How to Sleep with a Movie Star (5 page)

A short item from MSNBC addressed the recent buzz about Cole Brannon’s rumored romance with a married actress:

While rumors of a budding affair with Aussie actress Kylie Dane persist, Cole Brannon denies them.

“She’s a lovely woman, and I’m proud to call her my friend,” Brannon said. “But it’s ludicrous to suggest that there is anything more between us. She’s married, and I would simply never cross that line.”

He sounded genuine, but he was an
actor,
and rumors get started for a reason. But perhaps it wasn’t true—I would give him the benefit of the doubt, as I tried to do for everyone I interviewed. It was only fair. No doubt he would expect a question about Kylie Dane in every interview he did now, anyhow, so he’d be prepared for my nosiness.

This may not seem very journalistically sound, but in a way I regretted that I would have to ask. I was a firm believer that a celebrity’s personal life should be, well, personal. That was what I hated most about my job—that I had to ask things that were really none of my business. Personally,
I
didn’t care who was dating whom and who was sleeping with whom. But many of our readers did. And as much as I hated having to look at someone over coffee and ask who they were sleeping with, and whether they were cheating on their wives or husbands, I knew it came with the territory. It was part of being famous. And oddly, the more fame someone achieved for his or her personal exploits, the more fame that person seemed to achieve on-screen or on the
Billboard
charts.

I mean, look at J-Lo and the whole “Bennifer” debacle. Or Colin Farrell and how quickly his bed-hopping (okay, and his sexy, lopsided grin) had catapulted him to stardom.

As a reporter, I simply couldn’t ignore the hottest gossip concerning an actor. I would ask the question as politely and unobtrusively as possible, eyes downcast, feeling guilty.

The actors, in turn, would act annoyed at my intrusion, but I suspected they were secretly pleased that the buzz around them was so prevalent that it would be part of our interview.

It was all part of the dance I did with every celeb who had graced our cover since I started working for
Mod
.

The last article in the series of clips was a small Page Six item:

Despite rumors of a romance with actress Kylie Dane, Cole Brannon was seen earlier this week canoodling with Italian model Gina Bevinetto in the VIP room at BLVD, then joining Rosario Dawson and Scarlett Johansson at the bar.

Yep, I thought as I put the final touches on my questions and notes and hit Print. He was unarguably the hottest star in Hollywood right now, and I was having brunch with him in the morning. I looked at his photograph and felt a momentary and very unfamiliar rush of excitement, but it disappeared just as quickly. It was definitely time for bed.

It was pretty much a given—crossed fingers or not—that there was no excitement awaiting me there.

How to Meet a Movie Star

I
was at the Ritz on Central Park South at quarter to ten, fifteen minutes before the scheduled brunch with the hottest guy in Hollywood. I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes as I waited in the entryway to Atelier, the Ritz’s premiere dining room, and one of the chicest restaurants in New York. And by chic, I mean ostentatious. Pretentious. Showy. Froufrou.

I was surprised, in a way, that Cole Brannon would choose such a place to meet. But who could tell with celebs these days? Maybe his everyday, middle-class Boston-born persona had been replaced with that of a wealthy, caviar-loving Upper East Sider. It figured. I felt embarrassingly out of my element as I shifted from foot to foot and watched a parade of Gucci, Prada, and Escada float by.

I always hated meeting celebrities for meals. On the surface it seemed glamorous. I got to dine out at exclusive restaurants that I wouldn’t, in a million years, be able to afford on my own. Once the celebrity had glided in, twenty minutes late and often armed with a makeup artist, a publicist, and a personal assistant, our table would immediately become the center of attention, the glowing core of our own solar system. I’d be the object of envy for dozens of other diners who were no doubt wondering who I was, and why a plain girl like me was dining with Julia Roberts, Paris Hilton, or Gwen Stefani.

Then it became an exercise in futility. The actor/ singer/model in question would nearly forget I was there, even as I asked questions. Instead of making eye contact and truly having a conversation with me, the celeb would multitask like a pro: scanning the room to bask in the adoration of fans, checking pager and cell phone messages, sipping champagne, and whispering to either the personal assistant or publicist, all at once. I always felt like I was somehow intruding on their little private world, despite the fact that
Mod’s
corporate card was paying for the meal for this actor/singer/model and her entourage—and often a doggie bag of food which was, quite literally, for her dog.

So you can imagine why brunch with the gorgeous Cole Brannon didn’t excite me quite as much as it perhaps should have. I had no doubt that he would a) be late, b) arrive with an impressive entourage and possibly a model or actress he’d shacked up with the night before, c) be either hung over or simply too bored with me to answer my questions, and d) spend the interview trying to catch a glimpse of his perfect features in the backs of spoons, glossy undersides of serving trays, and the spotless silver carafes the busy waiters bustled by with.

I just wasn’t in the mood for yet another prima donna star this morning. But I had a job to do, and I had little choice but to do it.

