Leaving the rooster on the porch, he climbed up the stairs and pulled open the back door.

They cooked in silence, Summer finding some frozen okra and corn in the outside freezer, her hands quick as she riffled through the Kirklands’ kitchen, setting up skillets, grabbing items, cracking open the window above the sink. Cole watched her from his spot on the back porch, the grill on low, his back against one of the big porch posts. Nadia had never cooked. She’d had other things to do, more interested in eating at a place that would get her seen rather than a meal at home. And their chef knew what they both liked, so it never seemed necessary. To Nadia’s credit, Cole had never cooked either. Putting meat on a grill and taking it off before it burned. That was the extent of his talent.

She finished just after him, scooping out fried corn and an okra-tomato-corn medley on his plate. They ate on the back porch, the fan keeping the heat off, Cocky in the yard.

“He’s a good chicken,” Cole mused, putting a piece of his steak in his mouth.

“He comes from good stock. His mama is beautiful.”

“You know his mom?” Cole looked surprised, and she laughed.

“I don’t know if knowing her is the right word, but yes. She lives on our plantation. She’s produced about twenty Cockys for us. Want to meet her?”

He surprised her by nodding. “Would she recognize him?”

“I don’t know how much thought process there is in a chicken’s head. She recognizes me. Knows I bring them treats. She won’t recognize him, or won’t care. They aren’t the most nurturing mothers once their chicks are grown.”

“I understand that,” he murmured and was grateful when she didn’t press it. “Treats?” he said, tilting his head. “I asked the feed store for treats and got laughed out of there.

She laughed, sucking some steak juice off the side of one finger, and his thought process went dormant for a moment. “Scraps. Boiled eggs, pasta, corn cobs… they love that stuff. Oh, and string cheese.”

Cole stared at Cocky and felt like the worst parent in the world.

Cole had been discovered at seventeen, standing outside a club on Sunset Boulevard when, his fake ID in pocket, he had smiled shyly at some women in line. Walked closer and asked their names. They were older than him but attractive. Had seemed friendly. Laughed off his flirtations but one of them handed him her card. Told him to go home and to call her on Monday morning. That woman had been Traci Washington, and she’d been casting a teenage rom-com. Cole had carried her card in his wallet for a week before he called. The moment he did, everything changed. He had ‘it,’ and that teenage movie turned into a string of movies, which turned into the Cole Masten Empire. Washing dishes was not a thing that he had ever done. He pushed his hands into the soapy water and looked over at Summer. “We can just leave these. That girl comes on Monday.”

“Monday?” Summer repeated. “It’s Friday night. You’re not gonna have a sinkful of dirty dishes for three days. The place will smell.” She leaned over and ran the water, her body brushing against his, and when she dug into the sink for a sponge, he enjoyed the view down her dress. She caught his stare and elbowed him. “Focus. Just get the food off and stack them on the counter. I’ll load them after I get everything put away.”

For purely peace-keeping purposes, he obeyed, his head down, eyes on the plates, the food coming off cleanly, the chore quick given that there were only two of them. He heard the clang of a pot and glanced over, seeing two dirty skillets stacked with quick precision next to him. Finishing those, he drained the sink and grabbed a hand towel from the hook, drying his hands. He stepped back, to give her room, and watched her work.

“So… how do you think it’s going?” she glanced over at him as she yanked out the trash can, snatching items from the counter and tossing them in, her movements fluid and unrehearsed, this act one she’d done a thousand times. He thought suddenly of her audition, on the porch, and made a mental note to add a cooking scene with Ida into the movie. Somehow. Though he could think of no clear fit. He had to be careful. This movie wasn’t his personal memory box with which to store pieces of Summer. She stopped before him and waited. He focused on her questions.

“Well. We’re behind. Script changes always push us behind.”

“I’m not talking about the timeline,” she snapped. “I mean us. The flow. The scenes.” She turned away from him and bent over, opening the dishwasher, and he suddenly realized why Doing Dishes With Summer was always a good idea. And it had nothing to do with caked-on food and everything to do with the fact that there was nothing more beautiful than Summer loading the dishes in a sundress. When she bent over, her skirt lifted, and he wanted to drop to his knees and more properly enjoy the view. When she straightened, pulling her hair back and into a ponytail, he stared at the lines of her arms, the curve of her waist, the cut of her calves. She was barefoot now, her feet dusty, and when she reached up for a hand towel she went on her tiptoes, and he almost groaned.

“Cole?” Her feet had turned, and he looked up, to her sweet beautiful face, her eyebrows raised because, oh right, she must have asked another question. The woman never shut up with her questions.

“Come here.” He had meant the request to sound friendly, but it ripped from his throat with a growl. He gripped the edge of the counter that he leaned against and willed himself not to let go.

She stepped forward, her movements slow as she ran the towel across the backs of her hands. Then she stopped, and he smelled just a hint of her soap and couldn’t stop himself anymore. He reached forward, pulling her the rest of the way toward him and against his body.

CHAPTER 96

I had wondered when it would happen. Had been surprised when I had first gotten there and he had proposed eating. Had been on guard during our meal, my condoms at the ready, no more dumb mistakes for this girl.

Washing the dishes… I had thought that was a safe activity. But when I turned from the sink, the way he looked at me… maybe cleanliness was a turn-on for him. I’d been nervous walking over to him, my mind flipping through what I had eaten, wondering if there was pepper in my teeth, wondering if I should reach for my box full o’condoms now or—

He took all of that away when the bite of his fingers cupped against my back and pulled me forward. His kiss was frantic and needy, his tongue tasting me as if wanting the flavors from dinner, his hands sliding down my waist and over my hips and gripping my butt through the dress. It was so rough I almost gasped, his grip holding me against his body, and I could feel everything this man was thinking through those shorts, and God did I want it. I reached down, I couldn’t help myself, my fingers dragging over his T-shirt and down to his mesh shorts, pushing at the top hem and then under. Under. God. I haven’t touched these parts of a man in so long. And Scott—Scott was soft and a little doughy, his skin yielding if I pressed on it. My fingers slid right down the hard lines of Cole, under his underwear and he tilted up his pelvis as if he wanted it, and then my fingers brushed against it, and he groaned in my mouth, and I just about combusted, right there in his kitchen.