How to Sleep with a Movie Star (6 page)

“Not that you were ever
out
of my good graces,” he said. “But I’ll keep those nicknames in mind, in case I ever need them.”

I laughed again, and I knew that the ice had been broken. In the space of less than five minutes, this had gone from being the worst-begun interview to being the best. I knew it would be a good morning.

Then again, I suppose that any morning spent with the Adonis-next-door should qualify as a good morning.

“Look,” said Cole, leaning forward conspiratorially. His blue eyes were wide and his perfectly white teeth gleamed just inches from me. “What do you say we go somewhere else for breakfast?”

“Um, okay,” I said, surprised and a bit disappointed. Geez! Celebrities and their demands! Just when I’d started to think he was different, here he was rearranging the schedule. He’d probably want to go to some place even more expensive. Nobu maybe? Or Tavern on the Green? Great.

“I mean, we can stay if you want.” Cole paused, looking at me with concern as I shook my head. “But did you look at this menu? I mean, who eats
Eggs en Cocotte with Truffle Jus
for breakfast? What the heck is that, anyhow?”

He looked up from the menu just as a waiter walked by carrying what appeared to be exactly that egg dish (complete with thyme-roasted potatoes and the twenty-five-dollar caviar supplement offered in the menu). We both collapsed in laughter, and my heart mysteriously fluttered as his right arm brushed my left. I shook the feeling off and chided myself. I knew better than to feel giddy about celebrities.

Even if they had gorgeous blue eyes and the most perfect smile I’d ever seen.

“And look at the price!” Cole exclaimed as we finished laughing, looking back at the menu. “That was thirty-six dollars of egg that just walked by! Are you kidding me?”

“It is sort of ridiculous,” I admitted. I tilted my head to the side and looked at him intently, trying not to look accusatory. “But why did you want to meet here, then?”

“Me?” he asked. He shook his head and leaned back in his seat. “Ha! My publicist Ivana suggested it. It’s her favorite restaurant. She wanted to meet us and sit in on the interview, but I see from the looks of it that she must have overslept.” He laughed again, and I realized suddenly that his laugh sounded different in person than it did at the movies. It was richer, fuller, more musical. “So, what do you say we get out of here before Ivana decides to make an appearance? I need some real breakfast. How about bacon, eggs, and the greasiest hash browns in Manhattan?”

I grinned. “Lead the way.”

*

Ten minutes later, after arguing about who would pay for my ten-dollar cappuccino—I finally won by insisting that it was against
Mod
’s policy to let a source pay for anything—we were out on the street, strolling east at the bottom of Central Park. Amazingly, no one had recognized Cole yet. Sixty-story buildings soared around us, and the silence of Central Park was fast disappearing behind us, but we hadn’t been rushed by a single fan or even given a second glance. Then again, we were in an area of the city so ritzy that its residents were probably too self-absorbed to notice if a seven-foot green alien with three eyes wandered by.

“Are we going to hail a taxi?” I asked, trying to sound casual. I still couldn’t figure out why being with Cole Brannon was making me feel so giddy. I had interviewed dozens of A-listers, and I hadn’t reacted this way since the first few A-listers I’d talked to. And that had been years ago.

“A taxi?” he said, playfully nudging me. My skin tingled oddly where he’d touched it. “No way, Little Lady. We’re taking the subway!”

“The subway?” I looked up at him incredulously. That was impossible. Every movie star I’d ever known had traveled by limo or chauffeured car—or at the very least, in their own luxury SUV. They never took the subway. Only anonymous nobodies like me took the subway.

“Hell, yeah,” Cole said cheerfully, oblivious to my confusion. He looped his arm playfully through mine for a moment. “Look at this. No one recognizes me. Isn’t this fun?” It was true. I took a quick look around to make sure we were actually surrounded by live, movie-going humans. It looked that way. I was baffled.

“In my defense, you’ve got that hat pulled so low I can hardly see your face,” I said, grinning up at him. From my vantage point, I had a perfect view of his cleft chin and perfect dimples, which grew even deeper every time he cracked a smile—which was a lot.

“Excuses, excuses,” he said, grinning down at me. “But hey, you have to hand it to me. Am I the master of disguise or what?”

“That you are,” I said.
Not that looks that good should be covered up,
I wanted to say, but I bit my tongue. After all, I was Professional Claire.
Professional.
I tried to forget that I was also Sex-Starved Claire. It was totally beside the point.

“You are aware, aren’t you, that you’re part of the disguise?” Cole asked conspiratorially.

