How to Sleep with a Movie Star

  “Oh,” I said, taken aback. I shook my head and cleared my throat. “Um, I’m sorry, but I have to go. You were very kind to have helped me out last night.” And to remember what I take in my coffee. Cole looked confused. I took a deep breath and started for the door.

  “Really, thank you,” I said as I walked, refusing to meet his eye. I could feel him watching me, but I couldn’t bear to look. “But I have to go. I have to go home. Please send me the dry-cleaning bill.”

  Eyes downcast, I slipped on my shoes and opened the door. I couldn’t resist taking one quick look over my shoulder before I shut it behind me. After all, this was Cole Brannon, America’s favorite movie star. He was, among other things, the man who had saved me from myself last night. I felt a horrible pang of guilt as I caught a last glimpse of him staring at me from behind the overflowing table of food. I tried to ignore my rapidly beating heart as I hurried into the hallway.

  Bingeing

  My heart was still pounding as I stood on Park Avenue minutes later, trying to flag down a taxi. But of course in this city of 8 million people, it always seemed that approximately 7.9 million of them wanted a cab at the same time I did. Today was no exception. I desperately waved my arms in the air, beckoning to cab after unresponsive cab.

  I had almost given up and resigned myself to the subway when a driver two lanes away pulled a death-defying move, cutting almost horizontally across Park and screeching to a halt in front of me, missing my toes by mere inches. I yanked open the back door.

  “Second Avenue and Second Street,” I said quickly as I heaved myself onto the slick backseat. “And please hurry.” The driver nodded wordlessly, pulling slowly away from the curb into traffic that was now motionless, stopped at a light. I closed my eyes and leaned back in the seat, willing the light to change and the traffic to move.

  But clearly the fates weren’t taking requests from me this weekend.

  Suddenly, there was a loud knock on the window. Given the luck I’d had in the past twenty-four hours, and the fact that a pounding on your cab in the middle of Manhattan was rarely a good thing, my eyes flew open in alarm. My mind started racing through the horrific possibilities of what would be outside. Perhaps a knife-wielding psychopath. Or a ski-masked robber with a 9mm.

  Instead, I looked out the window and saw a crazed-looking man fiddling with the door handle. I gasped.

  “That’s Cole Brannon,” said the taxi driver in a thick Indian accent. He turned around to look out the window in astonishment.

  “Yes, it is,” I agreed slowly. Outside, Cole was mouthing something to me while trying to juggle a mug of coffee, an apple, a banana, a muffin, and a croissant. The driver and I just stared.

  Cole gestured to me, a look of desperation on his face as he struggled to rearrange the breakfast items he was carrying. He looked like he was about to start some kind of gourmet circus act.

  “Well, open the door for him,” said the cab driver, looking like he was ready to start drooling at any second. “He’s a big star!”

  “Do I have to?” I mumbled reluctantly, starting to feel sorry for Cole despite myself. I stifled a giggle as he dropped a banana and looked positively devastated. Around us, traffic started to move—but the taxi driver stayed put, and so did Cole.

  “Yes, yes!” the cab driver responded desperately, oblivious to the scores of honking horns now aimed at him. “You open the door now!” Reluctantly, I reached over and opened the door for Cole, who immediately sighed in relief.

  “Claire!” he said, panting from his efforts. “What took you so long?”

  “I have to go home, Cole,” I said, trying to sound stern. Without a word, he handed me the muffin (which looked like blueberry) and the croissant. Still clutching the coffee and the apple, he slid into the taxi, placed the apple on his lap, and swung the door closed behind him.

  “Those are for your breakfast,” he said, nodding to the pastries he’d handed me, as if it was the most normal announcement in the world. I looked down at the muffin and the croissant, one in each hand, not sure what to say. “They’ll make you feel better. It’s good to eat bread products when you’re hungover.”

  “Well, thank you, Mr. Surgeon General,” I muttered. Cole ignored me.

  “And here’s an apple, but I’ll hold it until you’re ready for it,” he pressed on at full speed. “I brought you a banana too, but I dropped it. And a cup of coffee. But be careful not to spill it.”

