CHAPTER 72
I was halfway through a plate of Belgian waffles when Mary popped her head in. “May I come in?” she chirped.
I nodded through a mouthful of strawberries and syrup, glancing up from the script I was reviewing. I was about to ask if she could run some lines with me when she held up a new call sheet. “Bad news,” she said, placing it before me. “Mr. Masten has to leave for California so they’ve shifted some scenes around.”
Cole leaving for California sounded like great news to me. I put a regretful look on my face and picked up the call sheet. “Scene twenty-two?” I started to flip through my master script, but she stopped me.
“I’ll get you a new script. Twenty-two was revised after your, ugh…” she glanced down at her clipboard and made a notation of sorts, “… after your ad lib yesterday. Or rather, Mr. Masten’s ad lib.”
Revised. That didn’t sound good. I flipped through the sides she passed me and looked up. “A kiss? That’s what this scene is?”
“Yes.” She tapped the side of her pen on the clipboard. “They want you camera-ready in fifteen.”
Fifteen. Fifteen minutes wasn’t enough to get me into hair and makeup and camera-ready. Five years wasn’t enough to get ready to kiss Cole Masten.
SCENE 22: OFFICE PARKING LOT. ROYCE GIVES IDA CAR.
“This is stupid.” I balled up the top page of the script and walked over to Don. We stood in the middle of a fake parking lot, in front of a fake office front, the vintage Coca-Cola sign hanging above the building’s door the only authentic thing on the set. Well, it and a vintage Cadillac Phaeton that sat before us, a big bow wrapped around her middle.
Don sighed, resting his hand on the top of a camera and looking at me. “What’s the problem, Summer?”
“Royce, out of the blue, gives Ida a car, and she’s supposed to kiss him for it?”
“It’s a peace offering,” Cole chimed in, coming around Don with a cup of coffee in hand. He was already dressed in a brown suit, his face shaved, green eyes blazing. I ignored him.
“Ida’s not going to accept a car, and she’s not going to jump up and down and do this whole pathetic routine you have her doing.” I waved the script in the air, and one of the writers looked up from his chair, his brows pinching.
“It’s not pathetic. It’s how women in the fifties acted. You have to realize that she is a divorced woman looking for a man. Royce is giving her a very generous gift and, when she hugs him in gratitude, he goes in for the kiss…” The man, a tiny bit of a man with bright red hair and a Grateful Dead shirt, shrugged. “It’s logical.”
I stared at him, and, by the look on my face, hopefully communicated how much of a sexist idiot I considered him to be. “It’s logical if we are talking about a woman who sits at home and knits all day. It’s not logical if we are talking about Ida Pinkerton, one of the Original 67.” I looked at Don, then Cole, in disgust. “Did anyone read this book other than me?”
“Scripts aren’t the book. It’s an adaptation.” Now Grateful Dead boy was rising to his feet.
“You—shut up,” Cole snapped, pointing at the writer and walking toward me. He glanced at his watch and stopped in front of me, so close that I could see the tiny green lines inset in his brown suit. “Summer, I’ve got to get on a plane in two hours. Please don’t fight me on this. Just say your lines, and let’s wrap this baby up.” He cupped the side of my arms with his hands, and I looked down at them in surprise.
“It’s not her,” I hissed at him. “This whole hero-worship bit is bull crap. It’s completely out of character.”
“Then ad lib it,” Don interrupted. “Like you guys did in the office. I can’t get either of you to stick to the damn script anyway.”
I turned to Don, distinctly aware that Cole’s hands still were on my arms. I jerked my shoulders, and he let go. “Ad lib it?” I asked.
“Sure. Say whatever you think Ida would say. But in return I need a kiss.” He pointed at me and held my contact. “Deal?”
“A kiss,” I repeated with dread.
“Yes,” Cole said. “I know. Painful. Trust me, Country. I’m not looking forward to it any more than you are.”
I whipped my head to him, his mouth curving a little bit when he took in my glare.
“Liar,” I accused.
He laughed and leaned in, close enough for only me to hear his response. “Yes, baby. And so are you.”
I closed my eyes and tried to mentally prepare for the scene. Tried to picture how I’d react if I walked out of my front door tomorrow and my truck was gone, a flashy new car in its place. I don’t think I’d handle it well.
Beside me, Cole waited. “It’s not rocket science, Summer,” he said in a low voice. “It’s a fight. Something we do well.”
“Lock it down!” I heard the AD yell, and the building fell silent. Showtime. I squared my shoulders and pushed on the door, my skirt tight around my legs as I stepped into false sunshine, a giant, artificial sun shining down from the rafters. Cole bumped into the back of me as I stopped short, my eyes scanning over the cars in the small lot. When I saw the bright red car, its white top down, the bow stretched across its windshield, I stared. I stared and tried to think of an Ida Pinkerton-plausible response.
“Well?” Cole boomed out the question, walking around me, his hands extended, his face proud and happy. “What do you think?”
“Do you often wrap up new cars for yourself?” I asked the question primly, tilting my head to the side and scratching at a tight place on my bun. The girl in Hair had gone way overboard with her bobby pins, a hundred pokes lying in wait for one wrong turn of my head.
His smile fell, and he looked at me. “It’s for you.”
My hand dropped from my bun. “Me?”
“Yes. It’s red.”
“I can see that, Mr. Mitchell. I’m a woman, not colorblind.”
