She glared at him and turned to the two men, passing them each a plate. “Sorry to stick y’all out here, but Mama’s sleeping. She has to be up early, and I thought this could give us a place to talk.” She turned to Cole. “Would you like a plate? Inside you mentioned not liking cobbler…” She blinked wide, innocent eyes at him, and he wanted to, right then, grab her shoulders, and push her against the wall. Put his mouth on her sassy one and—Jesus. He stepped back and almost fell down the steps.
“No,” he snapped, and she smiled again. Her smiles were blood in the water, his demise the closely lurking shark. He looked away, and she sat down in the free seat.
“Summer,” Don spoke through a mouthful of food. “Can you stand over here? Where I can see you? It’s important that I see your face.”
“Certainly.” She moved past him, and he smelled a scent other than pie. Vanilla maybe. She took a position like Cole’s, against a different post, her new spot squarely in front of him, and he shifted. Looked away and wondered how long this whole thing would take. Maybe this was a mistake. Five hundred thousand on a nobody? It was ten percent of what Price had committed to, but still… it was too much for this girl. Don Waschoniz leaned forward, set his plate on the ground, and stood.
“The character we are looking for is a thirty-one year old divorced woman. How old are you?”
“Twenty-nine.”
“Turn your head to the left. Say something.”
“Like what?” She giggled, and he saw a dimple pop up in her cheek. Jesus. How close did Waschoniz need to stand? He was practically touching her, his hands now moving aside her hair to peer at her neck. That didn’t matter; no one was asking fuckin’ Kristin Stewart to see her neck. “The brown fox jumps over the lazy dog,” she drawled, and he laughed.
“No. Tell me about the cobbler. Tell me how you make it.”
“Cobbler?” She laughed again and Don crouched down, looking up at her. “Well… I would have made pie. Pie, in this area, is much more popular. But pie takes a good hour longer than cobbler and so—” Every time she said ‘pie’—the word more Southern than the others—a pulse jumped in Cole’s dick.
“Look at me now. Follow me when I move.” Don stepped toward Cole, and her eyes went that way, a breath of time stalling when her eyes met his, before they were back on Don, and she was speaking again.
“—so I pulled out what I had in the fridge. Cobbler is pretty basic.” She blushed, and he heard a soft exhale on Don’s part. “It’s really just apples, which I had. Honeycrisp or Granny Smith are the best, but these are Pippin apples. So… uh… apples, sugar, lemon juice, uh… butter, of course, and flour, cinnamon, some ground nutmeg and vanilla extract. I’d already done that prep, I was going to put apples on our pancakes in the morning.” Every word out of her mouth was freakin’ silk, and Cole would have bet a thousand bucks, right then, that even Ben had a hard on. Forget The Fortune Bottle. This woman could have a career in food porn.
Don stood on a chair and motioned her closer. “I need to see some fire in you, Summer. Can you get angry for me? Give me some edge, some attitude?” Her mouth parted, and Cole stilled, watching, waiting for the moment that she turned her head to him. But she didn’t. She just looked up at him, and Cole tensed when he heard her speak. “Why do you need to know what goes into my apple cobbler, Mr. Waschoniz? Is my homemade dessert too good for you?” She pulled at his shirt, and the director stumbled off the chair, his eyes on her, her face strong and words quick, each vowel a stab out at Don. Even Cole, standing three safe feet away, felt violated. “Don’t come into my house and insult my cooking. Not if you want to walk out of here with both testicles and that pretty California smile intact. I will poison your tea and—”
“Okay, okay.” Don laughed, stepping back, a little unsteady on his feet, his hand reaching back and grabbing the rocking chair for support. “You can do scary. I get it.”
Summer laughed, and the tension on the porch lifted, carried off by a chorus of crickets and frog calls. Cole turned his head and listened. If it was a clip, he’d tell the sound director to turn down the audio, would tell him that nature’s soundtrack wasn’t that loud. But here, on the ground, it was. Incredible.
“Hey City Boy,” Summer called out, her hand holding open the door, the other two men already inside. “You coming?”
He looked at her, and she looked at him and there was a moment of truce.
CHAPTER 37
“I didn’t believe it, thought you were on freaking tilt, but damn, she’s perfect.” Don Waschoniz crowed from the back seat, his hands hammering the back of Cole’s seat with enthusiasm.
Cole shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Well, not perfect.”
“Are you kidding me? God fucking squeezed Ida Pinkerton out of a test tube and into that girl’s mother. Or sorry, mama.” He laughed like a hyena and pounded the seat again, Cole’s shoulders lifting from the impact. “Fucking perfect!”
In a town like Quincy, a blind man could have a sense of direction. Cole turned right and then, two miles later, left. Pulled into the empty lot of the airport, pleased with himself, and parked. Before them, the jet sat, fat and expensive, on the tired runway. Beside it, in worn coveralls, a man excitedly waved.
“What’s that guy’s name?” Cole looked at Ben, pointing to the man.
“Wallace. Summer calls him Wally. He actually owns the airport.”
“Good to know,” Cole said dubiously, looking at the man.
“This is actually one of the filming locations. We negotiated two weeks where he’ll close down the strip entirely.”
“Unless we need to use it. For actual flights.” It was a verification, but the blanched look on Ben’s face was worrisome.
“Right. Of course,” the man managed.
“Verify it,” Cole said to Ben, and the car lightened as Don got out. He rolled down the window and shook Don’s hand when it was extended. “See you in two weeks.”
“I’ll get casting and legal on the contracts. Start the PR department on Summer. Tell her to hold on tight, her life is about to change in a big way.”
“I told her we’d pay five hundred thousand.”
Don laughed. “Really? What’d her agent think about?”
Cole scoffed. “Come on, man. We’re lucky she’s not asking for payment in cornhusks. There’s no agent. Tell legal we can be aggressive with the contract.”
“Hey, as long as you’re the one going over it with her.” Don patted the hood of the car and stepped back.
“Fly safe.” Cole waved and watched Don walk toward the plane. He shifted the car into drive and turned to Ben. “Okay. Let’s go get some sleep.”
CHAPTER 38
I sat on the floor, my mouth pressed against the window’s trim, my eyes just above the sill, and watched Ben’s car pull down the drive, its headlights filtered through acres of cotton. It was a child’s pose, and I half expected Mama to flip on the overhead light and catch me. It was funny how that always happened. You behaved for ten years in an empty room, and then, the minute you reached for trouble, someone came in and saw.
I wasn’t doing anything wrong—wasn’t causing trouble—but I didn’t want Mama, or anyone else, in that moment, to see me. I wanted a breath of quiet, to watch the men drive away and have a moment to reflect.