  The cab driver was staring at us in the rearview mirror. The honking had temporarily subsided now that the light had turned red, and we were once again mired in traffic.

  “Hello, Mr. Cole Brannon.” The cab driver had apparently mustered the courage to greet his newest passenger. His face was flushed. “It is an honor to have you in my car.”

  “Oh,” said Cole, looking up at the driver as if surprised to see him there. “Thank you. It’s a pleasure to be here.” He sounded like he was graciously accepting an Oscar. I suppressed a laugh. He sounded so earnest. He looked back at me like he was expecting me to say something.

  “Um, thank you,” I said finally, looking down at the croissant and the muffin. They did look good. “But Cole—”

  “Wait!” Cole interrupted me triumphantly, digging in his pocket. Finally, he pulled out a bottle of water and displayed it for me. “This is for you, too. It will help your hangover.” I finally gave in and laughed.

  “Cole . . .” I began. I didn’t know what to say. “Thank you. But you didn’t have to do this.” But somewhere inside of me, where Unprofessional Claire was hiding, I was glad that he had.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Cole Brannon,” the cab driver cut in again, interrupting the little war that was raging in my head between Professional, Ethical Claire and Recently Dumped, Sex-Starved, A-Movie-Star-Is-Feeding-Me Claire. “It would be a great honor to have your autograph.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” Cole said graciously. The driver handed him a piece of paper, and he quickly scribbled his name.

  “Thank you so much, Mr. Cole Brannon,” the cab driver said. He took the piece of paper from Cole just as the light changed.

  “Anytime,” Cole said with a smile. The cab lurched forward into traffic, and I looked at Cole suspiciously.

  “You’re coming with me?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said firmly in a voice that made clear it wasn’t open for discussion.

  “Why?” I asked, squinting at him in confusion as the car crept downtown. I was aware that my heart was suddenly racing, and I didn’t know why. Cole shook his head and changed the subject.

  “Why did you leave so quickly?” he asked softly. Before I could answer, he nodded at my muffin. “Eat something,” he commanded like a concerned parent. I looked at him for a moment, shrugged, and took a bite of the muffin. Apparently, he was coming along for the ride whether I liked it or not. Okay, and despite myself, I had to admit: I liked it.

  I thought for a moment before I answered Cole’s question. What would I say? I finally decided upon the truth.

  “I didn’t know what else to do,” I admitted after I’d swallowed my third giant bite of muffin. I was hungrier than I’d realized. Cole looked at me with concern and handed me the bottle of water. I took a big sip and handed it back. “I’m so embarrassed about everything, and I thought maybe if I just left, we could just forget about it, you know? I mean, this isn’t me. This isn’t the kind of thing I do.”

  “I know,” Cole said gently, looking closely at me. “Do you think I would be doing this now if I thought you did this kind of thing all the time?”

  I thought for a second.

  “No,” I admitted. He had a point. I took a deep breath. “It’s just that I try so hard to keep those professional boundaries in place, and now look what I’ve done.”

  I sighed and was silent for a moment. The cab inched forward.

  “Okay, it’s my turn to ask you a question,” I said finally. “What are you doing here? Why did you follow me?”

  Cole looked
defensive for a moment, then his face softened.

  “I didn’t know if your boyfriend would still be at your apartment,” he said finally. He handed me the mug of coffee and steadied my hand as I took a sip. It was perfect—exactly the amount of cream and sweetener I used myself each morning. “I didn’t want you to have to face him alone if he was still there.”

  I stared at Cole for a moment over the rim of the mug.

  “You followed me in case I had to deal with Tom?” I asked incredulously.

  “Yeah,” said Cole with what I could have sworn was a blush. “I didn’t want you to have to be alone with him, you know? He doesn’t sound like a very good guy.”

  “He’s not,” I agreed, smiling at Cole now, despite myself. He was almost too good to be true.

  But that was the problem. He was the perfect guy—the guy every woman in America probably dreamed of—and I couldn’t so much as touch him. It would violate everything I stood for professionally. I suddenly understood the concept of forbidden fruit.

