“That’s her house? Right there?” Cole squinted, surprised. “It’s so close.”

“They’re neighboring estates,” Ben said with some importance.

“How pissed is she?” Cole nodded toward Summer, who was smaller now, her red dress barely visible, her steps quick.

“You should go after her,” Ben said. “She’s pissed… but I also think she’s hurt.”

Hurt. It had been a long time since Cole had cared whether anyone was hurt. He pushed off the sink and turned away, stepping toward the living room. “Show me the rest of this place, Ben,” he called out, moving farther from the window, from her, from weakness. “And if I see a fucking chicken in the bedroom I will rip it apart myself.”

He couldn’t go after her. Even if it was the right thing to do. Even if it would make their relationship smoother, the movie better. Because he knew himself. And right now, if he chased her down that dirt row and pulled her around, apologizing would be the last thing on his mind.

CHAPTER 41

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Brad DeLuca’s voice boomed through the cell phone’s speaker, Cole wincing and pulling it away from his ear. Cole hadn’t had a clear call since he set foot in Quincy, yet DeLuca’s voice was crystal. A crystal hammer.

“What?” Cole sat up in bed and looked for a clock, his eyes landing on a small silver timepiece, quite possibly the only thing in this damn house that didn’t have a rooster on it. “It’s eight in the morning,” he mumbled.

“I’m well aware of that. And my wife has come three times so far this morning, so get your ass out of bed and be productive.”

“I’m on California time,” Cole mumbled, his eyes closing. Anything to break the view. If he saw one more rooster, he would go insane.

“I was very clear in my instructions to you. You were to go to Quincy and behave. Not run around grabbing the first single woman you find. And then you made her your costar?” The man growled out the last word, and Cole sat up.

“How do you know that? Deadline? Who reported it?” He kicked at the covers to get his legs free. It was probably Perez. That prick had informants coming out of his freshly bleached ass.

“It hasn’t hit any press. But it will. And Nadia’s attorneys will crucify you with it. You can’t put your new girlfriend in the movie that we’re—”

“She’s not my new girlfriend,” he interrupted.

“Sorry. Your new fuck—”

“No,” Cole stopped him. “She’s nothing. I didn’t cast her because I’m fucking her or dating her. I cast her because she is Ida Pinkerton. She’s perfect for the movie; she was born for this role. And she’s cheap. It’s a good decision all around.”

“Perfect for the movie or your cock?”

Cole closed his eyes. “The movie. I listened to you. I’m behaving and focusing on the movie. I haven’t even thought about Nadia since I got here. Everything has been about the movie.”

“Then why, with all of that said, did you kiss her?” DeLuca’s voice was softer, a cushion ready for a confession, soothing undertones hiding the blades he held beneath.

“What?” Cole stood. “Who told you that?”

“That scout told me. We hired him.” Of course they did. Nice to know he had a babysitter.

“The kiss was nothing.” The lie fell easily, so authentic that he believed it himself.

There was enough silence, before DeLuca’s response, that Cole almost doubted his performance. Then the man sighed. “Okay. Good. Keep it that way.”

“Can I go back to bed now?”

The man chuckled. “Sure, pretty boy. At least when you’re sleeping I don’t have to worry about you. But check your email when you wake up. I sent over the response we filed against Nadia. It’s brutal; I’m just going to warn you. We aren’t a cupcake firm… we rip the throats out of our opponents and eat them for breakfast.”

“I don’t want to punish her, I just—”

“We’re only being aggressive about The Fortune Bottle. The response rolls over on the other items, though I think you’re being a fucking saint about it.”

“No, that’s good.” Cole closed his eyes. “Thanks.”

“No problem. Welcome to Team DeLuca.”

Cole smiled. “Talk to you later.”

The call ended, and he dropped the phone against the pillow. The man was the right fit, even if he was a freaking bulldozer. And he was right, Cole shouldn’t have kissed Summer. But he didn’t need DeLuca to tell him that. He’d jacked off three times since yesterday. Couldn’t get the taste of her out of his mouth, no matter how many times he brushed his teeth. Couldn’t get the feel of her waist, the cotton of her dress, off his hands. Last night he had wrapped a T-shirt around his cock and jerked off around it, his mind on the hug of the red fabric to her breasts, the float of the hem when she spun around. If he’d have run his hands up her thighs, it would have lifted up and shown him what she wore beneath.

He closed his eyes. He had to get her out of his mind. He had to stay away from her. At least until filming started and their union was forced. He rolled over on the sheets and vowed to avoid Summer Jenkins at all costs.

Tap.

He lifted a hand and dragged a pillow closer, hugged it to his chest.

Tap.

His eyes opened at the thin, metallic sound.

Tap.

He sat up and looked toward the window, his eyes squinting against the morning sun. The sound repeated, and he confirmed the source, his feet finding the floor and stepping to the window. He pulled aside the curtain and held up a hand against the glare. Another pebble hit the glass, and he fumbled with the latch.

She was throwing rocks at his window. What a cliché thing to do. He realized, in the split second before he opened the pane, that he was smiling, so he schooled his features into a scowl. Pulling the window open, he ducked out, his hands gripping the white sill, his eyes finding the one person he didn’t want to see, standing on the green expanse of lawn, in a green top and white shorts, a wrapped towel held against her shirt. “What?” he called down, his voice coming out irritated and scratchy. Good. Let her know that she’d woken him up. Let her know that she had no positive effect on his mood or demeanor.

“I brought you something.” She held up the towel, and he glared down at it. He couldn’t think of anything he’d want in a towel. Though… maybe it contained breakfast. He was hungry. He’d gone through the kitchen cabinets last night and hadn’t found anything. Another example of how much he needed Justin.

“Is it breakfast?” he called out.

“Are you going to let me in, or are you just going to holler down at me?” she yelled back. A distinct non-answer. He debated, then pulled back, shutting the window, watching Summer as her head dropped, and she headed to the back porch. He reached down for his T-shirt from last night, then thought better of it, moving out the door and down the hall, toward the stairs. If she wanted to barge into a man’s house at eight in the morning, she could suffer the consequences for it.

When he unlocked the kitchen door, he got the full impact of Summer in the morning. Her hair wild and long, curling around the top of her shoulders. The top straps of her bright green tank top had a scalloped edge, the neckline dipping behind the mound of towels in her arm. Her eyes shone playfully at him, her pink lips curved into a playful smile. It was such an unexpected and beautiful combination, so different from the injured girl who had run home yesterday after their kiss. He held open the door and tried to understand what was happening. Her eyes dropped down his bare chest and to the low hang of his boxer briefs, and she blushed, turning her head, her next words directed away from him. “I could have waited for you to get dressed.”