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  “She won’t go for it,” Cole said flatly.

  “Since when does that matter?” Don said with a laugh. “She doesn’t have script approval!”

  “She’ll hate it.” He glanced at the screens. “Play it again.”

  “I’m not crazy about the idea either, Cole, but the more I think about it…” Don tapped his fingers against the arm of his chair.

  “Play it again,” Cole repeated, leaning back in his chair, his arms across his chest, his eyes on her face.

  A button was hit, and the clip restarted.

  The mixer was right. It was hot. And Don was right; a romantic element, or hell, just a sexual element between Ida and Royce would draw in the female audience.

  Summer would hate it. But Don was right on that card, too. But Summer wouldn’t have a choice. She’d have to go with whatever Cole said. And that, despite any moral ramifications that should have existed, made him smile.

  The clip finished, and Cole sat forward, turning to Don, the director’s eyes wary.

  “Let’s do it,” Cole said. “Call the writers. Get them in here now.”

  CHAPTER 65

  “How was it?” Mama’s question came from her bedroom, her voice’s edges slurred with sleep.

  “It was fine,” I said quietly, sticking my head in. “Long, but fine. I did good.”

  “Of course you did,” she mumbled, her form rolling over in the bed. “Love you.”

  “Love you too.” I flipped off the hall light, and she disappeared, a blanket of black swallowing the room. I stepped back to the living room and dropped onto the couch, pulling the afghan off its back and over my chest. The day hadn’t been fine. It had been stressful and long and hot and horrible. I thought I could work with him. I thought I could spit out lines and be in character and be fine. I thought, because the set was on Georgian soil, that it’d be my turf. I didn’t realize how foreign that world would be. So many terms I didn’t know, tossed effortlessly between hundreds of strangers, no attempt made to clue in the new girl. The Southerners they brought in from Atlanta were all in the movie business there, so they waltzed around with ease, taking their cues, their places, without a stumble. I was the odd girl out, looking like an idiot. I saw the looks, the side glances and raised eyebrows, saying, What is she doing here? clear as day. By lunch, my confidence was shot. By afternoon, I’d used up every pep talk I had. And by the time Cole Masten introduced me to condoms, my defenses had crumbled to nothing. I’m gonna blame that fatigue on my weakness when he had come around the desk and touched me.

  After that touch, on my way to hair and makeup, I had ditched Mary and ducked into a restroom. Called Ben’s cell and left a teary voicemail. He’d flown to Vancouver that morning for his next gig. I’d begged him to stay just one more week, offered him money, dumplings, freedom to use my makeup… but he’d had to go. We’d hugged it out in front of the Raine House at seven AM before he’d all but pushed me in the direction of the Pit. A half-hour after my pathetic voicemail, I got a text from him.

  I’m in the air. Toughen up. Where’s the Summer I know?

  I had smiled at his text. Blotted my eyes before the makeup artist had my hide, and reached down deep. He was right. Screw all of the side looks and whispers. Cole and Don had wanted me for a reason. I would learn the things I needed to. And in the meantime, I couldn’t show any weakness—not to any of them, but especially not to Cole. I was stronger than that. I was better than that.

  By the time I had pushed out of the makeup chair, I was ready for battle. And now, five hours later, I was bone tired.

  The next day would be better. I knew that. The first day was always the hardest.

  I reached up to rub my eyes, but my hand didn’t even reach my head before I fell asleep.

  “Summer’s lucky she could round up six bridesmaids. Really, Scott was the only reason those girls were even doing it. They were saints! And then for Summer to go and do that to them. White trash, that’s what she is. I told my Bridget. I told her not to associate herself with that girl, but my daughter’s too nice, always has been. And look, I was right.”

  “Bridget is your daughter?”

  “Oh yes. She’s Bridget Anderson now. She married a doctor. I’ll give you his card in case you ever have any feet issues.”

  CHAPTER 66

  The first thing I saw my second day on set was Cole’s rooster. It stood on a fenced-in patch of grass that hadn’t been there yesterday. I stepped from the truck, shutting the door with my butt, and walked over to the pen. Pat and Gus from Colton’s Construction were there, in the midst of construction on what looked to be an open coop.

  “Hey Summer,” Pat greeted me, Gus looking up with a nod.

