How to Sleep with a Movie Star

  Not that I’d mind if the world thought that Cole Brannon was in love with me. But I couldn’t have my coworkers thinking that there was anything unprofessional going on. Because there wasn’t. I would never do that.

  I knew they’d never guess how pathetic I truly was, how someone like Cole would never look at me that way. After all, if my own boyfriend didn’t want to sleep with me, how on earth could the hottest movie star in the world want to?

  “Look, we can’t talk here,” I said suddenly. I could practically see my reputation crumbling before my eyes.

  “Oh,” said Cole, looking surprised. He glanced quickly around the room, then back at me. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean . . .”

  “C’mon.” I stood up quickly, grabbed him by the arm, and dragged him down the hallway. We passed cubicles filled with desperately curious eyes, following our every move. I didn’t know where I was taking him until I spotted the door to the men’s room at the end of the hall. I paused for a moment and pulled Cole inside, knowing we’d be the only ones there. The odds that the one man on our editorial staff of fifty-two people was using the bathroom at this very moment were slim.

  Sure enough, the bathroom was empty, and we were finally alone.

  “Look,” I hissed at Cole as the door swung shut behind us, keeping out the prying eyes. “You can’t just come here. What will people think?”

  “I’m sorry,” Cole said, looking surprised and a bit wounded. For a moment, I felt a bit guilty, despite myself. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay. I didn’t think . . .” His voice trailed off. He leaned into the wall and I stepped in front of him, still going.

  “It’s bad enough that Sidra saw us together and suspected . . . well, you know. But now the whole office has seen us.” I realized I was shaking a finger at him, and I stopped for a moment. I was acting like a disappointed mother. I took a deep breath and felt suddenly embarrassed.

  “I’m sorry,” I said with a sigh. “I just . . . I know you came here because you wanted to help. And I appreciate that. I’m just so afraid of what people will think.”

  “Why?” Cole asked softly. As he looked at me, I realized he wasn’t angry about my outburst, but was instead peering at me with what looked like pity. I felt instantly shamed. I didn’t want or need his sympathy. I didn’t need him to feel sorry for me, then dash off with the lovely Kylie Dane or the coldly beautiful Ivana Donatelli. “Why does it matter what they think?”

  “Because it does,” I answered sullenly, knowing very well that I sounded petulantly childish. “And because I care about my job and my reputation, and I don’t want to risk ruining all that.”

  I suddenly felt perilously close to tears as we looked at each other for a moment. He didn’t understand. He couldn’t possibly understand what it was like to be the youngest person to hold the position of senior entertainment editor at a major million-circulation magazine, to have to always remain on the up-and-up so that no one thought you were in the position for the wrong reasons.

  He couldn’t possibly understand what it felt like to catch your boyfriend cheating on you when you’d done everything in your power to make him love you. When nothing you did was enough. When your coworker’s plastic sister was more desirable than you. When you knew that no one in their right mind would want you.

  I felt as pathetic as I knew Cole thought I was. For a moment, his gentle gaze made me want to hug him, to have him put his arms around me, pull me into his strong chest, and tell me everything would be all right. But that was ridiculous.

  “Have you heard from him?” he asked softly, gently. I blinked.

  “Who?”

  “Your boyfriend,” he said, looking a bit uncomfortable. He shifted his weight. “Or your ex-boyfriend or whatever. The guy you walked in on.”

  “Oh,” I said. Imagine that. A year of building a relationship had turned him merely into the “guy I’d walked in on.” Of course I hadn’t heard from him. Which would make me look even more pathetic to Cole. I couldn’t stand it.

  “Um, yes, actually. He called and we talked for a while,” I lied quickly. I glanced at Cole, who looked surprised. I cleared my throat and dove deeper into the fib. I didn’t know why I didn’t just tell him the truth, but I was already on a roll. “He sent flowers too. Everything’s fine. It was all a misunderstanding.”

  Cole was silent for a moment. I mentally kicked myself. Could I have sounded more moronic? A “misunderstanding”? What on earth did I mean by that?

