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.