I understood cheating, understood the betrayal that you went through when you found out. Understood the lows that your self-esteem struggled with, the validation that you tried to find, the loneliness that haunted your nights as you mourned a future that, in an instant, disappeared.
I’d kissed Tim Jeffries the night after I’d found out about Scott. I’d never told anyone that before, not Mama, not even Hope Lewis—the one friend who had stuck around after the Rehearsal Dinner from Hell. I’d thought about telling her, but then her boyfriend got a job offer in Atlanta, and, just like that, Hope was gone. I’d kissed Tim Jeffries with my princess-cut diamond twinkling out from its platinum setting, Tim’s sweaty hand brushed it when he grabbed my hand and pushed it to the crotch of his jeans. We’d been sitting in the front seat of his truck, behind the Circle K, his smoke break turned illicit, my gas station stop turned disastrous. Tim had been a high-school flame that had petered out after only one date, and he had smiled at me in just the right way, and I’d been weak and vulnerable and when he’d asked if I wanted a smoke. I’d said yes, even though I didn’t smoke, and I’d smelled trouble. He must have smelled something on me, the scent of desperation, of insecurity. I wasn’t sure. I just knew that he felt bold enough to try, and I felt low enough to accept.
And now, I couldn’t help but feel like I was Tim Jeffries. Slightly chubby, I’ll-take-him-cause-he’s-there, and toss-him-out-later Tim Jeffries. And Cole was me, spinning out of control, the sting of betrayal hot and consuming, on his way to a Rehearsal Dinner from Hell of his own.
My Rehearsal Dinner had haunted me for three years. His might implode more quietly, on a small-town stretch of Georgia dirt, the only casualty a Southern girl’s heart.
CHAPTER 60
With filming about to start, I signed the damn contract, revised three times between Scott and Cole. My half-million dollars ended up actually being four hundred thousand dollars with a hundred thousand dollar bonus when the film hit a certain gross threshold. Scott assured me that it would hit that threshold, not that he knew jack shit about movies, but so did Ben, and I trusted him so I signed the papers. I hadn’t heard a word from Cole and hadn’t seen him in the three trips Ben and I made to the Pit, the old supermarket’s lot now packed with empty trailers, tents, and signage. Everyone would arrive early next week. That was when the madness would begin.
I was ready; I was anxious for it to get here, for filming to begin. Because the sooner that happened, the sooner this would all be done. Then I could take my fat bank account and leave this place. Give Mama a chunk of change and start somewhere fresh. I was twenty-nine years old. It was time, way past time, to leave this old rotting nest.
I parked my truck on the outside of the Pit, in a spot marked for CAST, a bit of excitement passing through me. Cole’s red monstrosity was in his personal spot, his name labeling the parking lot so that anyone with a vendetta against him would know exactly where to go. So stupid. So egotistic. I climbed out, my new flip-flops hitting the hard asphalt, newly redone because Hollywood can’t park on cracked pavement, swinging the door shut and pushing my new cell phone into the back pocket of my shorts.
“Nice of you to dress up, Country.”
I looked over my shoulder. Cole stepped out of the door of the closest trailer—Don’s—and trotted down the steps in a white button-down and slacks, polished black dress shoes carrying him in my direction.
I swallowed, looking down at my khaki shorts and the loose blouse I had pulled the tags off just that morning. “Ben said—I thought…” A meeting, that was what I was coming in for. To run over the schedule and introduce me to my acting coach. Ben had promised me that it didn’t matter what I wore. I had still shopped for the occasion, my newly padded bank account causing me to swipe my debit card at JC Penny with ease.
“Ignore him,” Don called from the open door. “He’s been doing press in that monkey suit. Let him sweat like an asshole for it.” He waved an arm to me and flashed a friendly smile. “Come on in.”
Cole laughed, undoing the cufflinks on his sleeve. “Easy there, Summer. Someone might figure out that you don’t belong here.”
I ignored him, my shoulder bumping his as I moved past, toward Don, smiling brightly up at the man who had saved me. “The air-conditioning working in there?” I asked.
“You know it.” He smiled at me and held open the door. “You ready for next week?”
I nodded, stepping into his trailer, which was set up entirely different than mine. His was a workspace, a conference room on one end, a secretary’s desk and separate office on the other end. Ben had already showed me the place where they reviewed daily footage and did the real work. I had reached out to touch a dial and had about four people jump to stop me. Now, in Don’s space, I kept my hands to myself, just to be safe.
“Head on into the conference room,” he directed. “Pam and Dennis are already in there, they’ll introduce themselves.”
Pam ended up being in PR; she ran me through a calendar of media training that would be happening in between filming. I smiled and nodded and took everything she passed to me, enough reading material to choke a horse. Dennis was introduced as my acting coach; he stood up from the table and gave me a hearty hug. I gripped his large girth and immediately felt at ease. “I’ll take care of you,” he promised.
“We both will,” Pam joined in. “Think of us as part of your team.” She smiled, and I felt ten times better. They informed me that my assistant, Mary, would arrive on Monday. I did another round of nodding and wondered what on Earth I would do with an assistant.
My back was to the door when Cole walked in, but I could tell you the moment his foot hit the carpet. My nails dug into my thighs, and I nodded at whatever words were coming out of Pam’s mouth—something about YouTube and a trailer—every sense focused on the man who was moving closer. Pressure hit the top of my chair, and I glanced over to see his hands gripping the back, his knuckles white as he leaned on the plastic.
His hands tight on my ass, his pumps fast and quick and barely controlled, the perfect rapid rhythm pushing me to a place—
“Excuse me,” Cole said warmly. “But I need to borrow Ms. Jenkins.”
“Of course, Mr. Masten.” Pam stalled her YouTube plans and stood, her hands quick as she gathered up her materials, Dennis following suit, his retreat slower, his heft out of the chair more cumbersome. I smiled weakly at him, waiting for the door to close behind him before I was out of my chair and away from Cole.
“Easy, Country.” He smiled, still in place, his weight still resting on the back of my chair.
“Stop calling me that.” I kept my voice low, well aware of the cheap construction of these trailers.
“What, you can call me City Boy, but I can’t call you Country?”
I said nothing. It was ridiculous to try and have a logical conversation with this man.
“Are you ready for next week?”
I met his eyes. “Of course I am.” Of course I wasn’t. I would never be ready to step in front of a camera with him.
“You know that we won’t film in chronological order.” The statement was said without a dose of asshole, and I shifted my weight to my other hip, my hands sweaty on Pam’s pages.
“No, I didn’t know that.” But it made sense. I had a flashback to Ben’s and my preparations, how we would book a week at one plantation or location. Of course. They’d film all of the spots at those points at once. It made sense.