  “Oh,” Cole said finally. I stared at the floor. “Good. I mean, it sounds like you’re, um, working things out.”

  “Yep,” I said brightly, digging myself in deeper. I elaborated further. “I mean, he realized what he was throwing away and how much he really loved me and everything,” I babbled, still not meeting Cole’s eye. “I have to decide whether or not to forgive him, but when someone clearly loves you that much, you know . . .” My voice trailed off, and I snuck a look at Cole. He still looked surprised.

  “Oh, well, I’m glad,” he said. He looked like he was avoiding my eye. He was silent for a moment. “Just as long as he treats you right.”

  Well of course he didn’t treat me right. He never had.

  “It’s between me and Tom,” I said stiffly. “But I appreciate your concern.”

  “Of course,” Cole said quickly. “I mean, I just wanted to make sure, you know, that you knew you could call me if you needed anything. That I’m here for you. But I guess you’re okay.”

  “I’m great,” I said, flashing him a winning grin. “Really. I’m great. Life’s great.”

  “Good.”

  “Great.”

  There was a moment of uncomfortable silence as we stood in the bathroom. I avoided looking at him. I was suddenly painfully aware that we were mere inches apart. I was planted firmly in front of him as he leaned against the wall, and I was so close that I could smell his faint cologne and feel his breath ruffling the top layers of my hair. In that moment I had the strange feeling—just for an instant—that I wanted to stay there forever. But that was stupid. He was completely out of my league. And to top it off, he clearly thought I was pathetic. (It was beside the point that I did actually appear to be pretty pathetic, which would make him right.)

  I quickly cleared my throat and stepped away.

  “Look, I appreciate your concern, but you really need to go,” I said brusquely. What was I, crazy? I couldn’t let myself feel attracted to him.

  Besides, he was having an affair. Just like Tom. It was right there in Tattletale’s black and white. Even if they weren’t always reliable. But photos didn’t lie.

  Scumbag.

  “I don’t need your help, thank you,” I said curtly. “I’ll be just fine, and I’m sure you have much more important things to do.” Or people to do. Like Kylie Dane.

  Cole looked at me for a moment, his perfect features twisted into an expression of confusion.

  “Thank you for all your help on this story,” I continued with forced cheerfulness, trying my best to sound professional and ignore the fact that Cole smelled wonderful, looked wonderful, and sounded wonderful. He wasn’t wonderful, though. I had to keep reminding myself of that.

  He was sleeping with Kylie Dane, which made him scum. Lying scum. Besides, this was just business.

  “Um, okay, sure, no problem,” he said uncertainly. If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought I’d hurt his feelings. But he was an actor, and I was sure he could fake all sorts of emotions. He sure could lie like a pro.

  “Fantastic,” I said briskly. I reached out and offered him my hand. He looked blankly at it for a moment, then shook it slowly. I tried to ignore the tingle that ran up my arm when he touched me. “I’ll call your publicist when the article comes out and send over some copies.”

  “Okay,” Cole said. He still looked confused. “Thanks.”

  “No problem. Thank you.”

  And with that, I hurried him out of the bathroom, where a small crowd had clustere
d just feet away, near the water cooler. Hmm. Taking him into the bathroom to avoid prying eyes probably hadn’t been such a hot idea.

  Apparently, I didn’t need anyone’s help to destroy my reputation. I was managing to do it single-handedly. How efficient of me.

  “Nice meeting with you, Cole,” I said brightly, as I walked him to the door. To my chagrin, I could feel an involuntary, furious blush heating my face. “Mod magazine really appreciates your cooperation.” I was trying to sound as impersonal as possible. We still had quite an audience.

  “Nice meeting with you too, Claire,” he said. Was it my imagination, or did he look kind of sad? We paused at the door that opened out toward the reception desk. He leaned in and whispered softly in my ear, “You will call if you need me, right?” My heart leaped in my chest, but I fought it down.

  “I appreciate the offer,” I said firmly. “But I don’t think that will be necessary. I’ll be in touch when the article comes out.”