Ten minutes after arriving at Atelier, I decided out of desperation that I would check in for our reservation and Cole Brannon could join me when he arrived. I was dying for a cappuccino, and I didn’t think he’d mind if I got a jump-start on my morning caffeine fix. I asked for a table near the door and watched the entrance intently, knowing that I’d see him when he came in.

The tables were spread far apart, and the soaring ceiling gave the room an airy feeling. The dark wood and tan fabric melded together in classy (a little nondescript if you ask me) harmony. A myriad of colorful modern art, clearly as expensive as it was bright, lined the walls. Expressionless waiters bustled back and forth, nearly running, while the wealthy patrons tittered lightly, using precisely the correct silverware from their selections of roughly a dozen utensils. My manners were nowhere near that advanced. After the primary three utensils and the salad fork, I was lost.

Acutely aware that my pale pink Zara shell and black Gap pencil skirt had no more place here than I did, I slunk down in my chair and tried to blend in with the artwork. Unfortunately, it was much more colorful and exciting than I was at the moment.

When Cole Brannon still hadn’t arrived at 11:00, my cappuccino was gone, and my good humor was wearing off. Celebrities often strolled in a bit late, but a whole hour? When I’d given up a weekend with Tom to slave over a last-minute interview and profile? I’d been all ready to give Cole Brannon the benefit of the doubt—especially since he’d actually sounded
nice
and down-to-earth in the overwhelming majority of clips that were now emblazoned on my brain—but this was testing my patience. It was becoming increasingly clear he was just another prima donna star, making a reporter wait while he took his sweet time primping, or sleeping off a hangover, or whatever he was doing. I took out my cell phone to dial Cole’s publicist, Ivana Donatelli, who had set up this meeting, but I was put through directly to her voice mail. Apparently, she wasn’t up either.

Five minutes later, after I’d grumpily waved away yet another attempt by the obsequious waiter to bring me another cappuccino, my cell phone rang. The caller ID said “Unavailable.” I was sure it was Ivana calling back.

“Hello?” I snapped, knowing that my voice must have sounded almost as peeved as I was beginning to feel.

“Claire?” The male voice wasn’t the one I was expecting, but it sounded vaguely familiar all the same. It was far too deep and husky to belong to Tom. But there was something about the way he softened the
r
sound in “Claire” that rang a bell.

“Yes . . .” I said slowly, still trying to place the somehow familiar intonation.

“It’s Cole.” He cleared his throat, and I could feel my eyebrows arch upward in surprise. “Um, Cole Brannon,” he clarified, as if I might be receiving calls from another man named Cole. Well, this is a first, I thought huffily, squaring my shoulders in annoyance. I’d never actually had a celebrity call me
himself
to cancel, or blow me off, or whatever it was he was about to do.

“Hi,” I said. I couldn’t think of anything else to say other than
Where the hell are you?
But that wouldn’t be appropriate, now would it? So I bit my tongue and waited.

“Are you here? At the restaurant, I mean?” His voice sounded just as sexy as it always did through the Dolby Surround Sound of theaters, but it wasn’t softening me up much.

“Yes, at Atelier,” I said grumpily. “I’m at a table near the door.
By myself
.” I stressed the last part. “Where are
you
?” Just because he was a gorgeous movie star, it didn’t mean he could stand me up.

“Oh my God.” Cole Brannon started to laugh. Despite myself, the deep, resonating chuckle made me relax a bit. “You’ve been here for over an hour!”

“Yes, I have,” I said rather sternly, hating that I loved his deep voice. I reminded myself that I was supposed to be annoyed at him. Then it hit me. “Wait, how did you know that?”

“Because I’ve been sitting two tables over from you the whole time!”

To my horror, I suddenly realized that the laughing wasn’t coming just from the phone but from a man in a baseball cap, also sitting alone at a table several feet behind me. The cap was pulled low over his eyes, and I hadn’t given him a second glance when I’d arrived at the restaurant fifteen minutes early. Celebrities were
never
early, so I was sure I’d beaten Cole that morning. I hadn’t given the restaurant more than a cursory glance.

“Hang on, I’m coming over,” Cole said quietly, and I heard my cell phone click off. For a second I couldn’t move, and I continued to hold my silent phone to my ear, frozen in embarrassment. By now, my cheeks were fully ablaze, and I wondered if I’d ever felt dumber. (The answer was no, in case you were wondering. This was pretty much the height of my stupidity track record.)

I’d kept the hottest star in Hollywood waiting for more than an hour because I hadn’t noticed him. This was a new low in brainlessness, even for me. This definitely topped the sexy-heel-caught-in-the-subway-grate fiasco.

“Hello there,” Cole Brannon said cheerfully, arriving at my side. I looked up warily. For the first time I noticed his brilliant blue eyes and strands of his legendary tousled brown hair peeking out from under his Red Sox cap. In person, his face looked even more perfect than it did on the big screen or in the magazine spreads he’d been featured in. Corny as it sounds, he truly looked like he’d been chiseled by Michelangelo himself.