  “Hey guys.” I stared at their creation, the grass still pieced out in sod squares. “Did you jackhammer up the concrete?”

  “Yep. Started at seven. Sheriff Pratt already showed up about the noise.”

  “I bet he did.” I stepped over the knee-high fence and bent down, the rooster suddenly at my side, pecking at the sparkles on my bag, which hung over one arm. “Stop that,” I chided him, running a hand over his back. He was bigger, his red comb developing, his eyes alert and proud as he tried to step on my knee, while I held him off.

  “Friendly thing,” Ben remarked, putting a bit on the drill and tightening it into place.

  “He should be,” Gus scoffed. “I heard Cole Masten keeps him in the house.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Where’d you hear that?”

  “Around. He brought him here this morning in his truck. Inside the truck,” he clarified.

  “The Kirklands are gonna freak,” Ben chimed in.

  “You making the coop open?” I nodded to the half-built house.

  “Yep. We told him it would just fly over this little fence, and he told us to cover the whole thing with chicken wire.”

  “The whole thing?” I looked at the piece of grass, which covered three parking spots. Valuable parking spots on a piece of land as crammed as Walmart on Black Friday.

  “Yep.” The look that passed between the two men clearly communicated their opinion of Cole Masten, and I laughed, giving the rooster one final pet before standing.

  “I’ve gotta go.” I waved to them and stepped over the fence, the rooster squawking at me.

  I was smiling to myself when I entered the madness, weaving in between the tight cluster of trailers, bee-lining for mine. My baby was about halfway into the lot, wedged in between a sound trailer and a coffee truck, the latter causing a long line, which I skirted around on my way in. When I pulled on the door, Mary was already inside, her head snapping to me, a polite smile stretching over it.

  “Good morning,” I greeted brightly. My resolution for today was to be cheerful and strong. My sub-resolution was to avoid anything that affected that mindset. Mainly Cole. I’d received the call sheets yesterday for the day’s scenes, and none of them involved Cole, so my outlook was bright.

  “Good morning. I’d like to put in your breakfast order. Do you know what you’d like?”

  “Breakfast?” I dropped my bag on the floor and moved to the table, thinking of the leftover biscuits I’d slathered with jelly and choked down on my drive in. “What do they have?”

  “They can make anything.” She gripped a silver pen over her always-present notebook, and waited.

  “Umm… I guess an omelet? Ham, peppers, and cheese. With grits and bacon. Please.”

  Her pen didn’t move, and I waited. Finally, she looked away from me and down at the page. “Okay. A ham, cheese, and pepper omelet with grits and bacon. What would you like to drink?”

  “Milk. Whole if they have it.”

  Another scribble on the page, then she looked up, passing me a folder. “I’ve put the Sides and the updated Call Sheet in here. If there are any Day-Out-Of-Days I’ll bring them to you as needed.”

  “Sides?” I asked.

  “Those are the scripts for today’s scenes only. There are some new scenes, so you
’ll want to review those before your call times.” New scenes. New scripts. My cheery outlook took a sharp turn toward PanicVille.

  “What are days out of whatever?”

  Her smile became less patient. “Day-Out-Of-Days. We typically call it DOOD. It’s a general schedule for all of the crew. Just don’t worry about that; I’ll make sure you are where you need to be.”

  I sat down at the table and opened the folder, pulling out the new call sheet and reviewing it. My newly manicured nail ran down the shooting schedule, over a list of familiar scenes, before stopping at SCENE #14: ROYCE AND IDA: OFFICE KISS. My breath stopped, and my fingers scrambled for the accompanying script, Mary’s post-it clearly marking #14 in neat, bright orange fashion. It was a long scene, and I flipped through it, my stomach twisting as I skimmed the lines, my feet moving before I reached the end, Mary’s placement of my breakfast order interrupted by the slam of the trailer door on my departure.

  I think I might have bulldozed someone on my storm through the coffee line.

  CHAPTER 67

  When the door to the production trailer burst open, it brought with it a wave of heat and beauty. Cole looked up from the storyboards and locked eyes with Summer, who blew across the room like a tornado on tilt.

