How to Sleep with a Movie Star (20 page)

“I don’t think that stuff about those women is true,” Wendy said calmly. “I really don’t.”

I shook my head.

“Look,” I said, trying not to sound harsh. “I’m not going to call him, okay? It would be totally unprofessional. He gave me his number for work purposes. And besides, I’m not going to hear from him again. I think he got the point.” I tried to feel smug, but instead, I felt just a bit idiotic. Had I really just summarily dismissed Cole Brannon? But my reasons for doing it were right. Weren’t they?

Wendy shrugged. I pretended to ignore her.

“Whatever you say,” she said mysteriously, like she knew something I didn’t. I made a face at her and changed the subject.

“How’s it going with that French waiter?” I asked.

“Jean Michel,” Wendy filled in dreamily.

“Yeah, Jean Michel,” I said. “How’s that going?”

“Great,” said Wendy, smiling and putting her turkey sandwich back down. “He’s really great, you know. He’s not as young as he looks. He’s only a year younger than I am, and he’s really smart. His English is really coming along well. And I took French in high school, so it’s kind of starting to come back to me a bit, you know?”

“That’s good,” I said, studying Wendy’s freckled face. She was glowing. It had been a long time since I’d seen her like this. She normally liked to hop from waiter to waiter—with an occasional stray investment banker or attorney thrown into the mix—but she’d already been out four times with Jean Michel and was seeing him again tonight.

Had the world turned upside down? Waiter-dating Wendy, finally settling down?

“It’s been a long time since I’ve felt like this,” she said, as if reading my mind. “I really like him, Claire.”

“I’m happy for you,” I said, and I meant it. “That sounds great.”

“It
is
great,” Wendy said, flashing me her wide grin. “He’s great. I went out to dinner at Azafran last night while Jean Michel was at work, and you know what? I didn’t even look at any of the waiters. It didn’t even occur to me. Isn’t that weird?”

I reached across the table and squeezed her hand.

“Wow,” I murmured, looking at her closely. “You didn’t even look?”

“No,” said Wendy, looking as surprised as I was. “I don’t think I’ve
ever
not looked. What do you think that means?”

“Maybe you’re in love,” I said.

“Maybe I am,” Wendy agreed softly. She smiled and winked at me. “Stranger things have happened.”

*

I don’t know exactly what kind of reception I expected at work, but I had expected there would be at least some kind of fallout after Cole’s visit. I’d expected to be greeted with the same suspicion that Sidra had looked at me with. Instead, I had a steady stream of coworkers coming by my desk to squeal about how cool it was that Cole Brannon had dropped in to see me.

It didn’t seem to occur to any of them that there was anything romantic going on between us. I didn’t know whether to be insulted by that or flattered that my coworkers knew I’d never overstep the bounds of professionalism. I finally decided on the latter, and I allowed myself to breathe a huge sigh of relief. I even basked a bit in their jealousy over the fact that “
the
Cole Brannon” had sought me out in the office.

“What was he doing here?” Chloe Michael had squealed the moment I walked in.

“Uh, dropping by to confirm a few details of the interview,” I stammered before I had a chance to think.

Chloe had accepted the explanation and it spread like wildfire. A few editorial assistants even dropped by to
thank
me for bringing him by—they’d been thrilled to get his autograph. No one brought up the fact that I had dragged him into the bathroom, which obviously didn’t gel with the rest of my explanation.

Details, details.

My relief was cut short, though, when Sidra glided into the doorway of my cubicle at 4:45 that afternoon, on her way out of the building. Her hair had been blown out, and she was dressed in a skintight black designer dress and pointy black Jimmy Choos. In fact, she looked just a bit like the devil himself would look if he were a fashion editor. But maybe that was just me projecting.

“So now we’re bringing our lovers by the office, are we?” she singsonged at me. “I heard about your little encounter with Cole Brannon.” My breath caught in my throat. Yes, she was definitely Satan. Beelzebub in the flesh.

“No,” I sputtered. “Nothing happened. He was dropping by to answer some questions.”

“Is that what the kids are calling it these days?” Sidra laughed. “Are your interviews always conducted in the men’s room? No
wonder
you got to be a senior editor so fast.”

I blushed furiously and started to protest. Sidra cut me off, batting her long eyelashes at me in faux innocence.

“Oh, and do the movie stars you interview—and refuse to sleep with, according to you—always send you flowers, too?” she asked sweetly.

I was still formulating an answer as she glided away, a smirk plastered across her face. I felt shaken. Obviously, Sidra wasn’t done with me yet. I suddenly felt uneasy.

Then it hit me. The flowers. How did she know about the flowers? Wendy was the only one I’d told. Oh no.

