Hollywood Dirt
Page 73
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Cole looked at Nadia, who nodded, her mouth tight. She was pissed; he could see it in the small wrinkles around her mouth, in the glower of her eyes. He should have been happy about that, but he wasn’t. He was sick—over the day’s worth of arguments, over the reduction of their relationship to insignificant line items and who gets the fucking Picassos. Thank God for DeLuca, who’d been worth his weight in gold, and the mediator, a beady-eyed woman who was actually competent.
“Cole?” the mediator pushed. “Do you agree on the basics of this agreement?”
“Yes.” He kept his eyes on hers. If she backed out now, if she dragged this into court and further, he would let DeLuca off his leash to do everything the man had been fighting to do since he was hired.
“Nadia?”
The gap in between the question and her reply lasted years. Cole held his breath, his eyes on hers, the defiance in them ending in the moment that they fell to the table. “Yes,” she said in a wounded fashion, like she wasn’t walking out of there rich. At least she wasn’t getting The Fortune Bottle. At least he had one untainted thing in his life.
Summer came to mind and then left, a page pushed in front of him for his signature. “This is legally binding,” the mediator reminded them. “It will let the court know of your decision and will stand in place until your attorneys can draw up all of the corresponding paperwork.”
Cole scrawled his name and wondered how long it would take for the messy signature to show up online, the details of their separation spread open for anyone with an internet connection. Nadia understood, same as he did, the damage that this could do to their reputations – the hidden skeletons that mud slinging would bring out. It was why they had stayed relatively cordial during this process. It was also the only reason that they’d managed to reach an agreement during mediation, both of them opposed to court.
DeLuca waited until Nadia signed, her signature neat and perfect, then spoke, “We’ll be in touch with initial drafts of our agreements next week.”
“In a hurry, aren’t we?” Nadia spoke from her seat at the table, her eyes on Cole. Interesting words from a woman who served him divorce papers so quickly. He didn’t respond, just stood, grabbing his sunglasses off the table and putting them on.
“Nadia?” He smiled when she turned, her hand tugging on the handle of her Hermes. “It’s been an absolute pleasure.”
She smiled brightly, and the sum of their entire relationship could be condensed into that exchange: two actors playing their parts to perfection.
Sad that it took so long for him to finally see that.
CHAPTER 79
Cocky was freaking adorable. Entitled and adorable. Cole, apparently, didn’t think that a chicken could spend the night outside. He’d set up the downstairs bathroom for him, and I could pretty much guarantee you that Cyndi Kirkland would castrate him herself when she saw the state of it. I stood in the door and eyed the floor (covered in newspaper), the walls (pecked to bits), and the chicken poo, which had managed to paint the toilet, sink, tissue holder, and windowsill. The troublemaker stood on the toilet seat and tilted his head at me.
I had received, from some organizational freak of nature named Justin, a detailed list of items concerning Cocky’s care. The list included such ridiculousness as:
#8 Cocky gets scared by loud noises (dogs barking and the dryer). Please sit with him in this event and do not run a load of clothes in the dryer.
As well as:
#17 Cocky is accustomed to being taken out once during the night. Please take him into the backyard between the hours of midnight and six AM and allow him fifteen minutes to roam the yard. Make SURE that the fence is locked and do not allow him to jump or fly over the fence.
How does someone keep a chicken inside a fence? I had closed my eyes at that one, picturing Cocky running off into the cotton fields, and me, standing at the edge of the fence, hollering the rooster’s name like a crazy woman.
Cole’s lucky that it’s me chicken-sitting. Anyone else and his reputation in this town would be ruined. The locals, especially the men, would crucify him over this. I closed the door. According to Justin’s directions, Cocky’s bedtime is at nine. The previous night, I was a wild and cool babysitter and let him run around the backyard until ten. This night, with Cole coming home, I had him in his bathroom early. I couldn’t think straight with his baby wattle jiggling at me. I shut the door to his squawk and flipped off the hall light, heading up the stairs and toward Cole’s bedroom.
This was so stupid. Sitting here, waiting for him to come back. I didn’t want to be at Cole Masten’s beck and call. He’d made that comment in the heat of phone sex passion. He probably didn’t mean it. He’d probably walk in the door and scoff at me to get out of his house. I stepped into his room and smoothed the edge of the bedspread. I’d made the bed; I couldn’t help myself. Made it and thought, with every tuck, smooth, and tug, about him messing it back up with my body.
