For the First Time: Twenty-One Brand New Stories of First Love (2 page)

I twist my mouth and try to calculate how long Cole and I had been in the bedroom. “Maybe . . . forty-five minutes ago?”

“Forty-five minutes before I got here?”

“Yeah.” I grab an apple and turn on the sink, washing it off.

“Why didn’t you call me the minute it happened? In forty-five minutes I could have figured something out!” He scrunches up his face and rubs a shaky hand across his forehead.

I evade the question. I
should
have called him instead of letting Cole carry me inside. It would have been much less fun but much more responsible. “Everything else is set.” I wave at our surroundings, dozens of white-coated chefs hard at work preparing enough hoity-toity finger food to feed an army. “So the kids can’t swim.” I gesture outside. “They can play on the jungle gym or with the rabbits or in her room.”

“It’s a mermaid-themed party.” He looks at me as if I am brain-dead. “
Mermaid
. Water.”

“So get a Slip’N Slide.” I shrug. “Sprinklers.” I steal a knife from the closest chef and get to work on the apple.

“A Slip’N Slide.” There is a hint of hope in his voice. “I like it. A little white trash but—”

“White trash?” I hold the knife toward him. “Watch what you say. I’ve soaked next to you in a Walmart kiddie pool, Bennington.”

He actually smiles, his perfect white teeth bright, his hands held up in surrender. “My apologies, Mrs. Masten.” He takes another glance at his watch and pulls out his phone. “May I borrow one of your security to run out and buy one?”

“Buy a Slip’N Slide?” I pop an apple slice into my mouth before sliding the rest into a bowl for Grace. “We’ve got three.”

He looks up from his phone. “Seriously?”

“Well yes,” I say with a straight face. “Anything white trash we stock up on.”

Grace giggles beside me. “Yeah,
Bennington
,” she says with self-importance. “Oh! Did you know today is my birthday?”

He scowls at her. “Did
you
know today is the most important day of my professional career?”

“And my birthday!” she chirps, bouncing in place, her blond curls lifting in concert with my expertly cut apples. I eye the bowl in her hand.

“Did you know that Vanity Fair is going to be here with
cameras
and will probably
interview
me?” He crouches down until they are eye level.

“And my
birthday
,” she says excitedly, jumping higher, and I snag the bowl from her before the apples go flying.

“And I think Uncle J gave you
soda
,” I chime in, narrowing my eyes in Justin’s direction, who raises his hands in innocence.

“Presents!” Grace says for no clear reason whatsoever, delighted to be the center of attention.

“Career-suicide!” Ben mimics and I laugh, helping him to his feet and wrapping my arms around his waist.

“It will be fine,” I promise him.

“Vanity Fair and Slip’N Slides?” he groans. “The article will crucify me.”

“Blame it all on your hillbilly client,” I offer. “I can change into cut-off shorts if that’ll help distract them.”

“Yes.” Cole enters the kitchen and scoops Grace up, her shriek of joy hitting a special place in my heart. A place I didn’t know, before her, even existed. “Please put on something other than that dress.” He walks over and wraps an arm around my waist, stealing me from Ben. “You look like some snobby trophy wife in that thing.”

“Really?” I make a face and worm out of his grip. “You didn’t seem to mind it . . . oh . . . forty-five minutes ago.”

“Hey,” he shrugs, plucking an apple slice from Grace’s bowl and popping it into his mouth with a cocky grin. “I tried my best to ruin it.”

“
That’s
why you didn’t call me?” Ben sputters, his cute little brain putting two and two together. “Because of . . . ” His hands wave toward the two of us.

I clamp my hands over her little ears, glaring at him in warning. “Happy time,” I supply. “And yes. You can yell at Cole for that.”

“You guys could have a reality show, you know that, right?” Justin grabs a beer from the fridge and navigates around a cook, escaping back to our side of the kitchen. “Seriously. America would eat this shit up.” He winces at the curse and mouths an apology to me.

“Summer?” I turn at my name, seeing our house manager, Fran. A house manager. Never in my entire life did I think I would need someone to “manage” the place I lived. Especially when I’m not working, have nothing to do all day long but bounce babies on my lap and cook. Except . . . there always seems to be something to do. Grace is a full-time, needs-attention-constantly whirlwind of adorable destruction. We have four hens for Cocky (he is a horny bastard), twelve chicks (at the moment), three bunnies, one goat, and a dog who . . . I tilt my head and try to remember the last time I saw Quincy. Cole had found the big Lab rail thin and skittish on the side of the highway a week after we moved to LA. Now he is a hundred pounds of healthy, chew-anything-expensive, marks-his-territory, chases-the-chickens, drives-me-crazy Lab. I love him and curse him, typically at the same time.

