from the porch, and he turned his head to watch her, her shoulder leaning against one of the porch posts, her arms still crossed over her chest. “That’s what we say, in the South, when one person leaves. It’s called a valediction.”

“What is it called when one person makes a huge mistake?” he called out, opening the driver’s door to the Taurus.

“Easy,” she said, pushing off the post and stepping to the front door. “That’s called life.”

CHAPTER 33

I walked into a heated discussion, Mama and Ben facing off across the dining table, the topic of conversation—apparently—gay marriage. Ben was of the opinion, obviously, that it was A-Okay, and Mama… well… Mama’s from the South. If a marriage doesn’t have a penis, virginal vagina, and a preacher, it doesn’t count. I, myself, am of the opinion that two people should be able to do what they want, assuming that action doesn’t hurt anyone else. I walked to the couch and decided not to voice my opinion, should the wrath of anyone turn to me.

“Ben.” He ignored me, talking fast, his fingers counting off a list of inalienable rights.

“Ben!” This time, his head popped toward me. “That asshole is waiting for you outside.”