“Huh?”

“Well, as far as all these passersby are concerned”—he gestured grandly to the people bustling by—“you and I are just a young couple out for a romantic stroll.” My cheeks were suddenly on fire. For a moment I forgot that Tom existed, as I realized that indeed I was out on what looked like a romantic amble with Cole Brannon.

Hmm, I could get used to this.

“I mean, all these people are expecting that Cole Brannon would be out with Kylie Dane, not a beautiful young blonde,” he continued, smiling at me as we walked. My jaw dropped, and I wasn’t sure for a moment whether it was because he himself had broached the topic of Kylie Dane, or because he’d referred to me as a beautiful young blonde. (Did Cole Brannon really think
I
was beautiful?) As a result, my response came out as a wordless gurgle, and he laughed again.

“No worries,” he said quickly. He put a hand on my arm and stopped for a minute. I stopped too, and we stood there in the middle of a parting sea of oblivious passersby. He leaned down, his face inches from my right cheek. “I know you have to ask me about Kylie Dane,” he whispered. I could feel myself blushing again as his breath tickled my ear. In fact, I was surprised that the sheer heat emanating from my face hadn’t burned him by this time. “But it’s not true. I swear to God. Really, she’s a nice woman, but there’s nothing between us. I would never, ever, ever get romantically involved with a married woman. I’m so sick of all the rumors, you know? I mean, this sounds crazy, but it hurts my feelings sometimes.”

I scrambled to dig my pen and notepad out of my shoulder bag and jotted down the words he’d just uttered.

“I mean, I hate that anyone would think I have no morals and would just hook up with someone who’s married,” he continued, sounding pained. “Is she a beautiful woman? Yes. But that doesn’t necessarily mean I want to sleep with her. Or that she wants to sleep with me, for that matter. I just don’t get how people make this stuff up in the tabloids. And you can quote me on that. All of it. In fact, please do. I hate all this tabloid crap.”

He shook his head and made a face that reminded me so much of a lost little boy that I instantly wanted to cup his face in my hands and tell him everything would be okay. Fortunately, I managed to refrain.

“I mean, she’s married to a guy I’ve worked with, you know?” Cole continued, looking slightly pained as I scribbled. “Where do these rumors come from?”

He pulled away from my ear, and before he straightened up to his full six-feet-four, he looked into my eyes. Our noses were a mere few inches apart, and I gulped as I was overcome by a strange tingling sensation. Those lips . . . that I had seen . . . on the big screen . . . were . . . inches . . . from . . . my . . . lips. (I had to catch my breath.)

Then I suddenly remembered Tom and felt guilty that I was having this much . . . fun . . . with a stranger on a Saturday morning when I should have been at home with him instead. I cleared my throat and looked quickly away.

*

We wound up on Second Avenue and Seventh Street, just five blocks from my apartment, at a twenty-four-hour diner called Over the Moon. I’d been there more than once on my own. The walls had all been painted in bright blues and vibrant whites, and the local artist had added leaping cows in all the colors of the rainbow. In their honor, I had always refrained from ordering a hamburger.

“I love it here,” Cole said as he held the door open. “I think they triple-fry everything in vats of grease.”

“Ew!” I said, not really meaning it. I loved fried, greasy food too, although I knew that Merri Derekson, the editor of
Mod’
s health section, would probably kick me for saying so. I was sure I was about to consume three days’ worth of fat grams. So I kept quiet and insisted my jiggly thighs do the same.

Cole laughed. “Hey, don’t knock it till you’ve tried it, Shorty,” he said. He paused for a moment while I made a face at him, amazing myself with how friendly I was suddenly feeling with the incognito major star. “Hey now, you’re not allowed to stick your tongue out at me! We agreed I could use those nicknames at my discretion.”

“I thought I was already back in your good graces,” I egged him on.

“Simply a technicality, my dear,” he said seriously.

As a server led us to a corner table by the window, I realized that I kind of liked it when he used the nickname, silly as it was. God, I was ignoring my own cardinal rule of reporting and actually beginning to
like
Cole Brannon. I was giggling at his jokes and feeling slightly woozy in his presence. And I had a boyfriend! What was I thinking?

“Um, excuse me for a moment,” I said as soon as we were seated. “I need to go to the bathroom.”

“That cappuccino from Atelier got you, huh?” Cole teased.

“Smallest bladder in Manhattan, right here,” I admitted, trying not to blush. He laughed and stood up as I pushed my chair out. I looked at him in surprise.