The pets are just one part of my day. Cooking three meals a day was easy for Mama and me. Now, our dinners are normally ten or fifteen heads deep, the staff is always invited, plus Ben and Justin, and any cast members who have followed Cole home from the set. It was an adjustment, going from cooking one pie to three, a pot of chicken and rice suddenly inadequate. But our kitchen makes it all easy. I have three ovens for God’s sake! SIX burners! I swear, I think I had a mini orgasm when I saw it for the first time. I definitely had one our first night in, boxes all around, the moving crew dismissed by Cole mid-unpack.

I wiped a hand over my forehead and yanked at the window, expecting a fight, the glass sliding easily, the cool California air breezing in, bringing with it the scent of jasmine. So different from our camellias and pollen, no humidity or mosquitos, the dusk sky absent of a single frog call or cricket’s chirp. I inhaled the air and had a moment of homesickness.

“Everything okay?” I felt Cole against my back, his arms wrapping around my waist, his lips gentle in their press against my neck.

I nodded. “It’s just . . . different.”

He pulled me away from the sink, turning me toward him, his eyes on me, concern shown in the pinch of his brow.

“Stop.” I pushed onto my tiptoes and kissed his mouth. “Stop worrying. I’m fine.”

“You like the house?”

I laughed, glancing around the kitchen, counters everywhere, the island behind him big enough for ten to sit at, commercial grade appliances everywhere, a fridge that I would never be able to fill. So different from the white Maytag that you had to lift up on when you closed the door, the temperature regulator faulty, our butter always soft, things in the back half-frozen. Our chipped counter that always had a line of ants, no matter how clean it was kept, or how much spray was used. And this was just the kitchen. I glanced back, down a wide and open hall, and thought of the bedrooms, the huge vaulted ceilings, windows as big as doors, showers with steam and body jets and ocean views.

“Yes, I like the house.” I grinned, and he moved closer, his hands sliding up my stomach, over my breasts and undoing the top button on my flannel shirt.

I said nothing; I let him work. I let out a long sigh of pent-up stress and relaxed under his hands. He undid every button on the front of my shirt then slid the material open, pushing it off my shoulders and down my arms. Then my jeans, his fingers slow and unhurried on the buttons, then the zipper, and I assisted him, stepping from the legs as he crouched before me, then stood back up.

“I love you so much,” he whispered, looking down at me, his fingers soft against my bare skin, ghosting over my curves, his gaze following his touch, and I closed my eyes when he lowered his mouth to my neck.

Cardboard boxes that night got pushed to the side. He laid me back on that island and did sinful things to my body. Wouldn’t let me touch him the entire time. Not until every line of stress was removed and every muscle had relaxed. When my body was liquid, he carried me down to our room. Pulled me up into our new bed and under the covers. And there, he finally undressed. Took me to a final orgasm with his cock, his arms wrapped around me, his breath hard against our kiss, his body shaking when he came.

I think Grace was conceived that night. Our first night in this house. I run my fingers over the granite counter. Realize our corner of the kitchen has gone quiet. I look up and realize that I haven’t responded to Fran.

“Yes?” I say, a little belatedly. Cole raises his eyebrows at me, and I stick my tongue out at him.

“Vanity Fair just passed through the security gate, and Jasmine is waiting for you in the sitting room.”

Ben lets out a yelp of alarm, his watch making another stressful appearance.

“Thanks,” I say to Fran. “Can you get a few of the guys to help Ben with the Slip’N Slides? They’re in the pool house. And please keep everyone out of the pool.”

“The pool,” Grace cheers. She somehow seems to forget that we have a pool, the mere mention of it often a cause for celebration. Cole frowns, shifting her on his hip and I smile at him. Poor guy. He’ll have to keep her out of it all day long. I almost feel sorry for him.

Almost.

