But now . . .
“I’m not popping gum,” I said in a high-pitched voice, and Dickson chuckled. I compelled myself to laugh along with him. The winter we shot Sleepless, he’d stayed on my ass about chewing gum during scenes. The guy sitting next to Dickson released an exasperated sound, and my attention wavered back toward him.
As if he finally remembered that we weren’t alone, Dickson’s eyes widened and he said, “Ah, I’ve been rude. Kevin, you’ve already met Cooper, right?”
Kevin bobbed his balding red head. “Last week, at the meeting with Tiff and Jason,” he said, shooting me an apologetic look.
My parents and my agent had met with Dickson already, which meant Kevin had lied to me in the Mercedes when I asked him about the lunch date. I pinched the inside of his thigh under the table. He winced, but never dropped the sleazy smile.
Creeper.
“Willow, meet Cooper,” Dickson said, motioning to the blonde. “Cooper—”
Cooper kept his eyes attached to his menu when he acknowledged me. “Everyone knows who Willow Avery is,” he said, in a quiet voice brimming with sardonic undertones.
Holy hell, he had an accent.
A deliciously sexy one that I suddenly wanted to hear more of, so I could place it.
“I’m Cooper Taylor,” he said.
Australian. Definitely Australian.
Extending his hand across the table, he finally peered up to take me in. Even though he was mocking me seconds before, I was mesmerized by his eyes. Fringed in sooty, dark lashes, they were blue—the bluest I’d ever seen, actually—and set in a classically gorgeous face.
I took his hand, sucking in a breath through my nose as his fingertips closed around mine, as our flesh intertwined. Both our eyes dropped to our hands, and my pulse went from 0 to 60 in less than two seconds. When I parted my lips to speak, but didn’t let go of him, he pulled away. Tilting his head to one side, Cooper gave me a flash of straight, white teeth.
“I’m Willow Avery,” I said, stupidly.
“Yeah, I already knew that. Good to know you.”
“Cooper is a surf coach,” Dickson said, in a voice that made me feel like a second grader.
Cocking an eyebrow in an effort to look indifferent, I asked, “A surf coach?” I locked my hands between my knees hoping that the pressure would erase the memory of Cooper’s touch from my skin. It didn’t, and I felt his eyes burning into the side of my face.
It’s only because I’ve been in rehab, I reasoned with myself. That’s the reason why I felt that pull towards him.
“He’s a damn good surf coach,” Dickson answered.
“One of the best,” my agent piped in.
I shifted a strand of my dark hair behind my ear, pausing to rub my fingers back and forth across my earlobe. “And I’m guessing him being here has something to do with a part?”
Dickson grinned. “You always were one to cut to the chase, but yes. We’re in pre-production and set to begin filming at the end of the month in Hawaii.”
“So it’s a surfing movie?” I asked.
“We prefer calling it a”—Dickson raised his fingers into quotation marks—“beach drama. And it’s actually a reboot of a popular late eighties movie.” Cooper made a little noise next to him, but Dickson pretended not to hear him.
“Which one?” I asked.
“Tidal. It was the movie that launched Hilary Norton’s career. I was a production manager on the original.”
I’d seen a bunch of Hilary Norton’s movies, but not that particular one, though I’d never tell Dickson that. “And I’d be what? The supporting actress who surfs?” I questioned as I rubbed the back of my neck. Kevin made an awkward grunting noise beside me trying to get me to shut the hell up. I gave him a look that said “I’ll cut you”. Dickson missed the exchange, but Surfer Boy caught it, quirking his eyebrows and lips at the same time.
“Lead, my dear,” Dickson said. His answer knocked the breath out of my lungs. I didn’t get the opportunity to immediately reply because our server arrived to take our order. Numbly, I asked for a chopped salad and water, and ran my fingertips along the outline of my fork as everyone else ordered. The only person I found myself listening to was Cooper, who wanted a Coke and a burger.
My stomach growled, and suddenly, I wished I’d asked for the same. Rehab food had sucked.
“And we would start filming at the end of this month?” I asked, mentally doing the math in my head. I was looking at twelve, maybe thirteen days. That would give me time to see my friends before I was needed in Hawaii. If I was lucky, Kevin would negotiate enough money in advance for me to spend those days happy.
“Well, yes, but you’d be going to Hawaii tomorrow evening,” Dickson said.
My mouth dropped open. I looked from him to my agent, from Kevin to the surfer. “I have . . . other obligations,” I muttered, placing an emphasis on the last couple words. Obligations meaning the community service I was supposed to start immediately, now that I was out of Serenity Hills. Fifty hours, and it would take me at least four or five days working at breakneck speed.
Kevin shook his head. “Already taken care of. Your parents had your attorney file a motion to transfer your community service to Honolulu.”
Angrily, I curled my fingers around the napkin in my lap. Clay, my attorney, had had enough time to file motions but not answer my letters about a lawsuit I’d filed against a business nearly three years ago. And Mom and Dad weren’t too busy to attend meetings on my behalf, but they’d sent my agent to pick me up this morning.