“Sorry,” he said with a sheepish smile. “My mom’s manners lessons are too ingrained to ignore. I always have to stand when a lady leaves the table, or I’m afraid Mom will jump out and send me to my room.”

I laughed at the image of a matronly, more feminine version of Cole emerging from the shadows to discipline her son.

“No, it’s actually kinda nice,” I admitted. “I don’t think anyone’s ever done that before.”

“What?” Cole feigned horror with perfection only a professional actor could achieve. “For a lady like you? You’re kidding. Men must trip all over themselves to charm you.”

I suddenly had a mental picture of Tom slurping down the lo mein noodles I’d just brought home before I’d even had a chance to wash up.

“No, not exactly,” I said. Cole shook his head in astonishment as I turned to walk toward the back of the restaurant, where I hoped to find a bathroom—and regain my vanishing sanity.

I actually did have to go to the ladies’ room, but more than that, I needed a moment away from Cole Brannon. I felt that things were spinning a bit out of control.

I liked him. I wasn’t supposed to like him. My insides weren’t supposed to tingle when he grinned. I wasn’t supposed to be acting like a smitten teenager.

There were two things wrong with that. First, obviously, there was Tom. But that wasn’t bothering me too much. I’d never cheated on anyone, nor would I ever. I loved Tom and would never act on my attraction to anyone else.

What concerned me more was that I was letting my professional objectivity slip. It was fine if I found the people I interviewed to be nice and friendly, but this was different. I found myself talking to Cole like I’d known him for years, and I was more comfortable with him than I was with people I saw every day. It was strange. Although I couldn’t explain why it was happening, I knew it wasn’t supposed to be this way.

Sure, lots of reporters hooked up with the celebs they interviewed—or at least they aspired to. But I had always vowed to myself that I’d never be that kind of reporter. There were plenty of those kinds of reporters out there, believe me. But once they’d made the decision to cross that line, there was no going back. The world of magazines was possibly the most gossipy one in existence. Within five minutes of a reporter’s stumbling out of a movie star’s hotel suite, editors at
Glamour, Vogue, In Style,
and
People
would be talking. And you’d always be “that reporter who slept with Colin Farrell,” or “that reporter who went down on Chad Pennington.” You never got promoted, people whispered about you in the halls, and even the celebs themselves seemed to have some kind of sex-tips wire service—meaning that a third of the interviews you showed up for from then on would include a slew of sexual innuendos and come-ons designed to get you into bed. And it was hard to do a serious interview when you were fending off lascivious stares and groping hands.

Eventually you’re forced to quit, because the whole sex stigma affects your work from the bottom up. You can no longer score the best interviews because the publicists all know your reputation. They secretly wish they could be in the position to sleep with movie stars every day, so they’re pissed off at you and refuse to answer your calls. Your editors frown upon the reputation you’re spreading for the magazine. And the movie stars who
don’t
want to sleep with you start the interview off hating you because your exploits make their profession look bad.

It had happened to Laura Worthington, the girl I’d roomed with the first year I lived in Manhattan. She was an editorial assistant at
Rolling Stone,
and she was frustrated because, as the newbie, she was never sent out on exciting assignments. Once in a blue moon she got to cover a party, but most of the time she was responsible for editing the
Billboard
charts, fact-checking the feature editor’s always-sloppy work, and calling publicists to verify facts and figures. When the features editor was sick one day and Laura was sent out to interview Kirk Bryant, the floppy-haired, tattooed, and not-at-all-good-looking lead singer of an up-and-coming rock band whose single had just broken the
Billboard
Top Ten, she was thrilled and just a bit star-struck. Thirty minutes into the interview, which he’d conveniently moved from the Four Seasons lobby to his suite on the sixth floor, she was naked on his bed. Forty minutes into the interview, he was zipping up his pants and showing her the door. By the time she got back to the office, other editorial assistants were glaring at her suspiciously, and she realized that she didn’t have
quite
enough information to write an article about Kirk, as they hadn’t actually
talked
about anything. So she fudged the quotes and sat by the phone for a week, wondering why Kirk Bryant didn’t call. Two weeks later she enthusiastically spread her legs (“To help me forget about Kirk,” she told me with a sigh) for Chris Williams, whose band, Mudpile, had just catapulted from obscurity to being the most-requested band on MTV’s
Total Request Live.
Of course, she had to make up quotes for that interview too, as there wasn’t much time for work-related talk between the sighs and the moans. It was after another year—and eleven rock stars later—that Laura was finally fired. Now she answered phones at a talent agency in L.A. for seven dollars an hour.