CHAPTER 95
He had been so worried she wouldn’t show. When she’d stepped out of the Franks’ house, her head had been down, her eyes not meeting his. He was sure that she’d change her mind, would leave him hanging. But now, coming to a stop outside the fence, she was here. He skirted around Cocky and walked over to the gate, resting his weight on it and looking at her.
“You came,” he said.
“Yeah.” She shifted her purse higher on her shoulder. “I brought condoms. Or…” She blushed. “A condom. You know. If…” She brought a hand to her mouth and giggled. “Oh my Lord. I’m an idiot.”
He laughed. “I have condoms but thank you.” The dusk light made her hair look pink, the wind picked up wisps of it and took it across her face, and she suddenly looked vulnerable. It was a new look on her and stirred some alpha male instinct deep within him, one he didn’t recognize. He put one foot up on the fence. “Before you come in, I wanted to propose something.”
“I don’t want to talk about the night of the dinner,” she said quickly. “If we could just, right now, ignore that.”
He shrugged. “Fine by me. It’s your thing. You change your mind, I’m here.”
“What’s the proposal?” She narrowed her eyes in suspicion, and he wondered, for an insane moment, if a child of theirs would have hazel or green eyes.
“Twenty-four hour truce.” He gestured between the two of them. “You and I have some aversion to civility. It’s a Friday night. We don’t have to work tomorrow. For the next twenty-four hours, no fighting.”
She folded her arms over her chest. “What about when you act like an asshole?”
“I won’t.” He smiled. “Promise.” It’d be hard not to push her buttons, especially when he enjoyed seeing her worked up. But he’d behave for twenty-four hours. He wanted to explore more of the girl who hid behind all of that fire.
“I don’t know if I trust your promises.” She stepped closer, dropping her arms and resting them on the gate.
He shrugged. “Then you can call me an asshole and storm out. Which is pretty much what you were already planning on doing after you got your use out of those condoms. Or condom. Or…” His grin widened. “Whatever.”
“That is true…” she mused, a wicked gleam in those hazel eyes. “I practiced my dramatic exit and everything.”
“I often fail at behaving.” Cole leaned forward, against the rail, his voice conspiratorial. “So don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll get to use that at some point.”
He pulled at the gate, then stopped. “Deal?”
“Are you going to turn me away if I don’t agree?”
“Ummm… yes.” He held the gate in place, half open, his body blocking the entrance.
“You’re a terrible liar,” she teased, stepping closer.
“Well, you know. I haven’t had much practice.” He smirked. “Deal?” He held out his hand.
“Deal.” She reached forward and shook it, her handshake strong despite such a tiny palm.
“Where’s your bag?” he eyed her purse, which was too small to hold much of anything.
“I didn’t bring one. I thought… you know. This was just sex.” She pulled at the bottom of her sundress.
God, she was adorable. “You’re staying the night.”
“Maybe.” Her eyes narrowed.
“You are.” He smiled and stepped aside, swinging the door open, Cocky squawking from the far end of the yard, his wings flapping as he half bounced, half flew, half ran over to her. She met Cocky halfway, dropping to her knees before the rooster, her hands light as they skimmed over his back and his comb. Cole watched her, a foreign lump in his throat. He cleared it with a hard cough and shut the gate, turning back to Summer. “You eaten? I was just about to grill some steaks.”
“Steaks?” she looked up, surprised.
“We don’t have to eat.” God, this was awkward.
“No.” she pushed to her feet. “Steak sounds great. Want me to whip up some sides?”
“Uh… sure.”
She brushed off her hands and grabbed her purse, setting off for the back porch with purpose. On the ground, Cocky squawked his indignation at being left.
“Hush,” Cole chided him. “You’ve already gotten more play than me.” He looked up at the house, the light windows giving him an uninterrupted view of Summer’s entry to the kitchen, her hands twisting up her hair then hitting the faucet, her head down as she washed her hands.
Twenty-four hours. The truce had been nothing but an excuse to spend more time with her. A dangerous gamble, but one he needed to take. There was something about her, something that had tugged on him since the moment they had met. A tug that had become an addiction. An addiction that he needed to cure. Twenty-four hours without the distraction of fighting would be his fix. Without the lure of unattainability, the hours would wear the shiny sparkle off her. She’d lose her mystery, would lose her charm. Then, with just one month left of filming, he’d have her out of his system and be ready to return to LA.
Leaving the rooster on the porch, he climbed up the stairs and pulled open the back door.