“Wendy?” I asked over the cubicle, standing up slowly. I felt a bit sick. “You didn’t tell Sidra about the flowers I got the other day, did you?” I already knew the answer, but it was my last resort before I gave in to believing the worst.

“No, of course not,” she said quickly. She looked at me for a moment, and then her face blanched. “Why?”

“She knows they were from Cole,” I said flatly. This was not good.

“Oh, no,” Wendy said. “What did you do with the note?”

“I threw it away,” I said softly.

“Here? In the office?”

I nodded. How could I have been so stupid? We looked at each other for a moment. I closed my eyes, then opened them to stare at Wendy in horror.

“She has the note,” Wendy said finally. I nodded again. “What do you think she’s going to do?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “But it can’t be good.”

The Schmuck

T
om was late.

As I stood in the entrance to the TGI Friday’s in Times Square at 6:45, I tried not to feel annoyed. After all, he had probably been delayed by traffic or something. He’d be here.

I sank onto a sticky vinyl bench that stretched from the front door to the hostess stand. Around me, tourists with Texas drawls, Southern twangs, and Midwestern inflections crowded in through the big door, between candy-cane-striped pillars. Tray-toting waiters and waitresses with cheerful grins rushed by, their chests lined with buttons that screamed at me to
Give Peace a Chance, Tip Your Waiter,
and remember,
Love Makes the World Go ’Round.
I didn’t quite believe that last one.

Stupid saying.

As I sat and waited, I tried to be patient. How would it feel to see Tom for the first time since last Saturday night? Would I hate him the moment I saw him?

But at 6:55, when he walked through the front door, I didn’t hate him. I loved how he looked in a crisp white button-down shirt, a pair of khakis, and the Kenneth Cole loafers I’d bought for his birthday. I loved how he smiled, his whole face lighting up when he saw me. I loved his stupid crooked grin. And I hated that I didn’t hate him.

“Hey, babe!” he said as I stood up beside him. He pulled me into his arms and surprised me with a warm hug. Simply out of habit I hugged back, before I realized what I was doing and stiffened. “You’re early.”

“Early?” I looked at him incredulously. He looked back, wide-eyed and innocent. “I’m not early. You’re twenty-five minutes late!” He looked shocked.

“What? What are you talking about? We said seven!”

“We said six-thirty,” I said, trying to sound calm.

“No, no, I’m positive we said seven,” he said.

“No,” I insisted. I was sure we’d said 6:30. Right? I thought so. But suddenly I wasn’t a hundred percent sure. “Maybe,” I amended. Tom looked satisfied.

“Great,” he said. He put an arm around me. I thought about resisting, but I didn’t. He pulled me close, and despite the fact that I knew it shouldn’t, it felt good. “Let’s get a table.”

A hostess whose chest told us to
Knock on Wood, Save the Whales,
and
Vote for Kennedy
led us to a table in the middle of the room, afloat in a sea of tourists.

“It’s nice to see you, Claire,” Tom said formally after our hostess walked away. I looked at him over the top of my menu for a moment.

“You too,” I mumbled. I returned my attention to the menu, buying myself some time. My emotions were suddenly a mess. I blinked a few times and tried to focus. I was not supposed to be unraveling this early in the evening. I took a deep breath and vowed to get ahold of myself.

While Tom ordered us an appetizer and drinks, I squirmed. A lock of his hair curled across his forehead, falling lightly across his left eyebrow. A week ago I would have reached across the table and tenderly brushed it away, but today I wasn’t sure I wanted to touch him.

I wasn’t supposed to feel something when I studied his eyes. I wasn’t supposed to love the way his mouth curled up at the left corner. I wasn’t supposed to love the tiny, nearly imperceptible scar on his right cheek that he’d gotten falling off his bike at the age of eleven. I wasn’t supposed to feel my heartbeat pick up when his eyes met mine.

Yet I felt all those things. And that made me an idiot, didn’t it?

I looked at him sadly out of the corner of my eye. How had we gotten here? A year ago, when he first moved into my apartment and we were spending every available second together, basking in each other’s glow, I thought it would be perfect forever. I thought we’d be together forever. It had never even occurred to me to worry that he would cheat on me one day.

I wondered what he was thinking, what he would say. I wanted him to say magic words that would make everything okay, that would allow us to go back to living our lives as we had before Saturday.

I didn’t know what those magic words would be, though, or if they even existed.

And I felt ashamed that any part of me wanted that to happen. I knew deep down that I should have had enough self-respect to walk away, to move on. But he was like an addiction, and I couldn’t stop myself.

I was snapped out of my convoluted thought process by the reappearance of our waitress, whose brown curls were tied up in perky pigtails. She set down a Bud Light for Tom and a Coke for me and smiled at us.

