Hollywood Dirt (Hollywood Dirt, #1)(88)

She folded her arms over her chest. “What about when you act like an *?”

“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 * 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.