I kiss Grace on the cheek, then Cole. “I’m gonna go meet with Jasmine. Get my daily lecture. She’ll be coming to you next so you should probably change . . .” I glance down at him, noting his outfit. Grey pants, a white sweater, the sleeves pushed up, his hair rough and perfect, skin glowing. Absolutely no sign that he’s spent the last hour swimming and screwing, he looks like he has stepped right out of a photo shoot. “Never mind,” I snap, irritated at his ease.

I try to pull my dress into place, to fluff my hair into some order but I know, before I even turn the corner, what Jasmine’s reaction will be. And she doesn’t disappoint me at all.

“H
oly Mother of
Bengay, what happened?” Jasmine Auckers, a church-going mother of three, Cole’s replacement for Casey—who we determined to be Team Ex-Wife—stands from a chair with a start, her clipboard falling to her side, her eyes on my dress.

“Cole got it wet.” I have learned from experience to blame Cole for everything. Regardless of whether or not he actually is guilty, no one seems to yell at him. Passing off blame to him has made my life significantly easier. In this rare situation, conveniently, he actually
is
guilty.

“Wet . . .” Jasmine says slowly, “and wrinkled?”

“Also Cole,” I assure her. One perfect brow rises skeptically, and she walks around me slowly, her eyes falling to my feet. Outside, there is the sound of car doors and she glances out the window, her stance more urgent when she turns back to me. “Where are your shoes?”

“Umm . . . in my closet.”

“Go get them. And brush your hair. Jesus, didn’t someone show up to do your makeup?”

I let out a deep enough breath that she stops, holding up her hands in surrender. “I’m sorry. Where do you want to do the interview?”

“The interview’s with Ben,” I remind her.

“Well . . . yes. But they would love to get just a few questions—”

“No.” I smile politely. “Ben’s running around right now. If you get them set up in the sunroom, I’ll have him meet them there.”

“If you could just give them a few minutes—”

I give her a strong enough look to shut her up. We’d been through this with her enough times. When Cole fired Casey, when we set out to find a new publicist, I was clear that I wanted one for two reasons: to keep the press at bay and to correctly manage the unavoidable moments of exposure. And there are plenty of moments of exposure. Any time we step out of this estate’s gates, we are targets: paparazzi hidden in bushes, in stores, waiting by our cars. But it isn’t paparazzi that is really the problem. It is the fans. Every single person out there has a cell phone, camera app easily accessible, every minute of our life captured, tweeted, shared. I don’t know how Cole does it, how he did it for so long. It is hard for me, will always be hard for me. Which is why Jasmine is important. Because one dirty look I give to an aggressive fan . . . one wrong thing said to the wrong person . . . and Summer + Cole will turn from Sole to Slum or Cummer or whatever other crappy combination America jumps onto.

Right now, we are America’s darlings. While I’m not crazy about the attention, at least it’s love that pours through the air. For a girl that spent a long time being hated . . . it’s a nice change.

“Summer! Summer!” I turned automatically at the name, my media training failing in my first two steps onto the red carpet. Cole’s hand tightened, and he pulled me forward, my eyes wincing against the flashing, so many bright bulbs, complete overkill when paired with the chorus of lights that beamed down at us from above.

My first red carpet. In Japan of all places. My first international flight, one where my seat became a full bed, and we each had personal flight attendants that were almost annoying in their attentiveness. Our first Japanese morning was spent in back-to-back spa treatments, the afternoon seated at a table before thousands of frantic fans, our answers to their questions barely heard over the resulting screams. I didn’t understand the hero worship. Grown women shrieking when Cole did something as simple as smile. People crying! I saw one woman faint, her body slumping down, the crowd swallowing her up and surging forward, an oblivious monster of energy. I had pushed forward, into the bodies, reaching for her, had grabbed the pale skin of her wrist before security pulled me back. But it was worth the effort. Someone saw, someone yelled, and a few black suits swarmed in after her. It had been so strange, so different than anything in Quincy. So against our culture of reserved and quiet. The last time I saw someone that excited in Quincy was when that adult store tried to open in town and all the originals got their floral panties in a twist.

Cole got me through that first red carpet. Helped me remember when to stop, where to look when I smiled. His eyes were on me the entire time, a knowing upturn to one edge of his mouth. He kissed me frequently, soft brushes right behind my ear, or on my temple, his hand continually pulling, pulling, pulling me to him. It was reassuring, having him right there as we moved through the giant double doors and into the grand theater, into our suite of seats. I gripped his hand so hard he winced.