How to Sleep with a Movie Star (28 page)

“Oh,” I said, caught off guard. I’d expected some sort of important revelation or something, not a handy household reminder about what to do with flowers. “Yes. Hang on.” I bent down and rummaged around under my sink, pushing past plastic bottles of Mr. Clean, Windex, and Fantastik until I found a vase. I pulled the vase out and filled it with water, putting the roses gently inside. I turned around. “Um, thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” said Cole again. He paused and looked at me closely. He took a deep breath. “I, um . . .” His voice trailed off and he looked nervous. He was still standing in the entryway, near the kitchen, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to move and offer Cole a seat inside. I was too baffled. “I came by on Wednesday, and you weren’t here.”

My mind raced for a moment. Wednesday? Where had I been Wednesday? That was the day I’d gone to see my lawyer. But Wendy had promised she’d stay in while I was gone, just in case Cole Brannon came by. Had she gone out for a few minutes?

I made a mental note to strangle her later.

“You did?” I asked finally.

“Yeah,” he said. “Your friend Wendy—well, your roommate Wendy, I guess—was here. She told me you’d gone to see your lawyer.”

“Wait,” I said, sure I’d heard him wrong. “You talked to Wendy?” He nodded. How could she not have told me? I’d spent the week thinking that Cole Brannon hated me, and I’d spent hours moaning about it to Wendy. “She never told me,” I said, slightly dazed.

“I know,” said Cole. I looked at him with confusion. “I asked her not to.”

“Oh,” I said stupidly, completely lost.

“She told me that you quit
Chic
and don’t want to do celebrity reporting anymore,” he said. I nodded wordlessly, wondering if this was going anywhere other than pointing out my current state of unemployment.

“So I figured that if you’re not working with celebrities anymore, we wouldn’t be violating any of your professional standards if I, um”—Cole paused for a moment and looked at me shyly—“if I asked you on a date tonight.”

I just stared. I must have heard him wrong.

“What?” I asked. I hadn’t meant to be quite that abrupt. I was just having trouble getting my tongue to cooperate with my brain to form more than one syllable at a time.

“To my movie premiere,” Cole added, looking vaguely uneasy. “Would you come with me?”

I fought the urge to look around for hidden cameras. Maybe CBS was debuting yet another reality show in the fall,
Who Wants to Trick a Pathetic, Unemployed Journalist
. Yippee, I’d be the star.

“What?” I said again, simply because I couldn’t think of anything else to say. I snuck a look around for the secret cameras.

“I was hoping you’d be my date,” Cole repeated, looking a bit nervous. Clearly this wasn’t going as well as he’d hoped.

I blurted out the first words I could think of. “But I don’t have a nice dress.”

Cole laughed and a bit of the concern fell from his face.

“Well, I got you one, if that’s okay,” he said. I stared at him. He paused for a moment and went on. “I mean, no pressure or anything, but I do have a dress if you want to go,” he said quickly. “But only if you want to. I know I was kind of a jerk to walk away like I did on Sunday morning, so if you don’t want to go, that’s okay.”

“No,” I said slowly. “You weren’t a jerk. I just thought you hated me.”

Cole looked wounded.

“No,” he said. “I’ve never felt like that about you. I just didn’t know how to react after that whole
Mod
thing and after the things Ivana had said. . . .” His voice trailed off. “I, um, I fired her. I should have believed you from the beginning.”

“Really?” I asked.

“Really,” Cole confirmed. He took a deep breath and smiled at me. “Now are you going to go out with me? Or am I going to have to grovel and beg?”

I stared and then finally smiled.

“I’d love to go,” I said softly.

“Good,” Cole said. “I’m not very good at the groveling and begging. But I can work on it.” He flashed me a wide smile, stood up, and took his cell phone out of his pocket. I stared up at him. This was like some kind of a dream.

Wait, maybe it
was
a dream. I
had
been dreaming of him an awful lot. Just in case, I pinched myself. “Ow!” I said. Cole looked startled.

“What?” he asked, sounding alarmed.

“Nothing,” I said slowly. This was real. This was really
real.
I felt like I might faint.