  Not to mention that even if I did develop a crush on him, it would be totally useless. I knew from the clips I’d read that his last serious girlfriend had been Kris Milan, the glamorous, willowy model-of-the-moment. Her flawless face looked down over Times Square from not only a Calvin Klein billboard, but also a Burberry perfume board, and an Audi ad. Not exactly in my league.

  “Thank you,” I said, realizing I was relieved that he was here with me. I had been worried about seeing Tom. Imagine his surprise if he were still in the apartment and I walked in with Hollywood’s most eligible bachelor. “Really, thanks.”

  Cole lowered his eyes.

  “You’re welcome,” he said softly. He looked back up at me and smiled gently. “Now eat that croissant, okay? I promise you’ll feel better.”

  “Okay,” I said, finally smiling at Cole. The cab heaved forward, and Cole sat in silence, watching me eat.

  *

  The remainder of the cab ride seemed to take forever, and by the time we reached the corner of Second Avenue and Second Street, I’d polished off all the food Cole had given me, as well as the water and the coffee. As a result, my bladder felt like it was about to burst.

  “It was a pleasure to drive you today, Mr. Cole Brannon,” said the driver formally as we alighted from the cab. “And I won’t tell anyone about you and your lady friend here. You can trust me.”

  Cole grinned at me. I blushed furiously.

  “Thank you,” he said seriously to the driver. He handed him the fare plus a twenty-dollar tip. Our starstruck driver simply sat and stared until Cole and I were inside my building.

  I dashed for the stairs the moment we pushed past the big entryway. Cole kept pace two stairs behind me. While I huffed and puffed my way up four flights, Cole hardly seemed winded.

  “This is me,” I panted as I reached my door. I put the key in the lock and turned it quickly.

  But then I stopped, frozen in place.

  “You okay?” Cole asked, putting a hand on my arm with a look of concern.

  “Yeah,” I said, not really meaning it. I couldn’t seem to will myself to open the door.

  “Here, let me go in first,” Cole said quietly, putting his right hand over mine. “In case he’s there.” I nodded. Cole gave my shoulder a quick squeeze, turned the knob, and disappeared inside while I waited on the doorstep.

  The seconds ticked by so slowly, it felt like I was standing there for hours. Finally, he was back at the doorway.

  “He’s gone,” he said simply as he pulled the door open for me.

  “Oh,” I said, still standing on the threshold.

  “Come in,” Cole urged. I looked up at him briefly and he stepped to the side, holding the door open for me. Gingerly, I stepped over the threshold into the kitchen.

  Everything looked the same as it had yesterday and the day before, and the day before that. I half expected Tom to come ambling out of the bedroom, lazily claiming to have just finished a day’s worth of work on his novel.

  But he wasn’t there. He’d never be there again.

  *

  Once I had used the bathroom, I stood there for a moment, leaning against the counter. Tom’s toothbrush was gone from the toothbrush holder we’d shared. His shaving cream had been taken from the medicine cabinet. His razors no longer sat beside mine. He was gone, and I knew I should have been glad. But somewhere deep inside, in a dark corner that shouldn’t have any place in a self-respecting girl’s heart, I missed him. I hated him with all the fury that had erupted yesterday when I saw him screwing another girl, but I couldn’t ignore the part of me that had spent a year desperately trying to make it work. I couldn’t shake the guilty feeling that I’d failed, miserably.

  I looked at myself in the mirror. I looked awful. I had dark bags under my eyes, and the makeup I’d slapped on in Cole’s bathroom had done little to hide the puffy redness that my eyes were still sporting, thanks to the flood of tears the night before. And to cap it all off, I had the most attractive movie star in America standing outside my bathroom door, no doubt thinking how pathetic (not to mention pathetic-looking) I was.

  I took a deep breath. Cole Brannon had helped me when I was at my most vulnerable, and there was nothing I could do about that. But I was okay now. I was going to be okay. And I had to get him out of here before this went any further.