  “Oh,” Cole said. “Okay.” He took a step backward, through the open doorway, still looking perplexed.

  “Okay,” I said cheerfully. “Have a nice day. Thanks for coming by.”

  My face hurt as I smiled a smile I didn’t mean. Why did I suddenly have the sneaking feeling I’d made a mistake?

  The door swung closed behind him, and I saw him glance over his shoulder and look at me one last time as he disappeared toward the elevator bank.

  The Hunk

  What the hell were you thinking?” Wendy demanded. It was just past 6 p.m., and I’d decided to go home to my own apartment tonight. I seemed to be on a roll in the screwing-up-my-life department. I figured I might as well take all my bad karma back to the location where it all started.

  But Wendy wasn’t letting me off the hook that easily. We walked side by side to the N/R station at Forty-ninth and Seventh Avenue, squished in a private bubble amid the sea of people rushing home from work. Beside us, traffic on Broadway inched south, the drivers trying to cross from east to west honking and trying to maneuver through stopped traffic.

  “I don’t know what I was thinking,” I said miserably. I shrugged and looked at her out of the corner of my eye.

  “So you just told him that you and Tom were back together? And then you told him to get lost?”

  “Not in those exact words,” I mumbled.

  “Claire! Why?”

  “I don’t know.” I looked up at Wendy and was instantly silenced by the expression on her face. She was staring at me like I was crazy, which I supposed I was.

  Really.

  “But it was Cole Brannon,” she said, drawing out each syllable. “Cole Bran-non,” she repeated for emphasis, like she was talking to someone with a very small mental capacity. “You know, Cole Brannon, big movie star, hottest guy in America. That Cole Brannon.”

  “I know,” I said softly. Okay, so maybe this hadn’t been my brightest move yet.

  “And you just told him that you were taken,” Wendy recapped. “By a man we all know is a total creep.”

  “I know,” I said again.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “No.”

  Wendy sighed and looked away for a moment. I cleared my throat and tried to explain.

  “He was just there because he felt sorry for me, you know.”

  “Oh yeah,” Wendy said, looking at me sharply. “I get visits at work all the time from movie stars who feel sorry for me.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “No, I don’t. Guys like that don’t just swing by the office because they feel sorry for you. And you just totally blew him off.”

  “Whatever,” I said, knowing I sounded like an impetuous child. “What would he want with me? He has Kylie Dane. I’m just this crazy reporter who puked on him.”

  Wendy stopped, looking at me in exasperation. Finally, she shook her head.

  “You know, did it ever occur to you that he was telling the truth about Kylie Dane?”

  “But she said—”

  Wendy cut me off.

  “I don’t care what she said. She might have motives you don’t know about. What actress’s career wouldn’t be helped by being linked with Cole Brannon?”

  “But the pictures—”

  “Could have a logical explanation,” Wendy completed my sentence. She shook her head again. “You know, they are shooting a movie together. Maybe the picture was from the set. While they were shooting a scene.”

  I looked at her.

  “What about the pictures with his publicist Ivana?” I persisted. “Or with Jessica Gregory?”

  “The picture with the publicist was probably just dinner,” Wendy said. “There was nothing romantic about it, really. And you know that Cole Brannon was shooting a guest spot on Spy Chicks, Jessica Gregory’s show. I’m sure a photographer just got a shot while they were filming outside. Those tabloids can make anything look bad.”

  “I guess so,” I conceded. “But I don’t have a good feeling about this, you know? I mean, the thing is, he can have any of those women if he wants to. There’s not a reason in the world he’d want to date me. That’s just crazy.”

  “It’s not crazy, Claire,” Wendy said firmly. “You’re not giving yourself enough credit.”

  I shook my head, dismissing the compliment. I appreciated her confidence in me, but I knew it was just best-friend blindness. Tom—who, let’s face it, was a bit of a loser—didn’t even want me. It was ludicrous to think that Cole Brannon would.