  “There’s no love story between Ida and Marcus,” Summer snapped, throwing down the script, pages fluttering between them. In the small trailer, conversations stalled, and he could feel the attention turn their way. “I’ve read the book. Three times!”

  It was good to know someone had read the damn book. Cole glanced down at her temper tantrum of a mess and back up, raising his eyebrows mildly. “It’s a movie,” he said, turning back to the storyboards. “The writers are adding some excitement. It’s normal. You’d know that if you were in this business.” The dig was unnecessary, but he couldn’t help it. This woman turned him into the devil.

  “I read the first script. The one you sent over with my contract. Ida and Royce hated each other. Why would Royce…” she snatched up a page from the ground and read a line. “pushes Ida against the file cabinet and kisses her passionately.” She balled up the page and threw it down to the ground, and he could see, in her eyes, the panic. Panic. An unexpected reaction.

  “We’ll use that here.” Don made the dangerous move of stepping in, putting a soft hand on her shoulder. “You don’t understand. The passion from their hatred will make it hotter.”

  “No,” Summer said, her face hard, her eyes on Cole. “It doesn’t make it hotter. It makes it stupid.”

  “Aww… come on, Summer,” Cole chided, moving closer, his hand reaching out to pull at her wrist. She fought him, yanking it back, the meeting of their bodies not happening. He leaned down and whispered, right against her ear, the smell of her apple-scented lotion enough to make him want to empty out the production trailer right that moment. “Sure it does.”

  She jerked back and twisted away. “If he kisses me on camera, I’m going to lose it,” she shot at Don, pointing an accusatory finger in Cole’s direction.

  “I know you will,” Cole laughed, crossing his arms to restrain them. “You’ll fall apart under my mouth, baby.”

  Summer screamed in response, her hands thrown up in frustration, and spun to leave, her script left behind, the slam of the door loud in the full production trailer.

  “That went well,” Cole mused. He linked his hands and rested them on his head, rolling his shoulders back. Panic. She’d had panic in her eyes. Fuck.

  “What do you expect?” Don said. “You threw this on her without warning. I told you we should have met with her this morning, gone over the changes to prepare her. But no, you just wanted to dump it on her via call sheets and sides.”

  “Dump it on her? I was People’s Sexiest Man last year. She’s not mentally adjusting to a war camp for God’s sake. How hard is it to kiss me?”

  “It’s actually three kisses,” a dark-haired PA to his left pointed out. “And a grope.”

  He gave her a hard look, and she withered a little.

  “I’ll go talk to her,” Don said. “Eileen, you shoot number four, and I’ll talk to Summer. I want to try to get fourteen shot at eleven, so let’s get our asses in gear and get this done.”

  “I’ll talk to her,” Cole stepped in. “You shoot four, and I’ll talk to her.”

  “No,” Don snapped. “With my luck, you two would make up and any authenticity to the scene would disappear. Just stay away from her, and be ready at eleven.”

  Cole chewed on his cheek, then nodded. “Fine.” Don was right. He should stay away from her. Because right now, the only thing he could picture was the panic on her face. And that look, that vulnerability? It made him want to comfort her, to protect her. And those urges were dangerous, they turned things between them a different way. A way that made him more vulnerable too.

  CHAPTER 68

  SCENE 14: ROYCE AND IDA: OFFICE KISS

  “I want blue. Something cool and refreshing.” Cole pushed the ad copy toward me, and I fidgeted, scratching the back of my stocking with the toe of the vintage Mary Jane heels.

  “The focus groups liked red better.” I avoided his eyes when I spoke, running my finger over the edge of a stack of cards, lining them up against each other. I was supposed to be hesitant in this scene, uncomfortable. It was an easy role to play. I felt so lost. On the set, in the role of actress, in the lust/hate relationship that Cole and I seemed to have.

  “Red means stop.” Cole’s voice was tired, one hand rubbing at his eyes, the other pulling at his tie. I wish we didn’t have to do this scene today. I had asked Don, begged Don, when he had come to my trailer—begged him to push this scene—for us to do it in a few weeks, once I had the acting thing down, my kinks worked out. What I didn’t say to Don was that I needed more separation from my sex with Cole to this kissing scene. Twelve days. That was all it had been so far. Twelve days, which still seemed like only twelve hours. When would I forget how his fingers felt on my skin? The tone of his voice as he had gasped my name? When would I forget how he felt inside of me? When would I forget the incredible sensation that had shaken my body? Part of me wanted that answer to be never. Another part of me just wished it had never happened. You can’t miss something that you didn’t know existed.