“You’re also not very appreciative.” He stepped forward with a scowl, and I saw, for the first time, the key chain in his hand. “It’s Coca-Cola red,” he said, turning to the car. “The dealership mixed up the color just for you. Since I agreed to change the branding.” He smiled like I should be grateful.
“How generous of you,” I said tightly. “Where’s my car?”
“This.” He extended both hands as if it made it clearer. “This is your new car.”
“I’m not deaf, colorblind, or stupid. I understand that this car is red, and that you are of some misunderstanding that I should be happy to have you give it to me.”
“Yes. Exactly. That is exactly my misunderstanding, Ms. Pinkerton. I’m so glad that, for once today, we are on the same page.” He stopped before me and held out the key. I tilted my head up at him and smiled sweetly.
“Where is my car?” I repeated. “The black Ford.”
He threw up his hands. “I’m not sure. Can you focus for one moment on this?”
“Get it back.”
“You don’t want it back.” He stepped closer, and his hand fell to my lower back, softly pushing, ushering me toward the car.
“You don’t know what I want,” I sputtered.
“I know you want this,” he all but dragged me to the car, my heels digging into the dirt, a puff of dust following the rough journey to the shiny red side, my hip knocking against the door handle as he pushed me up against its side.
“I have a car, you bullheaded—”
“Not the car,” he cut in. “This.” Then, with his hand firmly planted on the back of my neck, he pulled me up and hard into his kiss.
There should be laws against men who could kiss like that. With a mouth that dominated yet begged. Tongue that teased yet delivered. Tastes that dipped into an addiction stream and hooked a woman after just the first hit. I had kissed him before. In his kitchen. In my bed. Both times I was distracted. This was a different experience entirely.
I sank in his arms, my knees buckling, my body supported by him and the car, everything lost but the action between our lips. My fight left after the first break, his lips coming immediately back, the second kiss softer and sweeter in its coupling. His hand on my neck yielded, less of a grip and more of a caress, his other sliding down and pinning me to his body, our connection firm and complete as we explored each other’s mouths. I grew greedy, my tongue meeting his, and his yielded under my direction, letting me lead, our cadence perfectly coordinated. As my hair fell around my shoulder, his hand quick with the pins, diving into and gentle on my scalp, I wondered how it was so easy, how our mouths matched so well when our personalities clashed so strongly. I wondered how my mouth could crave this man when my mind hated him. He pulled gently on my hair, and I resisted, our kiss breaking, my breath hard in the gap. He stared down at me, his eyes on my mouth for a long moment, then his gaze lifted to mine. He stared at me, and I closed my eyes, pulling forward, back to his lips. I couldn’t have him look at me right then. In that moment, my legs wobbly from his kiss… there was no telling what he would see. I pressed my lips against his mouth, and it opened for me, his hand tightening on the back of my head.
He was the one to pull off the second time, his hand keeping my head in place, and he placed a soft kiss on the top of my head before stepping away. I felt the press of his hand in mine before he stepped away and looked down, seeing the silver key lying in my palm. He stepped toward the building, his hands in his pockets, his head down.
“I meant what I said, Mr. Mitchell,” I called out, and his stride stopped, his head turning my way.
“About what?” he called back.
“The car. I don’t want it.”
“And us?” He turned to me, his hands in his pant pockets, like he didn’t care about my answer. I stared at his face and said, for a long period, nothing.
“I don’t want the car,” I finally responded. “I’d appreciate it if you got mine back.”
He nodded his head toward me. “Understood, Ms. Pinkerton. Enjoy your long walk home.”
My mouth fell open, and I stepped forward, my hand reaching out, a protest on my lips, a trio of actions ignored by the man who pushed through the office’s faux door, the screen door smacking shut behind him with a loud crack.
I let out a strangled yelp of fury and turned to the car, looking at the key in my hand and then back at the vehicle. My hand closed around the key, and I threw it down into the front seat of the car. I tucked my clutch under my arm and pulled one heel off a stocking foot, then the other. With my heels clutched in my free hand, I squared Ida Pinkerton’s shoulders and headed home through the dust.
When my stocking foot hit the edge of the set, reaching mat instead of dust, I stopped, turned back and waited for Don’s voice to boom through the set. It didn’t, and I watched him zoom in a cam, manually circling the car before zooming in on the front seat, most likely the keys that had landed in the front seats. After a long moment, Don looked up from the camera’s monitor. “Cut. I think we got it.”
Cole cracked open the door of the office building. “We good, Don?”
“Got enough. Go catch your plane.” Don nodded at Cole. “Good work.”
Cole nodded at him and grabbed a baseball hat off the back of one of the director’s chairs, pulling it onto his head and walking toward the exit. I watched him leave, my eyes narrowed. The least he could do, after kissing me senseless, was acknowledge me. I felt a general nudge against my elbow and looked left, a mic’d man gesturing toward Don.
“Great work, Summer,” Don said. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
I smiled weakly. “Am I done?”
“For now, yes.” He walked over and flipped through a clipboard. “I’m gonna work with the guys to review this and splice and dice it before Cole gets back. We’re not shooting anything else with you until tomorrow, so feel free to get out of here if you feel like it.”
If I feel like it? I reached up and fished the remaining bobby pins out of my ruined bun. “Sounds good.” I smiled at Don. “Thanks.”
“Hey, thank you! Not many can ad lib, so great work, really. You guys work well together.” A compliment paired with insanity. But this time, when he smiled at me, my return smile was genuine.
I had done a good job.
We had kissed and I had survived.
I had the rest of the day off.
Things could definitely be worse.