Silence fell on the set, and he stared down at her. There were so few times when he could really stare at her. She often caught him when he did, as if she could feel the weight of it. But in this moment, on camera, he was allowed, and he drank his fill, his eyes dragging from the light brown of her eyebrows to the thick fur of her lashes. Her golden eyes flicked to his, and he said nothing, did nothing, just watched the minute jumping of her pupils, their twitch as they settled. He rested his weight on his knees and one hand, lifting the other to her face. She didn’t look, didn’t react, just stared at him. His fingers soft, he ran the tips of them across her cheekbones and down to her lips, a dark red lipstick on them, typical Ida and nothing like Summer. He suddenly wanted it gone, and opened his mouth, sticking his thumb in and closing his lips around it. Her eyes dropped and she watched as he dragged the digit out, his teeth scraping at the pad. When he gripped her face, his fingertips rough against her cheekbone, earlobe, and jaw, she tensed beneath him. When his wet finger smeared across her mouth, taking the red with it, she opened her lips, and a hard sigh fell from him when she caught his thumb in her teeth, her eyes on him, then sucked it, going deep and then slowly pulling off. His thumb felt a hundred sensations that his cock wanted and—in that moment—there was no one else in the room, everything disappearing but the two of them.
The minute his thumb left her mouth, he dropped down atop her, his hand gripping the back of her head, his mouth crashing onto hers, and he kissed her like he’d wanted to from the start, rough and wild, her tongue fighting back, their kisses missing their mouths as much as they hit them.
Cole grabbed her, rolling onto his back and putting her above him, his hand yanking the sheet down, pulling the clasp of her bra, and the piece was suddenly gone, and her breasts were tumbling free onto him, and he groaned, pulling her down, the soft weight of them against his chest so beautiful, so incredible that he lost his fucking mind. He bit her ear, wrapped his hand deep in her hair, and pulled it tight, his mouth going to her throat, and then he was back to her mouth, and her hands were covering her chest and he remembered the scene, the fucking scene, and rolled back over, shielding her from the camera, his mouth softening as he pulled the sheet back up, his whisper at her ear almost silent. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”
She tugged on his hair and brought his mouth back to hers, and he didn’t apologize again.
What happened between them when they touched… it was nothing like Nadia and nothing like the blonde and nothing like every other woman he’d ever had.
And that difference scared the hell out of him.
CHAPTER 91
“This is bullshit! Learn your marks and stay on them!” Cole threw up his hands and glared at me, and sohelpmeGod if there weren’t a hundred people staring at us, I would have his nuts in a vice. A steel one. With teeth.
“You’ve moved the marks five times in the last two hours. Make up your mind and there won’t be a problem!” I pushed on his chest with both hands, and the damn man barely wobbled. This was what I got for neglecting my chores and spending my days prancing around a movie set. Cole stepped closer to me, and his voice dropped.
“Touch me again, and I’ll put you on your damn mark and hold you there.”
I stepped back. When he was that close, something in my body lost control. I thought it would fade. It hadn’t. We’d shot four scenes since our fake bedroom scene. None of them had been sexual in nature, yet I still wanted to hump this man like a dog in heat whenever we were in arms’ reach. It was getting ridiculous.
“Cole, Summer,” Don’s voice rang out. “Let’s take five. Summer, you’re looking a little shiny.” Makeup ran forward, a powder brush in hand, and I looked away from Cole and smiled a polite greeting. We were in the front room of the Frank plantation, lighting crews angled up the grand staircase, beaming a thousand watts of hot light down on us. Mary stuck a Tervis tumbler in front of me with iced tea. I took a sip, careful not to mess up my lipstick. We were on our nineteenth take, hours spent on a simple scene that should have been knocked out easily. Interesting that the quickest scenes we did were the ones that had heat. I didn’t know what that said about us.
