CHAPTER 27
It only took eight minutes for my hero worship of Cole Masten to nose dive into a sea of dislike. His looks weren’t the problem; if anything, the man leaning against my railing was even better looking than on a movie screen. I studied him when he turned around, when he gripped the railing and looked out on the Holdens’ farm. And I saw a bit of pain—in the hunch of his shoulders, in the chew of his cheek, some torture in the eyes that had turned back around and met mine. I thought then, my hand resting on the doorknob, looking out on the front porch that held two of the sexiest men I had ever seen, that there was something there, in him, something whole and raw and beautiful.
Now, I know what I saw. I know what that something was. It was asshole, pure and simple. It was spoiled rotten—I get what I want because I deserve it, you are beneath me—asshole. I’ve experienced men like him before. Carl Hanson grew up on the same dirt I did, attended Quincy High just like me, danced with me at the Homecoming Dance, and rode dirt bikes with me in the summer. Then he graduated. Went to New York after UGA. Found out what Daddy’s money could buy him, found out what life outside our county line was like, and came back a few Christmases later. Looked so far down his nose at me I could see the specks of cocaine in his nostril. He palmed my ass like he owned it at the church winter social, and I punched him smack in the nose. Broke the knuckle of my index finger doing so, but it was worth it. Mr. Hanson paid my hospital bill. Came over and had tea with Mama and me and delivered a pile of apologies for the asshole that his son had become.
I had nine more knuckles and a well-healed tenth. If Cole Masten planned on following up his visual examination of my body with any action, I’d let him know how hard girls in the South could punch.
The start of my dislike began with his request to come inside. It was rude of him, the action a personal dig at my faux pas of not inviting them inside. One rude action pointing out another rude action did not cancel each other out; it just bought you an extra ticket to the Dickhead Show.
I should have invited them in; I know that. It was hot as blazes outside, the sun just low enough in the sky for the mosquitoes to journey out, the scent of fresh humans luring them closer. But the house was a mess, and Ben had promised me they wouldn’t come in. It was the only thing that had allowed me to open my front door with any composure. Because sure, I was in my bathing suit and some cut off shorts, but at least they wouldn’t know that my house was messy. That my bathroom trash had not been emptied. That the Honey O’s box from that morning was still sitting opened on my kitchen counter. All was salvageable until the pretty boy had to go and gripe about wanting to come in. So rude.
Cole Masten’s second strike came three minutes later, the men awkwardly standing in my living room while I flew around like a crazy woman attempting to get drinks.
I watched Cole from the corner of my eye, in deep discussion with his attorney, and noted the delicate white skin—skin that would bake in our sun. Each summer we literally fried an egg on the pavement. Just one egg, a local one from a local chicken, the egg carried and presented with great ceremony by our mayor. The frying was done on the previous summer’s hottest day of the year, and it was always an event, time taken out of everyone’s non-busy schedule to bring potluck items and huddle around the Smith Bank & Trust parking lot to stare at one of Mama Gentry’s sad little eggs. Sometimes they fried quickly; other times it was unseasonably reasonable and only a few bubbles of excitement were produced. So yeah, eggs fried in our sun. His California pale skin would crinkle up like crispy bacon. I contemplated, while opening cabinets and searching for glasses, my damp suit getting itchy, offering him sunscreen, a friendly Welcome to Quincy gift. I hadn’t. Instead, yanking open the dishwasher, I made a side bet with myself that the next time I saw him, he’d look like a lobster.
“I need to run,” the first man said regretfully, tilting his head toward the door. “Got a truck to return and a plane to catch. My wife will have my head if I don’t make it home in time for dinner.”
He left the group and walked toward me, my hands stalling in their reach into the dishwasher. I set down the glass in my hand and shook the hand he offered. “Thank you so much for your hospitality. I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name.”
“Summer,” I managed. “Summer Jenkins. Can I fix you a tea for the road?”
He chuckled. “No, but thank you. I appreciate the offer.”
Wife. That was what he’d said. His wife would be upset if he didn’t make it home. Not much of a surprise, all the good ones were taken. And he’d had manners too. I left the kitchen and opened the front door for him, waving goodbye, my smile dropping when I shut the door behind him and noticed the dust on the door’s window. Great. Disasters at every turn. I suddenly thought of Mama, and I glanced at the oven clock. Four PM. Still an hour and a half until she got home from work. Plenty of time to get Cole and Ben out of here and clean up, get a casserole in the oven. Maybe one of those Stouffer ones. Carla at the IGA promised me they tasted homemade, but we’d be able to tell. You couldn’t fake authenticity, not in these parts.
I returned to the kitchen, Ben’s phone to his ear, Cole Masten looking dubiously at my couch like he wasn’t sure it was fit to sit on. I cracked the ice in its tray and plucked out a few cubes, dropping them in his glass. Ben could fend for himself, his Tervis still sitting half-full somewhere in this wreck of a house. “Tea?” I called out.
The man turned away from my couch and eyed me. “Sparkling water, please.”
That right there was the second strike. I smiled, the expression born more of spite than of sweet. But in the South, our smiles are our weapons and only a native knows a snarl from sincerity. “I’m afraid I don’t have sparkling water.” You are not a man, I thought. A man doesn’t drink sparkling water; he chugs tap water from a hose after changing his oil.
“Still is fine.” He turned away from me and took a careful seat on the couch. I turned back to the sink, my eye roll hidden. Still is fine. Oh, it’d be still. Still in my tap, the same place it was this morning. I twisted the faucet’s knob and filled the glass. Turned it off and carried the glass over, moving a coaster and setting it down. I raised my eyebrows at Ben who was still on the phone, his hand making some sort of justaminute motion so I sat down on the recliner. Glancing over, I saw Cole Masten study the glass before taking a sip.
“How was your flight in?” I asked.
The man looked at me when I asked the question, his eyes traveling over my legs as he swallowed the first sip of water, then took a larger one. It was a shame, really, to have that much beauty. God could have divided up his thick eyelashes, strong features, hazel eyes, and delicious mouth among three men, therefore giving more women a chance at happiness. Instead, Cole Masten hit the jackpot. A jackpot that was tipping back his glass, taking his time with his answer, his delicious neck exposed, his mouth cupping the glass, a hint of his tongue…
God. I shifted in my seat and pulled at the neck of my shirt, looking away. Suddenly wished, more than anything, he and Ben would hurry up and leave. Let me have my house back, let me have a half hour or two of peace and quiet before my mother arrived home. It was a desire that made absolutely no sense. Every red-blooded American woman would claw my eyes out to be that close to HIM. Maybe it was the small town country in me—the same stupidity that had me saying ‘no thanks’ to college applications and to finding a ‘real job.’ Maybe it was the fact that I was raised to believe that ‘real men’ had manners, and weren’t picky, and didn’t wear aftershave that attracted mosquitoes.
Ben hung up the phone and, in the next minute, Cole Masten got his third strike.