Cole flipped his phone open and started scrolling through his digital phone book.

“Hi there. Can you bring the dress up now?” he said into his cell. He listened for a moment, then grinned. “Yeah, she said yes.” He smiled at me and listened for another moment. “I know. It
did
take her a long time. See you in a second, okay?” Then he hung up.

“Who was that?” I asked.

“Your dress,” he said with a grin. “It will be arriving shortly.”

I looked at him, puzzled.

“Who was that on the phone?” I asked.

“You’ll see,” he said mysteriously.

I was startled a moment later to hear a key turn in the lock. Cole winked at me and walked to the door to help open it. I stood up just in time to see Wendy’s freckled face and wild hair emerge through the doorway, nearly hidden behind an immense mound of gold silk.

I barely saw her. My eyes were glued to the dress, which was one of the most beautiful things I’d ever seen.

As Cole held it up, the silky fabric reflected the light, making it appear to glow with a life of its own in the middle of my fluorescent kitchen. It was sleeveless and elegant, and the neckline plunged low, but not too low, in the shape of an upside-down teardrop. The top was fitted and slender, and the bottom of the dress billowed out gently while a few thin layers of tulle underneath gave it shape. It was a deep color of gold that I knew immediately would look perfect on me.

“It’s beautiful,” I breathed, nearly hypnotized by the glowing dress, knowing that my words didn’t come close to doing it justice.

“I know,” said Wendy, beaming. She was still breathing quickly, trying to regain her composure after carrying the dress up the stairs. I finally focused on her in disbelief. “I picked it out,” she said. Cole laughed.

“
We
picked it out,” he corrected. Wendy rolled her eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” she said. She winked at me. “Actually, Cole picked it out. I just okayed it.”

“Unbelievable,” I said, still in awe.

“We’ll have to do it again sometime,” said Cole. He smiled at Wendy, who laughed. Then he turned to me. “Well? Aren’t you going to try it on?”

He gently handed me the dress, and in a daze, I let Wendy lead me into my bedroom.

“I can’t wait to see it on you!” she squealed.

A hurried five minutes later, Wendy finished buttoning the back of my dress and turned me around to face the mirror.

“Oh my God,” I breathed.

“You’re gorgeous,” she said. The dress fit every curve of my body perfectly, hugging my waist to make it look suddenly slender, cinching perfectly across my chest to lift my bosom, plunging perfectly at the neckline to give the illusion of more cleavage than I really had. My skin, faintly tan thanks to the weekends Wendy and I had spent at the beach, looked dark and smooth against the rich gold color.

“It’s perfect,” I murmured.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Wendy said, bending to rummage through her bag. She emerged triumphantly a moment later with two gold strappy sandals that matched the dress exactly. She handed them to me with a grin.

“I picked these out for you,” she said. “Cole loved ’em.”

“They’re Manolo Blahniks,” I said softly, looking back and forth between the shoes and Wendy’s face.

“I know,” she said with a grin. “If Sidra DeSimon could only see you now. And those are yours to keep.”

“Oh my God,” I said. I was in a daze as I bent to put the stilettos on my feet. For a moment I wished my pedicure was more up to date. But it didn’t seem to matter much in the grand scheme of things.

“You are one hot mama,” said Wendy cheerfully as I straightened back up. I looked in the mirror. The shoes completed the outfit perfectly. “That movie star in our living room won’t be able to take his eyes off you.” She winked at me, and I grinned back at her reflection in the mirror.

Twenty minutes later, Wendy had expertly applied my makeup and put my hair up, leaving a few curly tendrils tumbling down to frame my face. She led me to the door and gave me a quick hug before she opened it.

“You deserve this, sweetie,” she said into my ear as she opened the door.

“You look amazing,” Cole said, his eyes wide, as Wendy and I came out of the bedroom. He stood up from the sofa. “I don’t even know what to say.”

“Thank you,” I said, smiling back at him. It was finally dawning on me that this was all happening, that I wasn’t hallucinating or imagining things. Cole was very real as he crossed the room and put his arms gently on my elbows, admiring me at arm’s length.

“You are so beautiful,” he said, staring at me like he was seeing me for the first time. I blushed.

