CHAPTER 36

By the time they picked up Don Waschoniz (ten minutes late), gauged his mood (irritable), got him convenience store coffee because this town didn’t have a Starbucks (big mistake), Cole’s stress was at an all-time high, centered mostly on the enigma that was Summer Jenkins. She had accepted the role, but would Don like her? And would her attitude scare off the director?

He glanced away from the road, at his cell. He had insisted on driving, had informed Ben that he’d be, from that point on, the one to drive. He was sick of being ferried around like a delicate star. And here, in the country, real sweat actually damp against his shirt, he was beginning to remember what it felt like to be an actual man, not just Hollywood’s version of one.

They rounded a curve, and the headlights picked up deer eyes—ten or more sets of them. He cursed and applied the brakes. The car skidded to a stop, and Ben’s hand braced against the dash in an unnecessary, dramatic fashion.

Cole looked out the window, at the dark stretch of nothing before him. He realized, as a baby deer bounded over the ditch and across the field, that he hadn’t thought of Nadia in hours. Refreshing.

He looked back at the road. Waited for one last slowpoke, and then gunned the car into drive, their turn just up ahead.

When she opened the door, the scent of apples wafted out. Apples and cinnamon and sugar. Cole stood before her, blocking the doorway from the other men, and inhaled. “Is that...?”

“Apple cobbler,” she said with a smile. A smile. A second knock to the unstable foundation on which he stood. “I didn’t have time to make pie. I hope it’s all right.” She moved to the side, and he stepped in, turning to see her greet Ben with a hug and shake Don Waschoniz’s hand. A smile. First time he’d seen a natural one of those cross her face. It was a beautiful look on her, her cheeks flushed, hair down. She had on jean shorts with a flannel long-sleeve shirt, the sleeves rolled up, the shirt’s first three buttons undone, showing a hint of cleavage. Her feet were bare on the sparkling linoleum floor, and he glanced around the house. It was perfect—every couch cushion in perfect place, a lit candle on the dining room table, the countertops wiped clean, one dish atop the oven, covered in a white embroidered cloth. His stomach growled, and he stepped closer, lifting the edge of the cloth. A wisp of heat floated over his face, and his stomach growled in response. He felt a pang of something, deep inside, a hole he hadn’t known existed, and he dropped the cloth, stepping away, turning back to the small living space. A home, that was what this was. Had he ever had one? The nineteen thousand square foot mansion in Malibu, the New York apartment where he and Nadia had fucked like rabbits, the house in Hawaii… all shells. Empty shells of sex and ambition. He felt her move toward him, felt a soft touch of her hand. “I invited the boys to the porch,” she said. “Would you like to join them? I’ll cut some cobbler and serve it out there.”

“The porch?” He didn’t want to leave this space, felt rooted on this cheap floor, by the warmth of the dessert, his legs sluggish to move.

She misunderstood. “I lit a citronella candle out there. The bugs will stay away.” Her voice was so different, so gentle and sweet. Is that what a half a million bought him? A sexified Betty Crocker?

He jabbed to see what lay beneath the skin. “I don’t really like cobbler.” He let disdain drip into the word, and his heart warmed when her eyes sharpened.

“You’ll eat it and like it, Mr. Masten,” she said in an entirely new version of sweet, one with dark fingers that ran along his skin and dug into the weak spots. He grinned and leaned forward, putting his mouth against her ear, watching her stiffen at the movement. “Ah… there’s my girl.” Another thing she didn’t like. She put her hand on his chest and pushed, and he didn’t yield, instead covering her hand with his.

She yanked back the hand like it was burned. Stepped back and turned away, to the fridge, opening it and reaching down, his eyes catching on the arch of her back, the long stretch of her legs.

“Coming?” Don Waschoniz’s voice came from behind him.

“Yeah,” Cole muttered and didn’t look back, didn’t watch her straighten, didn’t hear the door to the freezer as it was yanked open, the vanilla bean ice cream pulled out.

Don and Ben took rockers, and Cole sat on the top step, his back to the door. He didn’t want to see her come out, didn’t want to see the cozy house framing her. He felt unsteady, like everything he had known, everything he’d had control of, was unraveling. He needed something to be constant, needed something to be in order.

“She seems nice,” Don Waschoniz spoke from behind him, and he turned his head enough to see the man in his peripheral vision. Nice. Not the word he’d originally had in mind to describe Summer Jenkins.

“She’s an incredible cook,” Ben said. “Her—”

“We don’t care about her cooking, Ben,” Cole interrupted tersely.

“Don’t be a dick,” Don said easily. “We’re about to eat some of it, and I haven’t eaten since the Houston airport.”

Cole stood, the change in position necessary since this was apparently going to be a Hollywood jerk-off session. He leaned against the porch column and stared out, the flickering candle casting everyone’s face in a pale orange hue. “What’s taking her so long?” he grumbled. They didn’t need to be fed. They needed Don to look at her face, listen to her talk, see her from different angles and heights. She needed to be the bitchy woman he had met six hours ago, not this other person. She stepped onto the porch, two plates in hand, and he turned his venom on her. “We’re short on time, Summer.”

She glared at him and turned to the two men, passing them each a plate. “Sorry to stick y’all out here, but Mama’s sleeping. She has to be up early, and I thought this could give us a place to talk.” She turned to Cole. “Would you like a plate? Inside you mentioned not liking cobbler…” She blinked wide, innocent eyes at him, and he wanted to, right then, grab her shoulders, and push her against the wall. Put his mouth on her sassy one and—Jesus. He stepped back and almost fell down the steps.

“No,” he snapped, and she smiled again. Her smiles were blood in the water, his demise the closely lurking shark. He looked away, and she sat down in the free seat.

“Summer,” Don spoke through a mouthful of food. “Can you stand over here? Where I can see you? It’s important that I see your face.”

“Certainly.” She moved past him, and he smelled a scent other than pie. Vanilla maybe. She took a position like Cole’s, against a different post, her new spot squarely in front of him, and he shifted. Looked away and wondered how long this whole thing would take. Maybe this was a mistake. Five hundred thousand on a nobody? It was ten percent of what Price had committed to, but still… it was too much for this girl. Don Waschoniz leaned forward, set his plate on the ground, and stood.

“The character we are looking for is a thirty-one year old divorced woman. How old are you?”

“Twenty-nine.”

“Turn your head to the left. Say something.”

“Like what?” She giggled, and he saw a dimple pop up in her cheek. Jesus. How close did Waschoniz need to stand? He was practically touching her, his hands now moving aside her hair to peer at her neck. That didn’t matter; no one was asking fuckin’ Kristin Stewart to see her neck. “The brown fox jumps over the lazy dog,” she drawled, and he laughed.