“My lawyer has it. I’ll call his office, find out where he’s at on it.” Scott had called twice, the first time leaving a message, the second time having the poor luck of getting Mama. It wasn’t a pleasant experience for him. I had giggled into my bowl of cereal and mentally urged her on. I guess, seeing my job wasn’t secured yet, I should probably call him back.
“You have an attorney?” He looked so surprised that I was almost offended.
“Yes, we country folk hire legal help just like you do.”
“I didn’t mean…” He looked down. “We need it signed. If there’s any issues, we need to know that as soon as possible.”
“Okay. I’ll call him tonight.”
“Wow.” He looked over at me, and his arm brushed against mine. “Evening service? I need your attorney.”
I laughed, thinking of his attorney. “I’d rather have yours.”
“Oh, that’s right.” His voice darkened. “I forgot the fawning session on your front porch.”
“What?” I pushed off the tailgate and faced him. It felt better, having some space between us. I could actually breathe.
“You were drooling over him. You have Cole Fucking Masten on your front porch, and you were staring at him like your damn panties were about to combust.”
I tilted my head at him. “Oh. My. God. You’re jealous.” He was. I could see it in the pinch of his forehead. Jealousy I recognized, even if I hadn’t seen it for a long time. Scott had had jealousy down to a science. “And who refers to himself with the F word as a middle name?”
“The F word?” he questioned. “Your country-girl mouth doesn’t get dirty?”
With his words, the feel of the conversation changed, putting us in territory I felt uncomfortable with. Yes, my country girl mouth could get dirty.
Jackass.
Asshole.
Prick.
I had a whole list of words I could have screamed at him. Instead, I turned away and busied myself, chasing down his chicken, who ran from me and over to him. Cole carefully moved off the tailgate and picked the rooster up.
“When can you meet about the script?” The question came quick and businesslike from his mouth.
I shrugged and tried not to stare at the way his T-shirt sleeves had ridden up his arms, revealing more of his bicep. “Tomorrow? I’m open whenever.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow morning and set a time. We’ll do it at my place. Don’s shacked up at that tiny motel.” He’s lucky Ethel Raine wasn’t in earshot. She wouldn’t hesitate to cut off his balls and serve them for breakfast with grits and biscuits.
“Fine.” I put my hands in my back pockets and watched him open up the truck’s back door and carefully put the bird inside. Then, without a word of parting, he got in the front seat, slammed the door behind him, and pulled off, the recent rain softening the dirt, a wet sound of suction left behind as he floored it. I stepped to the side and watched him hit the end of the driveway, the red truck turning around in the yard and barreling back in my direction. I leaned against the new fence, arms resting on the rail, and watched him fly past, a quick glimpse of the chicken’s head poking up along the bottom of the back seat window. I guess he had changed his mind about getting me a cell phone. I was glad. The last thing I wanted was to go anywhere with that man. It had been one thing to dislike him upon our first meeting. But now, as time passed and pieces of him came to light, I felt more and more off-balance around him. There were times when he seemed almost likeable, other times anything but. Right then, sitting next to me, the occasional brush of his arm or leg… it had been too much. Too much man, too close. Too much magnetism when he smiled, too tempting when he flirted, too big of a hole dug by him being nice. I couldn’t let his charm, his temptation, drag me into that hole and push me down. For him, flirtation was nothing, a country girl finding him attractive normal. For me? Falling for the unattainable Cole Masten might just break all of my bones upon impact.
I couldn’t break. Not for a man who didn’t deserve it, not for a man who would split town even faster than me. We were both, when filming wrapped, getting out of here. There was no point in seeking out good in a man like that.
I watched his truck turn at the end of the drive and accelerate off, toward the Kirklands’.
CHAPTER 51
He was stupid. He should have never gone there. He should have sent Ben or Don or some other lackey. He certainly shouldn’t have showered and shaved and put on fuckin’ cologne, like he was a teenager heading on a first date.
He hadn’t expected her to be outside, and certainly hadn’t expected her to be working. Really working, her shirt sticking to her, chest heaving, arms dirty and strong and beautiful. And she had been beautiful, her hair wild, barely contained in a ponytail—her shorts showing off the full length of those legs. It was all he could do, when picking her up and putting her on that tailgate, not to crush his lips to hers, to pull off her shorts and wrap her legs around his waist.
And that was the problem. He wanted her. In some primal way that didn’t make sense. He’d never been tempted—not in the years with Nadia—to look at another woman. Had spent the two weeks before Quincy sampling every type of woman out there. None had reduced the sting of Nadia’s actions. Now he’d spent a handful of moments with Summer, in the one situation where he shouldn’t touch anyone, should be behaving and celibate and focused on work, and he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Figured it would happen with a woman who didn’t seem the slightest bit interested in him. Worse, who seemed to dislike him.
It was ridiculous. The whole situation, from start to finish. He took the curve out of her driveway too hard and the truck bounced, Cocky squawking from the back, Cole’s head hitting the window with a smack. He glanced back at Cocky and slowed down, pushing thoughts of her away as he reached for his phone and for a distraction.
“Don,” he spoke into the phone. “Where are you at?”
CHAPTER 52
If Media Training was my first hint at what being an actress was all about, I was toast. Toast charred past the point of edibility, brittle and crumbly on a plate destined for the trash.
Brecken Nichols came down from Atlanta, her blue suit strolling through the humidity like she had all the time in the world though, by my watch, she was already fifteen minutes late. I waited, impatiently, next to Ben, watching her approach and summing up everything I needed to know about the woman.
She had one of those monogrammed bags slung over one arm – the big floppy kind, packed with enough items to keep me alive in the desert for weeks. Bright red lipstick, the kind Ben would have shot me dead over, her dark hair up in one of those poufed ponytails that Heidi Klum pulled off but I looked ridiculous wearing. Brecken didn’t look ridiculous. She looked pulled together. Perfect. Her brows, one which raised critically as she approached, were thick, her eyes sharp and well framed in makeup that must have taken her all morning to apply. This was not a woman who hit the snooze button and picked up after her pets. This was a woman who lunched in fancy restaurants, filtered suitors based on their bank balances, and who looked at women like me as snacks. I slid one hand in the back pocket of my new jeans, and felt, before she even opened her mouth, the scorn.
“God please tell me Wardrobe didn’t dress you in that.” The words huffed out of her as she stopped before me, her head slowly tilting down as her eyes trailed from my head to my shoes, a long moment passing as she scrutinized my sneakers. They were Nikes. Brand new. She didn’t seem impressed.