“So,” Don said quietly.

“What was the purpose of that mix?” Cole asked tightly.

“It’s hot,” one of the overpaid guys said, swiveling his seat around and facing Cole. “I’ve got a hard-on just from watching it, Mr. Masten. I mean, the other stuff is good, but this has emotion, it has heat. You guys look like you were moments away from banging on the desk.” He stared Cole down through his horn-rimmed glasses as if he had a say in anything.

“He’s right,” Don tilted back in his chair and looked at the ceiling. “I hate like hell to say it, but he’s right. The other clip looks like chicken shit compared to this.”

“That?” Cole sputtered, pointing to the frozen image of Summer, her cheeks flushed. “You can’t use that. It’s too…”

“Real?” Don asked, turning to him.

“No,” Cole said quickly. “It’s not that. I just don’t see a plot scenario where—”

“Ida and Royce hate each other,” Don said. “That’s already in there. Hell, it was reality. But if we use that hatred… and make it sexual tension…” He glanced at Cole. “It could add another element to the film. And it would bring in the female viewers who, right now, we have no draw on, other than your pretty mug.”

“She won’t go for it,” Cole said flatly.

“Since when does that matter?” Don said with a laugh. “She doesn’t have script approval!”

“She’ll hate it.” He glanced at the screens. “Play it again.”

“I’m not crazy about the idea either, Cole, but the more I think about it…” Don tapped his fingers against the arm of his chair.

“Play it again,” Cole repeated, leaning back in his chair, his arms across his chest, his eyes on her face.

A button was hit, and the clip restarted.

The mixer was right. It was hot. And Don was right; a romantic element, or hell, just a sexual element between Ida and Royce would draw in the female audience.

Summer would hate it. But Don was right on that card, too. But Summer wouldn’t have a choice. She’d have to go with whatever Cole said. And that, despite any moral ramifications that should have existed, made him smile.

The clip finished, and Cole sat forward, turning to Don, the director’s eyes wary.

“Let’s do it,” Cole said. “Call the writers. Get them in here now.”

CHAPTER 65

“How was it?” Mama’s question came from her bedroom, her voice’s edges slurred with sleep.

“It was fine,” I said quietly, sticking my head in. “Long, but fine. I did good.”

“Of course you did,” she mumbled, her form rolling over in the bed. “Love you.”

“Love you too.” I flipped off the hall light, and she disappeared, a blanket of black swallowing the room. I stepped back to the living room and dropped onto the couch, pulling the afghan off its back and over my chest. The day hadn’t been fine. It had been stressful and long and hot and horrible. I thought I could work with him. I thought I could spit out lines and be in character and be fine. I thought, because the set was on Georgian soil, that it’d be my turf. I didn’t realize how foreign that world would be. So many terms I didn’t know, tossed effortlessly between hundreds of strangers, no attempt made to clue in the new girl. The Southerners they brought in from Atlanta were all in the movie business there, so they waltzed around with ease, taking their cues, their places, without a stumble. I was the odd girl out, looking like an idiot. I saw the looks, the side glances and raised eyebrows, saying, What is she doing here? clear as day. By lunch, my confidence was shot. By afternoon, I’d used up every pep talk I had. And by the time Cole Masten introduced me to condoms, my defenses had crumbled to nothing. I’m gonna blame that fatigue on my weakness when he had come around the desk and touched me.

After that touch, on my way to hair and makeup, I had ditched Mary and ducked into a restroom. Called Ben’s cell and left a teary voicemail. He’d flown to Vancouver that morning for his next gig. I’d begged him to stay just one more week, offered him money, dumplings, freedom to use my makeup… but he’d had to go. We’d hugged it out in front of the Raine House at seven AM before he’d all but pushed me in the direction of the Pit. A half-hour after my pathetic voicemail, I got a text from him.

I’m in the air. Toughen up. Where’s the Summer I know?

I had smiled at his text. Blotted my eyes before the makeup artist had my hide, and reached down deep. He was right. Screw all of the side looks and whispers. Cole and Don had wanted me for a reason. I would learn the things I needed to. And in the meantime, I couldn’t show any weakness—not to any of them, but especially not to Cole. I was stronger than that. I was better than that.

By the time I had pushed out of the makeup chair, I was ready for battle. And now, five hours later, I was bone tired.

The next day would be better. I knew that. The first day was always the hardest.

I reached up to rub my eyes, but my hand didn’t even reach my head before I fell asleep.

“Summer’s lucky she could round up six bridesmaids. Really, Scott was the only reason those girls were even doing it. They were saints! And then for Summer to go and do that to them. White trash, that’s what she is. I told my Bridget. I told her not to associate herself with that girl, but my daughter’s too nice, always has been. And look, I was right.”