  I tried to ignore the fact that my heart rate was up about 50 percent thanks to the fact that Cole Brannon—the Cole Brannon—was now sitting in my kitchen. I ignored the little uninvited fantasy creeping in at the back of my mind that involved me, Cole Brannon, the kitchen table, and substantially fewer clothes than either of us were currently wearing. I ignored the fact that I was developing one major crush. It was beside the point, not to mention totally inappropriate. And about as likely to develop into anything as winning the lottery.

  I closed my eyes once more and vowed that I would send Cole on his way, as politely as possible, before any more damage could be done. Tom had already taken every last shred of my personal dignity. I wouldn’t let the situation he’d initiated last night steal my professional dignity too.

  “Would you like a cup of coffee?” I asked breezily, emerging from the bathroom. I tried not to think too hard about the fact that Cole Brannon was actually sitting at my kitchen table. In Tom’s chair. Talk about an over-adequate replacement.

  “Yeah, sure, thanks,” he said. Damn it. He was supposed to say no, and he certainly wasn’t supposed to look that sexy when he said it.

  “Um, okay,” I said. I should have just been rude. “I’ll put a pot on, okay? But then I’m afraid I’m going to have to take off. I have to get back to the office to finish the story.” There, that was good. I wasn’t throwing him out if I actually had somewhere to be, right?

  “That story on me, hmm?” Cole asked, leaning back in his chair and grinning. “It had better be a good one. You better work hard on it. Make me sound good.”

  I smiled and wondered how anyone could possibly make him sound bad. He was perfect. I was suddenly sure that the whole sex-addict thing had to have been a false rumor.

  “I’m going to go change out of these clothes,” I said. I flipped the switch on the old Black & Decker that had served me well for the past five years. It began gurgling almost immediately, and I could smell the dark-roasted coffee beginning to work its caffeinated magic.

  “But the clothes you’re wearing are so nicely cleaned and neatly pressed,” Cole teased.

  “So true,” I replied. “But I would love for you to actually realize that I have more than one outfit.”

  “Oh, do you? Well, let’s see!”

  I made a face at him, and we both laughed. I could feel him watching me go as I stepped into my bedroom and shut the door behind me.

  The smell of coffee wafted in from the kitchen as I surveyed my room slowly, trying not to think about the scene I’d witnessed here last night, trying not to think about what had happened in the bed I’d shared with Tom for nea
rly a year now. The room looked just as innocent and welcoming as ever, which struck me as somewhat strange, although I’m not sure what I had expected.

  I looked in the closet and was immediately shocked to see that most of Tom’s clothes still hung there. From the way he’d cleaned out the bathroom, I assumed he was gone for good and had taken all of his things. I stared for a moment as I realized it meant he’d be making at least one return visit. My stomach turned funny circles as I tried to decide how that made me feel.

  As I turned around to survey the rest of the room, an unfamiliar object in the corner of the room caught my eye. I took a step closer.

  It was a small Louis Vuitton bag, and it wasn’t mine. It lay on its side, half obscured by the faded bureau, its thin strap trailing dangerously toward the bed. I stared warily.

  I took a few steps across the room and bent down beside the purse, suddenly feeling choked up and uncomfortable. I weighed it for a moment in my hands and turned it over pensively. I knew instantly that it belonged to the woman with the perfect hair, the perfect breasts, and the perfect legs. Did she have to have a perfect handbag too? Of course she did.

  Inside, there was surely an answer to who she was. I had to know. But I wasn’t sure I was ready to confront her again, even if this time she’d only be a tiny photo and a name on an ID.

  “Cole, can you come in here for a second?” I called out weakly. I sat down on the bed.

  “Sure.” I heard his footsteps. He knocked lightly. “Are you decent?”

  “Yeah,” I said absently, still fingering the bag. He cracked the door open slowly and slipped inside.

  “You okay?” he asked, looking at me with concern as he joined me on the edge of the bed.

  “It’s hers,” I said, without answering his question. He knew instantly what I meant. I held the purse out to him and finally looked up. Concern was etched across his perfect face as he put a strong hand gently on the small of my back.