When the front door swung open, it was lost, no one looking up, our mid-shooting break taking center stage. But when the door shut, the wind caused a suction, its slam a little too strong, and the sound caught my ears. I turned my head and there, in the doorway, stood a tall woman with white hair, blood-red lipstick, a pencil skirt, and sky-high heels. She was looking right at me, a cell phone to her ear, briefcase in hand, and my stomach twisted. Brecken’s boss. I knew who she was, had seen the senior publicist meet with Cole countless times, the clip of her heels always causing a scowl to come over his face. But this time, her steps effortless despite the heels, her face hard and stressed, I knew she wasn’t coming for Cole. I knew, this time, this was about me.
Don intercepted her, his hand held up, his headphones pulled off. “Casey, we’re filming. Not now.”
Cole waved his hand, frustrated, a growl in his throat. “Make it quick, Casey.”
“We’re rolling in two,” Don said, squaring off with Cole. “Whether you’re done or not.”
“I’m not here about Cole.” I think I was the only one who heard her perfectly modulated tones.
“Don, run through Summer’s marks with her; that’ll eat up another ten minutes, easy.” Cole’s jab was tossed out with a glance in my direction, to make sure I was listening. I wasn’t. I was pushing to my feet, off the folding chair, the makeup applicator chasing me down with a big fluffy brush. I knew I couldn’t run from this, a part of me, in the gut, had known since the day Ben mentioned this job, that this was a side effect.
The Rehearsal Dinner wouldn’t go quietly into the night. Not now that I was a celebrity or was going to be a celebrity. Casey skirted by Don, and I stepped forward, and we met like enemies on the Persian rug in the middle of the Frank parlor.
“Summer.”
“Yes?”
“We have something we need to talk about.”
CHAPTER 92
It had been a simple enough prank. And that was really all it was meant to be: a prank. Something to smack my wedding party on the back of the head and punish them for their betrayal.
Because they’d all known. I’d left Scott’s house that day and had driven to Corrine’s house. Walked into a houseful of my bridesmaids, their hands busy with net, lace, and rice, their bubbly chatter stopping when I’d walked in. Stacey, Scott’s secretary, had been the first to speak. “Hey,” she’d said, and my sensitive ears heard the red flag in her cautious tone. “I thought you were in Tallahassee today.”
“That was this morning.” I’d breezed through the girls and into the kitchen, ripping a paper towel from the roll and dabbing at my eyes, grabbing the wine bottle, freshly opened on the counter, and taking a generous swig. I’d pasted a smile on my face and stepped back into the doorway. “Where’s Bobbie Jo?”
Four girls didn’t lie well as a group. There was an uncomfortable stammer, someone saying ‘Working’ at the same time as Bridget said, “She isn’t feeling well.” With another swig of wine, I’d turned back to the kitchen.
“I’m gonna head home,” I’d called over my shoulder. “I don’t feel well.”
The girls had chimed in a chorus of regrets, their vocal cords suddenly working just fine. I’d stuck their extra, unopened bottle into my purse and pasted a smile on my face. Wiggled my fingers at them and heaped out my thanks for their tireless bridesmaid efforts as I walked back through and out the door.
It was what I had deserved, befriending the cool crowd of women in Quincy. They hadn’t really ever been my friends. They’d ignored me in high school and only buddied up when I’d started dating Scott. Scott’s friends had been their boyfriends, husbands, and brothers, our three-year relationship the only grounds that our friendship had been built on.
I had driven home to Momma, tears dripping down the stupid purple mascara that Avril Lavigne looked good in, and Bridget had raised her eyebrows at. And that night, one pruned toe playing with our bathtub drain, I had devised My Plan.
My Plan had been simple. My Plan had been foolproof. My Plan had been, according to Variety Magazine in that fateful issue that changed my life, diabolical.
I thought diabolical had been a strong adjective, used by a magazine editor who had clearly never read stories of Herodias or Jezebel. I mean, let’s face it. Nobody died.