  “I’m still not ready to write off the tabloid pictures as meaningless,” I said, deflecting attention from the real issue, my lack of desirability. “Maybe one picture. But photos of him with all three women? I don’t know. I don’t think I can believe him when he says that nothing’s going on.”

  “Not all men are liars like Tom, Claire,” Wendy said, looking at me sharply. I looked down, refusing to meet her gaze. “You never used to have a problem trusting people.”

  “Well, maybe I should have,” I said. I took a deep breath and changed the subject. “Look, you know how I feel about people thinking I slept my way into my position or something. Do you know how it would look if something happened now between me and Cole? Not that it would even be an option.”

  Wendy sighed.

  “It’s not like you’re out trying to get laid by every movie star you interview,” she said. “That would be kind of suspicious. But one guy? One guy who you have this connection with?”

  “We don’t have a connection,” I snapped. “That’s crazy. He’s just a guy who I interviewed, and that’s it. End of story. I thought he was nice, but obviously he’s just like every other man.” Wendy looked at me for a moment and took a deep breath.

  “Okay,” she said finally. “I’m sorry. It’s not my business. I just wish someone would look at me the way that man looked at you.”

  As we parted at the subway station and went our separate ways, I began to feel vaguely uneasy. But that was silly.

  Besides, why would Wendy need men to look at her the way Cole Brannon had looked at me? Men looked at her with lust and an unmasked desire to get her into bed. Cole Brannon looked at me with pity.

  I couldn’t remember the last time someone had looked at me with lust in his eyes. Least of all my live-in boyfriend, who had spent the last several months screwing someone else.

  I had apparently become man-repellant.

  *

  The phone rang at 6:45 the next morning, forty-five minutes before my alarm was supposed to go off, and I was rudely awakened from a dream about Cole Brannon. I couldn’t remember much of it in those first few seconds that consciousness dawned. But it had been a nice dream, and it hadn’t exactly been G-rated. That much I remembered. The thought made me vaguely uneasy, given the circumstances. I tried to excuse it by telling myself there were thousands of other American women fantasizing about him too.

  They just didn’t happen to be as sex-starved as
me.

  And Cole Brannon probably hadn’t taken most of them home at night. Or sent them flowers at work. But I digress.

  Disappointed that I was now awake and couldn’t escape back into the dream world, I reached for the rudely jangling phone.

  “Hello?” I answered sleepily.

  “Claire?”

  The voice snapped me instantly awake. I sat up quickly.

  “Tom,” I said, feeling like the breath had been knocked out of me.

  “Hi, baby,” he said.

  I couldn’t speak for a minute. What did he want? Why was he calling? Had he realized that he missed me? That he needed me? That he wanted to come back?

  “Hi,” I answered finally. I looked at the clock. “Tom, it’s six forty-five. What are you doing calling me at this time of morning?” I urged myself to sound casual. Casual Claire. Cool, calm, collected Claire. That was me. I took a breath.

  “I wanted to make sure to catch you in,” Tom said calmly. “I’ve been trying you for a few days, but you haven’t been there. Where have you been?”

  I opened my mouth to tell him I’d been staying with Wendy; then I reconsidered.

  “None of your business,” I snapped. There. Let him wonder. Maybe I was out on dates with men who actually had jobs. Maybe I was out partying until the wee hours of the morning. Heck, maybe I was sleeping with a movie star. Yeah, sure.

  “Sorry, you’re right,” he said softly. Of course I was right. Even if I wasn’t actually sleeping with said movie star. I was silent while I waited for him to speak. “Look, I’m sorry about what happened, Claire. I had no right to . . . You didn’t deserve that.”

  His voice was soft and slow, and he sounded genuinely remorseful. I was speechless for a minute.

  “You’re right,” I snapped finally. He wasn’t going to get off the hook that easily. “I didn’t deserve that. Not after everything I’ve done for you.” Anger welled up inside me.

  “I know, Claire, I know,” Tom said softly. “There’s no excuse.”

  “No, there’s not.” The anger bubbled to the surface. “Do you have any idea what that was like? Walking in on you like that? Seeing you in my bed with . . . with . . . that woman?”