My fingers itched for activity. If I’d been in my house, I’d have cooked. Made some chocolate chip cookies and bagged up the extras for the crew. Even though Mary said that isn’t done, her eyebrows rising in alarm when I brought a carrot cake in for the prop master’s birthday. Apparently there was some bullshit line drawn between ‘talent’ and ‘crew,’ and we’d all burst into flames if any cordiality existed between the two. I was supposed to treat them like hired help, and they were supposed to like it.
“Cole?” the mediator pushed. “Do you agree on the basics of this agreement?”
“Yes.” He kept his eyes on hers. If she backed out now, if she dragged this into court and further, he would let DeLuca off his leash to do everything the man had been fighting to do since he was hired.
“Nadia?”
The gap in between the question and her reply lasted years. Cole held his breath, his eyes on hers, the defiance in them ending in the moment that they fell to the table. “Yes,” she said in a wounded fashion, like she wasn’t walking out of there rich. At least she wasn’t getting The Fortune Bottle. At least he had one untainted thing in his life.
Summer came to mind and then left, a page pushed in front of him for his signature. “This is legally binding,” the mediator reminded them. “It will let the court know of your decision and will stand in place until your attorneys can draw up all of the corresponding paperwork.”
Cole scrawled his name and wondered how long it would take for the messy signature to show up online, the details of their separation spread open for anyone with an internet connection. Nadia understood, same as he did, the damage that this could do to their reputations – the hidden skeletons that mud slinging would bring out. It was why they had stayed relatively cordial during this process. It was also the only reason that they’d managed to reach an agreement during mediation, both of them opposed to court.
DeLuca waited until Nadia signed, her signature neat and perfect, then spoke, “We’ll be in touch with initial drafts of our agreements next week.”
“In a hurry, aren’t we?” Nadia spoke from her seat at the table, her eyes on Cole. Interesting words from a woman who served him divorce papers so quickly. He didn’t respond, just stood, grabbing his sunglasses off the table and putting them on.
“Nadia?” He smiled when she turned, her hand tugging on the handle of her Hermes. “It’s been an absolute pleasure.”
She smiled brightly, and the sum of their entire relationship could be condensed into that exchange: two actors playing their parts to perfection.
Sad that it took so long for him to finally see that.
CHAPTER 79
Cocky was freaking adorable. Entitled and adorable. Cole, apparently, didn’t think that a chicken could spend the night outside. He’d set up the downstairs bathroom for him, and I could pretty much guarantee you that Cyndi Kirkland would castrate him herself when she saw the state of it. I stood in the door and eyed the floor (covered in newspaper), the walls (pecked to bits), and the chicken poo, which had managed to paint the toilet, sink, tissue holder, and windowsill. The troublemaker stood on the toilet seat and tilted his head at me.
I had received, from some organizational freak of nature named Justin, a detailed list of items concerning Cocky’s care. The list included such ridiculousness as:
#8 Cocky gets scared by loud noises (dogs barking and the dryer). Please sit with him in this event and do not run a load of clothes in the dryer.
As well as:
#17 Cocky is accustomed to being taken out once during the night. Please take him into the backyard between the hours of midnight and six AM and allow him fifteen minutes to roam the yard. Make SURE that the fence is locked and do not allow him to jump or fly over the fence.
How does someone keep a chicken inside a fence? I had closed my eyes at that one, picturing Cocky running off into the cotton fields, and me, standing at the edge of the fence, hollering the rooster’s name like a crazy woman.
Cole’s lucky that it’s me chicken-sitting. Anyone else and his reputation in this town would be ruined. The locals, especially the men, would crucify him over this. I closed the door. According to Justin’s directions, Cocky’s bedtime is at nine. The previous night, I was a wild and cool babysitter and let him run around the backyard until ten. This night, with Cole coming home, I had him in his bathroom early. I couldn’t think straight with his baby wattle jiggling at me. I shut the door to his squawk and flipped off the hall light, heading up the stairs and toward Cole’s bedroom.
This was so stupid. Sitting here, waiting for him to come back. I didn’t want to be at Cole Masten’s beck and call. He’d made that comment in the heat of phone sex passion. He probably didn’t mean it. He’d probably walk in the door and scoff at me to get out of his house. I stepped into his room and smoothed the edge of the bedspread. I’d made the bed; I couldn’t help myself. Made it and thought, with every tuck, smooth, and tug, about him messing it back up with my body.
My fingers itched for activity. If I’d been in my house, I’d have cooked. Made some chocolate chip cookies and bagged up the extras for the crew. Even though Mary said that isn’t done, her eyebrows rising in alarm when I brought a carrot cake in for the prop master’s birthday. Apparently there was some bullshit line drawn between ‘talent’ and ‘crew,’ and we’d all burst into flames if any cordiality existed between the two. I was supposed to treat them like hired help, and they were supposed to like it.
