“What?” he called out, his voice echoing slightly in the big space.

“I’m with Benford, Casters, and Sunnerberg, Mr. Masten.” Way too many names stacked in one short sentence. Cole wiped his forehead warily and saw his assistant standing behind the man, his face tight.

“And?”

“I’m just dropping this off.” He held out a crisp white folder¸ COLE MASTEN stamped on the front as if born that way, the folder thick enough to contain a hundred headaches. A lawsuit. Probably from that prick director. He was surprised it had taken this long. It’d been almost four days since that night. He nodded to Justin, and his assistant sprang forward.

“I’ll take it.”

“We’ll just need your signature of acceptance, Mr. Masten,” the stranger said.

Cole held out a hand and accepted the clipboard and pen, his hand damp when it gripped the instrument, his signature sloppy across the bottom of the receipt. He held it out, ignoring the man’s words of thanks. Leaning back on the bench, his hands wrapping around the iron, his palms bit into the grip.

“Aren’t you going to open it?” Justin spoke from the doorway.

He didn’t lift his head, didn’t look away from the ceiling. “Let Tony handle it. Settle with the prick.”

“It’s from Nadia.”

That caused his head to lift, and he ducked out from under the bar, his eyes meeting Justin’s. “The package?” Reality didn’t come in a sudden burst of understanding; it was a slow dawn. Not a lawsuit. If not a lawsuit then… “No.” He shook his head. “No.”

“I haven’t opened it, but…”

“She’s just mad. Embarrassed. Hell, I don’t know how cheating wives feel. But she wouldn’t have…” He pushed to his feet, grabbing the envelope out of Justin’s hands, his fingers ripping at the seal, pulling out the thick stack of documents, stapled together at the top, the court’s stamp already present, crooked in its imprint, as if this life changing document hadn’t been worth a straight stamp. Jesus, the paps would have it by now, the news, his agent… he flipped the first page over. “Has Owen called yet?” Owen Phiss, his publicist. Also Nadia’s publicist. Christ, how intertwined could two lives be? He thrust the papers at Justin and stepped away, his hands clenching into fists, his mind trying to sort through too many emotions at once, the wave of them competing for the narrow channel that was his sanity.

“Call Tony. Get him that.” Tony Fragetti, his attorney. An entertainment attorney, not necessarily the strongest card right now. Yet Tony—like everything else in this house, in this life—was also Nadia’s. “Stop.” Justin paused, his cell phone out, and looked up. “Wait.” Cole walked to the wall and put his palms on the surface, his fingers pushing into the padded wall covering, and he wondered, if he punched it, what would break. He let out a long, controlled breath.

“Don’t do anything.” When the words finally came, they had purpose and direction, and he pushed off the wall and walked to the door, grabbing his water bottle off the floor and finishing it off. “I’m going to find Nadia.”

CHAPTER 15

Yes, for a girl like me, twenty thousand dollars was a lot. The most money I had ever seen. Enough for a ticket out of this town, enough to get my own place far from here, in a city that didn’t crown a Peanut Princess every August. Twenty thousand was enough for me to buy a reliable car, some clothes with new tags on them, an education. But after careful financial calculations done, it wasn’t enough, not to properly set up Mama in a new place, one with a rent payment and deposit. I stood in the kitchen and watched her iron and wondered if I could really leave her. Pack my bags and kiss her cheek goodbye. Wondered how much of her support was a farce, and how much was real.

I needed more out of Hollywood. As much as I could get. I grabbed my keys off the ring and a Cherry Coke from the fridge. “I’m running into town,” I called to her. “Gonna track down Ben. I’ll be back later.”

She waved, a smile crossing her face, her eyes darting back to the tricky collar of the shirt before her.

Ben and I were almost done. The spots had all been picked, fields cleared for set construction, the old Piggly Wiggly parking lot rented for the trailers. Quincy didn’t have enough lodging, the crew and cast booking up every hotel room in the surrounding five cities—Tallahassee only forty-five minutes away. But forty-five minutes, according to Ben, was too far, so the Piggly Wiggly lot was now a mini-city, RVs and trailers stacked so close together it looked like a refugee camp, if a refugee camp had million-dollar RVs. It was hilarious. It was entertaining. And it was exciting. Really exciting. I had shook hands next to Ben, examined shooting schedules and saw budgets, rent figures and payouts of sums that made my jaw drop. It was a world I had never known, never expected to know, but was suddenly in the middle of, stubbornly stuck to Ben’s side like a tick that wouldn’t give up. And he didn’t try to pull me away. He needed my connections as much as I needed the excitement. We prepped and prepared for August, and I anticipated it with fevered excitement and also dreaded its arrival because that meant our work would be done, and I would once again be an outsider, my nose pressed against the glass, watching the ball with no ticket to attend.

There were five weeks left. I needed a ticket. It was time to lean on Ben.

He opened the door in a bathrobe; the sash pulled tight, my eyes went to the monogrammed design on his breast before giggling.

“Shut up,” he intoned, spinning on a heel and moving into the room, taking a seat at the desk, my hand carefully swinging the door shut behind me. Ethel Raine owns the Raine House, a matriarch who considers powerful sneezes as noise disruptions worthy of eviction.

“I just find it amusing that—when packing for Quincy—you thought elegant loungewear was needed.” I smirked, launching myself on his meticulously made bed.

“And I thought the rule of the South was to call first,” he pointed out, raising a carefully plucked brow at me.

“Well, you singlehandedly ruined that tradition,” I said, picking out one of his pillows and stuffing it behind my head. “I didn’t want you to be alone in your offensive sea of faux pas.”

“How gracious of you,” he drawled in his best Southern imitation.

“It’s true, I am a lady.” I dipped my head. “Speaking of which, how is local casting going?”

He took the abrupt topic change in stride. “Already spent your cash?”

I shrugged, rolling on my side. “Just wanting more of it.”

“A company out of Atlanta is casting the filler parts. Grabbing authentic country bumpkins from up there.”

I made a face at him. “I should have clarified. I need a job, not a role.”

“Do you have any experience? With lighting, camera work, costumes?” He groaned when I shook my head. “Didn’t you work on a school play at least?”

“Nope.” I rolled to a sitting position. “Keep thinking.”

“Let me call Eileen Kahl this afternoon, once California gets up and moving. See what she has.”

“Who’s she?”

“The AD. Assistant Director,” he added, at my blank look. “But it’s probably too late in the game, Summer.”

“I’ll fetch coffee, do laundry, anything,” I drawled, kicking my feet out from the bed.

“I’m gonna remember that when you call me, bitching about picking up Cole Masten’s used underwear.”

I wrinkled my nose at him. “Okay. Forget the laundry position. Though…” I said thoughtfully. “I bet a Cole Masten authentic used brief would fetch a hundred bucks on eBay. I could start a side business: The Cole Masten Gently-Used Underwear Store. Free shipping on all orders!” I imitated Ben’s sparkly hands, and he raised his eyebrows primly at me, as if he was uber sophisticated and above all of my adolescent activities.