There was a deep dimple in his chin, and when he smiled, adorable dimples appeared in his perfectly tanned cheeks, too. I usually hated sideburns, but I suddenly loved the way his zigzagged down his jawline, ending evenly at the bottom of his earlobes, in closely trimmed perfection. He had a small cluster of eight or so freckles across the bridge of his nose, which I’d never noticed on-screen, and there was a small, nearly imperceptible scar on the underside of his jaw. I remembered reading in the clips that it was from a football injury he’d suffered in high school.

He was dressed simply in faded jeans (which looked like anything but designer) and a navy collared shirt that stretched perfectly over his well-defined contours.

But what stood out most of all was how good he actually looked close-up. I’d been around the merry-go-round of the celebrity world long enough to grasp the fact that people didn’t always look as good in person as they did on-screen. Male movie stars always seemed to be shorter in person. Their hairlines always seemed to be receding (I’d even spotted cases of hairplugs up close in two of Hollywood’s most popular leading men). Their heads, oddly, tended to seem inordinately large for their bodies. And the faces that looked most perfect on the big screen tended to look so Botoxed in person that they appeared to be expressionless masks.

But Cole was perfect.
Perfect.
His face looked like it had never had a blemish in its life, his frame was perfectly proportioned, and his eyes really did sparkle with the same intensity they seemed to have on-screen. I’d always assumed that his bright baby blues were a cinematic trick, but here they were, sparkling right at me. There were laugh lines around his eyes and on his forehead, which gave away his lack of Botox experience, and he smiled a smile that looked very real. He had just a bit of dark stubble on his chin, and his dark hair was blissfully hairplug-free.

Up until this moment, I had always thought I was not so superficial as to be taken in by looks. But this was a new situation altogether. This was, without a doubt, the most attractive human being I’d ever laid eyes on. He was stunning.

Of course, I took all this in through eyes lowered in embarrassment.

“Oh my God,” I said, standing up and extending a hand, which I realized was shaking. I was suddenly having a little trouble breathing. “I am so, so sorry. I didn’t notice you there.” I was fiercely aware of my red cheeks. Then I noticed something as Cole finished shaking my hand and grabbed the chair next to mine. He didn’t look angry. Instead, he was grinning at me. And laughing. Was I missing something? He even appeared to be laughing
with
me instead of
at
me. But perhaps my laugh-detecting senses were off.

He gestured for me to sit down, and even pushed my chair in before he took a seat.

“Hey, I guess that’s an endorsement for the disguise then, right?” he said. As I stared at him, unsure of what to say, it suddenly occurred to me why people sometimes described eyes as “twinkling.” That’s what his blues were doing at the moment.

“I’m . . . I mean . . . Um, wow, I am
so
embarrassed,” I stammered, finally allowing myself a nervous giggle. “How long have you been here?” Maybe he hadn’t been waiting that long after all. Maybe I was less of a jackass than I’d guessed.

“Oh, an hour and a half, or so,” Cole said, still grinning.

I reddened further. Yes, I was definitely a full-fledged jackass.

“Oh no,” I moaned. “What an idiot I am. I mean, I know what you look like—obviously.” Okay, that sounded dumb. “And I still didn’t notice you.”

Cole laughed again, and I stared in astonishment. He really wasn’t mad. I must have been missing something. I half expected his bodyguard to pounce out from behind a potted plant in the corner and kick me out. No celeb I’d ever met would laugh something like this off. But there was something different about Cole Brannon. And there were no bodyguards among the bushes.

Really. I checked.

“Actually,
I
noticed
you,
but I thought to myself, there’s no way that’s the girl I’m supposed to meet,” Cole said. “I mean, Ivana told me you were much older.”

Huh? I’d never even met his publicist. Why on earth would she have assumed that? Unless he meant . . .

“I’m not as young as I look,” I said, suddenly defensive. “I mean, I know I look like a teenager. It’s hard not to when you’re only five feet tall. . . .” I couldn’t help but think of Jeffrey’s
Mickey Mouse Club
comparison. I realized that Cole was laughing again, so I shut my mouth.

Perhaps I was being a bit overly sensitive.

“I didn’t mean that at all!” he exclaimed. My blush deepened. Great, now I was misinterpreting his words. “And for the record, you don’t look like a teenager. You look every bit grown woman to me.” I could feel the blood rising to my face in a full-fledged blush again. “And wow, five feet tall? That makes me more than a foot taller than you.”

One foot and four inches to be exact, I thought abstractedly, recalling the info on his bio sheet.

“Can I call you Shorty? Or maybe Little Lady?” he asked, feigning seriousness. I finally laughed.

“If it will help me get back into your good graces,” I said. I felt the breath go out of me as I heaved a sigh of relief and smiled at him.