He stood there for a moment, just looking at me, and my heart pounded in anticipation. Then he leaned down and kissed me gently on the lips. I moaned softly without meaning to as my lips parted and his tongue gently searched my mouth for the first time. I forgot for a moment that Wendy was standing there, and I put one hand on Cole’s back and the other on the back of his head as he folded me tightly into his arms. I felt the softness of his hair and the stiffness of his jacket with my hands, and I felt like I was drowning in him. In a moment, he pulled away, leaving me wanting more. Slowly, I opened my eyes.

This was better than all those dreams I’d had about Cole Brannon.

And it was real.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for a while,” he said, his voice husky as his blue eyes bore into mine.

“Me too,” I agreed.

The Velvet Ropes

T
he premiere seemed to go by in a blur. The moment our limo pulled up in front of the Loews Lincoln Square Theater, flashbulbs began exploding around us in a seemingly endless galaxy of light. I blinked and tried to adjust my eyes to the constant pop-pop of the cameras.

“Are you okay?” Cole asked, squeezing my hand, as we stepped out of the car. I thought about it for a second.

“Yes,” I said finally. “Yes, I am.” And I was. The flashbulbs were nearly blinding me, and for a moment, it occurred to me to be worried about being caught with Cole. After all, photos of us together would be everywhere tomorrow morning. But for once, I didn’t care what the pictures looked like or what the tabloids and gossip columns would say. I wasn’t doing anything wrong, nothing that should have embarrassed me. I was just a girl out on a date with a guy.

It seemed almost superfluous that the guy happened to be the center of the Hollywood universe.

It was almost surreal to be on the
other
side of the red carpet—across the ominous velvet ropes from the snapping flashbulbs, the jutting tape recorders, and the jabbering reporters as they elbowed each other out of the way, following each star’s progress down the carpet with wide eyes and eager looks on their faces. It had never occurred to me what we must have looked like from the celebrities’ perspective. But now that I was in their shoes—Manolos, to be exact—I suddenly understood how annoying we, the media, must seem. I suddenly felt like a caged animal in a zoo with a throng of overeager, impolite children fighting to get my attention, to distract me or freak me out in some way.

“Weird, isn’t it?” Cole murmured in my ear. “You never quite get used to it.”

“Wow.” It was all I could think of to say.

“It’s okay,” Cole said softly. “Just be yourself. It gets easier.”

So I stopped and smiled for the cameras while Cole squeezed my hand tightly. I blushed when he leaned over to give me a quick peck on the lips, clearly not caring that it had been captured on a dozen rolls of film.

I glowed when he stopped to tell a reporter from the
New York Times
that yes, my name was Claire Reilly, and yes, this was an actual date. I smiled when he told a reporter from
Tattletale
that their magazine was trash and they’d been wrong about us months ago, but could print whatever they wanted today. I flat out laughed (demurely, of course) when he told a reporter from the
Los Angeles Times
that they might want to have their legal reporter call him if they wanted an interesting story about
Mod
magazine and a certain fashion director.

Then I saw her, and I couldn’t stop myself from laughing.

It was Sidra DeSimon.

She was standing along the ropes of the red carpet, flanked by Sally and Samantha, trying to get a better view of the stars walking toward the theater. She was dressed in a black gown and chunky silver jewelry, her hair piled on top of her head. She had a notepad in her hand and was evidently reporting for
Mod
—which was quite strange, as I’d never actually seen Sidra on a reporting assignment, of all things. Stranger yet was the fact that she was the only reporter on the line dressed like a wannabe star. She looked like she thought she was going to the premiere herself, or at the very least, like she was hoping she’d be plucked from the crowd by an actor who had somehow neglected to bring a date. Fat chance.

When she saw me, it was almost cartoonish the way her face fell and her eyes widened in shock. Cole was holding my hand tightly, and I couldn’t erase the grin from my face. Even when I saw Sidra. She would never ruin an evening for me again.

“What are
you
doing here?” she hissed at me as Cole stopped to talk to a reporter from
Entertainment Weekly.

“Oh, I’m on a date,” I said breezily, loving every second of it.

