Hollywood Dirt
Page 65
“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.
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.