They cooked in silence, Summer finding some frozen okra and corn in the outside freezer, her hands quick as she riffled through the Kirklands’ kitchen, setting up skillets, grabbing items, cracking open the window above the sink. Cole watched her from his spot on the back porch, the grill on low, his back against one of the big porch posts. Nadia had never cooked. She’d had other things to do, more interested in eating at a place that would get her seen rather than a meal at home. And their chef knew what they both liked, so it never seemed necessary. To Nadia’s credit, Cole had never cooked either. Putting meat on a grill and taking it off before it burned. That was the extent of his talent.
She finished just after him, scooping out fried corn and an okra-tomato-corn medley on his plate. They ate on the back porch, the fan keeping the heat off, Cocky in the yard.
“He’s a good chicken,” Cole mused, putting a piece of his steak in his mouth.
“He comes from good stock. His mama is beautiful.”
“You know his mom?” Cole looked surprised, and she laughed.
“I don’t know if knowing her is the right word, but yes. She lives on our plantation. She’s produced about twenty Cockys for us. Want to meet her?”
He surprised her by nodding. “Would she recognize him?”
“I don’t know how much thought process there is in a chicken’s head. She recognizes me. Knows I bring them treats. She won’t recognize him, or won’t care. They aren’t the most nurturing mothers once their chicks are grown.”
“I understand that,” he murmured and was grateful when she didn’t press it. “Treats?” he said, tilting his head. “I asked the feed store for treats and got laughed out of there.
She laughed, sucking some steak juice off the side of one finger, and his thought process went dormant for a moment. “Scraps. Boiled eggs, pasta, corn cobs… they love that stuff. Oh, and string cheese.”
Cole stared at Cocky and felt like the worst parent in the world.
Cole had been discovered at seventeen, standing outside a club on Sunset Boulevard when, his fake ID in pocket, he had smiled shyly at some women in line. Walked closer and asked their names. They were older than him but attractive. Had seemed friendly. Laughed off his flirtations but one of them handed him her card. Told him to go home and to call her on Monday morning. That woman had been Traci Washington, and she’d been casting a teenage rom-com. Cole had carried her card in his wallet for a week before he called. The moment he did, everything changed. He had ‘it,’ and that teenage movie turned into a string of movies, which turned into the Cole Masten Empire. Washing dishes was not a thing that he had ever done. He pushed his hands into the soapy water and looked over at Summer. “We can just leave these. That girl comes on Monday.”
“Monday?” Summer repeated. “It’s Friday night. You’re not gonna have a sinkful of dirty dishes for three days. The place will smell.” She leaned over and ran the water, her body brushing against his, and when she dug into the sink for a sponge, he enjoyed the view down her dress. She caught his stare and elbowed him. “Focus. Just get the food off and stack them on the counter. I’ll load them after I get everything put away.”
For purely peace-keeping purposes, he obeyed, his head down, eyes on the plates, the food coming off cleanly, the chore quick given that there were only two of them. He heard the clang of a pot and glanced over, seeing two dirty skillets stacked with quick precision next to him. Finishing those, he drained the sink and grabbed a hand towel from the hook, drying his hands. He stepped back, to give her room, and watched her work.
“So… how do you think it’s going?” she glanced over at him as she yanked out the trash can, snatching items from the counter and tossing them in, her movements fluid and unrehearsed, this act one she’d done a thousand times. He thought suddenly of her audition, on the porch, and made a mental note to add a cooking scene with Ida into the movie. Somehow. Though he could think of no clear fit. He had to be careful. This movie wasn’t his personal memory box with which to store pieces of Summer. She stopped before him and waited. He focused on her questions.
“Well. We’re behind. Script changes always push us behind.”
“I’m not talking about the timeline,” she snapped. “I mean us. The flow. The scenes.” She turned away from him and bent over, opening the dishwasher, and he suddenly realized why Doing Dishes With Summer was always a good idea. And it had nothing to do with caked-on food and everything to do with the fact that there was nothing more beautiful than Summer loading the dishes in a sundress. When she bent over, her skirt lifted, and he wanted to drop to his knees and more properly enjoy the view. When she straightened, pulling her hair back and into a ponytail, he stared at the lines of her arms, the curve of her waist, the cut of her calves. She was barefoot now, her feet dusty, and when she reached up for a hand towel she went on her tiptoes, and he almost groaned.
“Cole?” Her feet had turned, and he looked up, to her sweet beautiful face, her eyebrows raised because, oh right, she must have asked another question. The woman never shut up with her questions.
“Come here.” He had meant the request to sound friendly, but it ripped from his throat with a growl. He gripped the edge of the counter that he leaned against and willed himself not to let go.
She stepped forward, her movements slow as she ran the towel across the backs of her hands. Then she stopped, and he smelled just a hint of her soap and couldn’t stop himself anymore. He reached forward, pulling her the rest of the way toward him and against his body.