“With . . .” Her voice trailed off and she looked like she was about to choke. “With Cole Brannon?” Her voice rose an octave as she squeaked out his name.

“Well, yes,” I said, calmly raising an eyebrow at her. “Does that surprise you?”

“I just thought . . . I thought . . .” she stammered. “You and Cole Brannon aren’t
dating
!”

I smiled at her.

“But, Sidra,” I said innocently. “Wasn’t it you who told
Tattletale
I was sleeping with him? And then printed it in
Mod
?”

“But we both know it wasn’t true,” she sputtered. “You never slept with Cole Brannon. You know I made that up.”

“Really?” I asked calmly. I turned to the reporter from
Entertainment Weekly,
who had stopped chatting with Cole and was now listening intently to our conversation. “Is that still on, by any chance?” I asked him calmly, gesturing to his mini recorder, which was pointed our way.

“It sure is,” he said, grinning at me. “And I just heard every word of that. Want a copy?” I smiled and nodded. Cole quickly scribbled my address and phone number down for the reporter, promising him a phone interview this week. Sidra’s face had suddenly turned as red as the carpet.

“But, I didn’t mean . . .” Sidra stammered. “I mean, I think you know that—”

I cut her off. Cole was now back at my side, his arm protectively around my waist, pulling me gently toward him. I could feel his body stiffen as he looked at Sidra.

“It was so lovely to see you, Sidra,” I said calmly. I winked at Sally and Samantha, who glowered back at me. “But I really must run. I have a premiere to attend.”

“But . . .” Sidra sputtered.

“Oh, don’t worry,” I said cheerfully. “I’ll be in touch. Through my lawyer. Oh, and give my regards to George next time you see him. Wait, where is he tonight?”

“He’s busy,” Sidra muttered, her voice barely audible.

“What a shame,” I said. Cole pulled me closer, his arm still protectively around me. I knew that Sidra couldn’t hurt me anymore. Ever again. “Have a lovely evening,” I said to all three Triplets, who were looking back at me with matching expressions of hatred and awe.

Then Cole and I turned away, without looking back. Once we’d walked through the doors, Cole turned to me.

“You okay?”

“I’m better than okay.” I grinned.

“I have the feeling that woman is going to regret the day she crossed you,” Cole said, pulling me closer.

“You know, I think so too,” I said with a smile.

The movie was wonderful. The war scenes were breathtakingly vivid, the script was beautifully written, and the acting was heart-wrenchingly on target. The movie was an early favorite for the Oscars, and after seeing it, I could see why.

But even better than the movie itself was the way Cole slipped his arm gently around my shoulder midway through the second scene, and the way he squeezed me comfortingly, pulling me closer to him each time there was a sad moment in the film. I loved how he looked at me for my reaction after each major moment. I could hardly believe it when he reached over almost unconsciously and softly kissed the top of my head during a romantic scene.

After the premiere, we went back to my place. Wendy had conveniently disappeared to spend the night at Jean Michel’s, and she appeared to have cleaned the apartment for the first time in history. I couldn’t have asked for a better friend.

Cole and I opened a bottle of chianti and sat on the couch, talking and laughing for hours, away from the paparazzi, away from the prying eyes of curious onlookers. By the end of the evening, I’d forgotten that I was supposed to be intimidated by him, that I was supposed to feel out of my element being on a date with a movie star.

When the bottle was empty and I was full of liquid courage, I asked Cole if he wanted to stay.

He said yes.

We moved into my bedroom, where the ghost of Tom no longer haunted me. We spent what felt like an eternity exploring each other’s bodies. Beneath the tux, beneath the movie star image, beneath all the layers of professionalism that had existed between us, he was the gentlest man I’d ever known.

That night, in the privacy of my own bedroom, far away from the prying eyes of the paparazzi, Sidra DeSimon, and
Mod
magazine, I fulfilled the tabloid prophecy.

I finally
did
sleep with a movie star.

When I woke up the next morning, sunlight streaming in the windows, Cole was already awake, watching me. He smiled and kissed my eyelids, then the tip of my nose, then my mouth. We made love again, slowly, languidly, and I knew I’d never let him walk out the door again.