Hollywood Dirt
Page 87
“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.
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.
