Hollywood Dirt (Hollywood Dirt, #1)(12)

He opened the door in a bathrobe; the sash pulled tight, my eyes went to the monogrammed design on his breast before giggling.

“Shut up,” he intoned, spinning on a heel and moving into the room, taking a seat at the desk, my hand carefully swinging the door shut behind me. Ethel Raine owns the Raine House, a matriarch who considers powerful sneezes as noise disruptions worthy of eviction.

“I just find it amusing that—when packing for Quincy—you thought elegant loungewear was needed.” I smirked, launching myself on his meticulously made bed.

“And I thought the rule of the South was to call first,” he pointed out, raising a carefully plucked brow at me.

“Well, you singlehandedly ruined that tradition,” I said, picking out one of his pillows and stuffing it behind my head. “I didn’t want you to be alone in your offensive sea of faux pas.”

“How gracious of you,” he drawled in his best Southern imitation.

“It’s true, I am a lady.” I dipped my head. “Speaking of which, how is local casting going?”

He took the abrupt topic change in stride. “Already spent your cash?”

I shrugged, rolling on my side. “Just wanting more of it.”

“A company out of Atlanta is casting the filler parts. Grabbing authentic country bumpkins from up there.”

I made a face at him. “I should have clarified. I need a job, not a role.”

“Do you have any experience? With lighting, camera work, costumes?” He groaned when I shook my head. “Didn’t you work on a school play at least?”

“Nope.” I rolled to a sitting position. “Keep thinking.”

“Let me call Eileen Kahl this afternoon, once California gets up and moving. See what she has.”

“Who’s she?”

“The AD. Assistant Director,” he added, at my blank look. “But it’s probably too late in the game, Summer.”

“I’ll fetch coffee, do laundry, anything,” I drawled, kicking my feet out from the bed.

“I’m gonna remember that when you call me, bitching about picking up Cole Masten’s used underwear.”

I wrinkled my nose at him. “Okay. Forget the laundry position. Though…” I said thoughtfully. “I bet a Cole Masten authentic used brief would fetch a hundred bucks on eBay. I could start a side business: The Cole Masten Gently-Used Underwear Store. Free shipping on all orders!” I imitated Ben’s sparkly hands, and he raised his eyebrows primly at me, as if he was uber sophisticated and above all of my adolescent activities.

“Oh please.” I rolled my eyes. “You know you’ll miss me in Vancouver.” I hated to bring it up, had avoided thinking about Ben leaving, the writing on the wall beginning to taint our time together. We were almost done. He’d have no need to stay once filming began. I remembered our initial meeting, the conversation in our kitchen. Five months of his time, he had said. Five months that was almost up.

He surprised me by coming over and hugging me, his grip surprisingly strong. “Promise me that you’ll bathe daily. And wash your face. And use that Dior mascara that I gave you.”

I pushed him off with a laugh. “I’ve got five more weeks with you. Plenty of time for you to compile a better list of guilty promises to swear me to.”

He smiled and tightened the cinch of his robe. “Want to hit Jimmy’s for lunch?”

I stood. “Sure. I’ll go and grab us a table. Let you get…” I waved a hand at his outfit. “Dressed.”

He mocked my hand wave. “Done.”

I tossed my Cherry Coke in the trash and left. I would miss Ben. I would miss our job. I would miss the excitement and energy of Something New and Different. I didn’t want to go back to a life where my most exciting moments were when the next Baldacci novel released.

I jogged down the staircase and smiled at Ethel Raine, a woman who had warmed tremendously to me after Ben and I reserved every room in her B&B for the next five months. The rooms here would be for the Directors, Assistant Directors, Producers, and Production Manager and Designers—the key people who deserved more than a bunk bed but didn’t deserve an entire house like Cole Masten and Minka Price, for which we’ve rented out the Kirklands’ and Wilsons’ homes. Minka Price—if she didn’t succeed in backing out of the project—was bringing her family, so she got the more ‘comfortable’ of the two homes. We had prepared/hoped/squealed for Cole Masten to bring Nadia Smith but, from the latest issue of STAR, I no longer expected that to happen. They were as done as our Waffle King after the Cow Incident of ‘97.





“Is it normal?” I asked Ben, biting into one of Jimmy’s subs. The secret to a successful Jimmy’s experience is to befriend his wife, Jill. I coughed over a first cigarette with Jill, decorated the homecoming float next to her, lent and borrowed tampons in times of distress. I was in, no questions asked. Ben… it took him a few months of properly coached ass-kissing and attention-giving. Now, at the last leg of his stay, he got the best cuts, could call in an order on his way, and was allowed to sit at one of the window tables. Fancy stuff.

“Is what normal?” Ben responded, loudly sucking on his sweet tea’s straw. Yes, sweet tea. I had actually converted him into a human being.