  “You don’t use a color that means stop when you want someone to buy something.” His voice hardened. “It’s common sense, Ida. Use your brain.”

  “I don’t care if your literature says that red means stop. The blue… when combined with the dark cola, looks weak. The red has more punch, looks more iconic.” I hold up the card, the cursive script of the logo standing out against the red mockup. “It looks patriotic.”

  “Blue is patriotic, too.”

  “Yankees wear blue,” I pointed out, and this was easy, the lines falling into place and coming easily.

  “We’re not doing red,” he said flatly.

  “Let’s ask the other investors.”

  He stopped messing with his tie and looked up at me. “Let’s not.” My finger, which had been picking at an itch on my arm, stilled. This was it; it was coming. He twisted in his chair, turning it to the side, then slowly to the front, considering me.

  I waited for the next line, my lungs tightening, the simple act of breathing in and out in a normal fashion a chore.

  “Come here,” he said softly, pushing on the edge of his desk with one smooth-soled dress shoe, his heavy chair rolling back. He waited, his hands on each arm, his knees spread, the dress pants stretched tight over his frame.

  “What?” I breathed out the question in a mild state of panic. This was off script. He was supposed to ask about my husband, or lack of.

  “Come here.” He nodded to a place before him.

  “I’m fine right here.” I set down the ad cards.

  “I’m not gonna bite you, Ida. Come here.”

  I shouldn’t have moved. Ida wouldn’t have. Ida would have primly told Mr. Mitchell where he could stick it.

 
I moved. I walked on uneven floors in unsteady heels over to him and stopped, five feet or so away, my hands clasped before me. I could feel the soft hum of the camera beside me, could hear the shift of our audience behind me, the loud click of someone’s walkie. Cole’s eyes never left mine, his stare burned up the path between us, and he rotated his chair slightly, ’til he faced me. “Closer.” The word came out a little hoarse, and he cleared his throat. “Closer,” he repeated.

  I moved closer, one slow step at a time, my heels loud in their clicks against the wood, then I was before him, and he rested his head back against the chair and looked up at me. “Sit. On the edge of the desk.”

  My hands reached behind, found the ledge of the desk, and I leaned back, grateful for the support.

  “No,” he corrected. “Sit on it. Or I will put you on it.” The order in his voice, the image of his threat… it stirred a feminine place in me that shouldn’t, in this moment, surrounded by onlookers, be touched. I pushed up on my toes and worked my way onto the desk, my skirt pushed up by the action. I pulled at it, crossing my legs and covering myself as best I could. Surely, Don would call for us to cut. Surely, someone would stop this waste of valuable film time.

  “Do you know why I hired you, Ida?”

  I lifted my eyes from the tassels on his shoes. “No.”

  “No, sir,” he corrected.

  I pursed my lips and said nothing.

  “Do you want to know why I hired you, Ida?”

  “Not particularly,” I said tartly. “Sir.”

  He pushed off the arms of the chair, standing up in one fluid motion. I tensed, waiting for him to step forward, but he didn’t. He stayed in place, his hands slow and deliberate as they rolled up one white shirtsleeve to the elbow, then moved to the other. “I hired you,” he said quietly, stepping forward and stopping before me, his eyes dropping to my legs. I lost a breath when his hand settled on my knee, and I uncrossed my legs, pinning them together, my hand pulling down my skirt. “I hired you because you walked into my office in your cheap little dress, and I thought ‘I bet that woman will be one hell of a lay.’” His hand moved higher, up under my skirt, and I stiffened, my hand falling on his forearm and pushing, resisting. He chuckled, his second hand pulling my legs apart, and, with a sudden jerk, he slid me to the edge of the desk, my knees spread, my skirt pushed high enough to expose the ridiculous garter straps. His eyes met mine for a moment, his fingers light and slow as they drew lines across the bare skin of my upper thighs, tracing the edge of the garter straps to the place where they crossed my panties, a lace set that matched. “I hired you because I pictured you right here, on my desk, moaning my name.”