“We’ll use that here.” Don made the dangerous move of stepping in, putting a soft hand on her shoulder. “You don’t understand. The passion from their hatred will make it hotter.”

“No,” Summer said, her face hard, her eyes on Cole. “It doesn’t make it hotter. It makes it stupid.”

“Aww… come on, Summer,” Cole chided, moving closer, his hand reaching out to pull at her wrist. She fought him, yanking it back, the meeting of their bodies not happening. He leaned down and whispered, right against her ear, the smell of her apple-scented lotion enough to make him want to empty out the production trailer right that moment. “Sure it does.”

She jerked back and twisted away. “If he kisses me on camera, I’m going to lose it,” she shot at Don, pointing an accusatory finger in Cole’s direction.

“I know you will,” Cole laughed, crossing his arms to restrain them. “You’ll fall apart under my mouth, baby.”

Summer screamed in response, her hands thrown up in frustration, and spun to leave, her script left behind, the slam of the door loud in the full production trailer.

“That went well,” Cole mused. He linked his hands and rested them on his head, rolling his shoulders back. Panic. She’d had panic in her eyes. Fuck.

“What do you expect?” Don said. “You threw this on her without warning. I told you we should have met with her this morning, gone over the changes to prepare her. But no, you just wanted to dump it on her via call sheets and sides.”

“Dump it on her? I was People’s Sexiest Man last year. She’s not mentally adjusting to a war camp for God’s sake. How hard is it to kiss me?”

“It’s actually three kisses,” a dark-haired PA to his left pointed out. “And a grope.”

He gave her a hard look, and she withered a little.

“I’ll go talk to her,” Don said. “Eileen, you shoot number four, and I’ll talk to Summer. I want to try to get fourteen shot at eleven, so let’s get our asses in gear and get this done.”

“I’ll talk to her,” Cole stepped in. “You shoot four, and I’ll talk to her.”

“No,” Don snapped. “With my luck, you two would make up and any authenticity to the scene would disappear. Just stay away from her, and be ready at eleven.”

Cole chewed on his cheek, then nodded. “Fine.” Don was right. He should stay away from her. Because right now, the only thing he could picture was the panic on her face. And that look, that vulnerability? It made him want to comfort her, to protect her. And those urges were dangerous, they turned things between them a different way. A way that made him more vulnerable too.

CHAPTER 68

SCENE 14: ROYCE AND IDA: OFFICE KISS

“I want blue. Something cool and refreshing.” Cole pushed the ad copy toward me, and I fidgeted, scratching the back of my stocking with the toe of the vintage Mary Jane heels.

“The focus groups liked red better.” I avoided his eyes when I spoke, running my finger over the edge of a stack of cards, lining them up against each other. I was supposed to be hesitant in this scene, uncomfortable. It was an easy role to play. I felt so lost. On the set, in the role of actress, in the lust/hate relationship that Cole and I seemed to have.

“Red means stop.” Cole’s voice was tired, one hand rubbing at his eyes, the other pulling at his tie. I wish we didn’t have to do this scene today. I had asked Don, begged Don, when he had come to my trailer—begged him to push this scene—for us to do it in a few weeks, once I had the acting thing down, my kinks worked out. What I didn’t say to Don was that I needed more separation from my sex with Cole to this kissing scene. Twelve days. That was all it had been so far. Twelve days, which still seemed like only twelve hours. When would I forget how his fingers felt on my skin? The tone of his voice as he had gasped my name? When would I forget how he felt inside of me? When would I forget the incredible sensation that had shaken my body? Part of me wanted that answer to be never. Another part of me just wished it had never happened. You can’t miss something that you didn’t know existed.

“You don’t use a color that means stop when you want someone to buy something.” His voice hardened. “It’s common sense, Ida. Use your brain.”

“I don’t care if your literature says that red means stop. The blue… when combined with the dark cola, looks weak. The red has more punch, looks more iconic.” I hold up the card, the cursive script of the logo standing out against the red mockup. “It looks patriotic.”

“Blue is patriotic, too.”

“Yankees wear blue,” I pointed out, and this was easy, the lines falling into place and coming easily.

“We’re not doing red,” he said flatly.

“Let’s ask the other investors.”

He stopped messing with his tie and looked up at me. “Let’s not.” My finger, which had been picking at an itch on my arm, stilled. This was it; it was coming. He twisted in his chair, turning it to the side, then slowly to the front, considering me.

I waited for the next line, my lungs tightening, the simple act of breathing in and out in a normal fashion a chore.

“Come here,” he said softly, pushing on the edge of his desk with one smooth-soled dress shoe, his heavy chair rolling back. He waited, his hands on each arm, his knees spread, the dress pants stretched tight over his frame.

“What?” I breathed out the question in a mild state of panic. This was off script. He was supposed to ask about my husband, or lack of.

“Come here.” He nodded to a place before him.

“I’m fine right here.” I set down the ad cards.

“I’m not gonna bite you, Ida. Come here.”

I shouldn’t have moved. Ida wouldn’t have. Ida would have primly told Mr. Mitchell where he could stick it.

I moved. I walked on uneven floors in unsteady heels over to him and stopped, five feet or so away, my hands clasped before me. I could feel the soft hum of the camera beside me, could hear the shift of our audience behind me, the loud click of someone’s walkie. Cole’s eyes never left mine, his stare burned up the path between us, and he rotated his chair slightly, ’til he faced me. “Closer.” The word came out a little hoarse, and he cleared his throat. “Closer,” he repeated.

I moved closer, one slow step at a time, my heels loud in their clicks against the wood, then I was before him, and he rested his head back against the chair and looked up at me. “Sit. On the edge of the desk.”

My hands reached behind, found the ledge of the desk, and I leaned back, grateful for the support.

“No,” he corrected. “Sit on it. Or I will put you on it.” The order in his voice, the image of his threat… it stirred a feminine place in me that shouldn’t, in this moment, surrounded by onlookers, be touched. I pushed up on my toes and worked my way onto the desk, my skirt pushed up by the action. I pulled at it, crossing my legs and covering myself as best I could. Surely, Don would call for us to cut. Surely, someone would stop this waste of valuable film time.

“Do you know why I hired you, Ida?”

I lifted my eyes from the tassels on his shoes. “No.”

“No, sir,” he corrected.

I pursed my lips and said nothing.

“Do you want to know why I hired you, Ida?”

“Not particularly,” I said tartly. “Sir.”

He pushed off the arms of the chair, standing up in one fluid motion. I tensed, waiting for him to step forward, but he didn’t. He stayed in place, his hands slow and deliberate as they rolled up one white shirtsleeve to the elbow, then moved to the other. “I hired you,” he said quietly, stepping forward and stopping before me, his eyes dropping to my legs. I lost a breath when his hand settled on my knee, and I uncrossed my legs, pinning them together, my hand pulling down my skirt. “I hired you because you walked into my office in your cheap little dress, and I thought ‘I bet that woman will be one hell of a lay.’” His hand moved higher, up under my skirt, and I stiffened, my hand falling on his forearm and pushing, resisting. He chuckled, his second hand pulling my legs apart, and, with a sudden jerk, he slid me to the edge of the desk, my knees spread, my skirt pushed high enough to expose the ridiculous garter straps. His eyes met mine for a moment, his fingers light and slow as they drew lines across the bare skin of my upper thighs, tracing the edge of the garter straps to the place where they crossed my panties, a lace set that matched. “I hired you because I pictured you right here, on my desk, moaning my name.”