“Are you ready to order?” she asked. She turned to me, and I started to open my mouth, but Tom spoke instead. He asked, of course, for the Jack Daniel’s steak and shrimp dinner, one of the most expensive items on the menu. I ordered a chicken Caesar salad.

After the waitress took our order, Tom reached across the table for my hand. He squeezed it and held it gently.

“Look, Claire,” he began. He paused and sighed. He squeezed my hand again and looked up at me with soulful eyes. “I don’t even know where to begin,” he said softly. “I was so wrong. I was so stupid to throw away what we had. I know you can never forgive me, and I don’t expect you to, but . . .” His voice trailed off and he gazed at me imploringly. I looked back. I had no idea what to say.

He looked so genuinely pathetic and remorseful that I felt sorry for him. Part of me wanted to squeeze his hand back, smile warmly, and tell him it was okay, that I forgave him. But I didn’t forgive him. And it wasn’t okay. Maybe someday, but not today.

“Tom,” I began slowly. I didn’t pull my hand away, and he continued to hold it gently. I had to admit, I liked the way it felt. I liked his quiet strength and the gentle way he folded his big hand around my little one. I cleared my throat and looked up to meet his eye. “Why?” I asked finally. I felt suddenly weary. “Just tell me why.”

He looked at me for a moment, and the uncomfortable silence seemed to drag on forever. My heart was pounding as I waited for his response.

“Why what?” he asked finally, in the same gentle tone of voice. I looked at him sharply. What did he think I was talking about?

“Why would you cheat on me?” I asked in a small voice. He looked away for a moment, then looked back at me with mournful eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I was totally wrong. I know that. I guess I was just feeling like, I don’t know, like you were too busy for me. And I wasn’t dealing with that well.” It was true. I knew I was a workaholic sometimes. Maybe I shouldn’t have poured so much energy into my career. I felt instantly guilty.

“I’m not saying it was your fault,” he said quickly. “I’m sure I was being too sensitive, honey.” Was he still allowed to call me
honey
? Why did I still like the sound of the word rolling off his tongue? “I made a huge mistake because I felt like I wasn’t sure that you loved me anymore.”

I gasped.

“I never stopped loving you,” I said. My eyes filled with sudden tears. I blinked quickly.

“I know that now,” he said, squeezing my hand. “And I know I’ve gone and screwed it all up. I’m so sorry.”

Our waitress interrupted us by setting down the enormous Friday’s Three-for-All that Tom had ordered.

“Enjoy, you two!” She grinned encouragingly at us, as if we were two teenagers on a first date.

We busied ourselves with our food for a minute, avoiding each other’s eyes. I pushed a potato skin around on my plate, but I couldn’t bring myself to eat it.

“Did you meet her at
Mod
’s Christmas party?” I asked finally. I really wasn’t hungry. Tom looked up, surprised, his mouth full. “Estella,” I clarified. “Estella Marrone. Did you meet her at the Christmas party?” He looked down and then back at me. He chewed thoughtfully, swallowing loudly.

“Yes,” he said simply, not sounding nearly as guilty as he should have. “How do you know her name?”

“She left her purse in the apartment,” I said. “And her sister came to get it.” Anger welled inside me. “Her sister is Sidra DeSimon, you know. The fashion director at
Mod.
You were sleeping with the sister of one of my coworkers.” I expected his eyebrows to shoot up in surprise, but he nodded and looked guilty.

“I know,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”

“You knew?” I was incredulous. “You knew I worked with her sister?”

“Not right away,” he said quickly. “But yeah, I knew. Not at the beginning, though. I didn’t do it on purpose. What a coincidence, right?” He laughed uneasily.

“How is it a coincidence if you met her at
my
Christmas party?” I asked.

He shrugged.

“Well, there were lots of people there you didn’t know,” he said sheepishly. “How was I supposed to know you knew her sister?”

I looked miserably around the table. I was no longer hungry. I swallowed again.

“I am so, so sorry,” Tom said again. “If I could change things, I would.”

“You’d change that I caught you?” I asked bitterly.

“No,” Tom said solemnly. “I deserved that. I’d change the fact that it happened in the first place. I had no right. Look what I’ve thrown away.” He looked as miserable as I felt.

“Oh,” I said finally, because I sensed he was waiting for a response. I didn’t have anything else to say. We sat in silence for another moment, but this time there were no menus to distract us. We had only each other and the uncomfortable wall that stood between us.

The waitress came and cleared away our appetizer. I’d barely touched it. A moment later, a server whisked in with our entrees. I avoided Tom’s eye as I started to pick listlessly at my salad.

“Can I ask you something?” Tom said finally. I looked up, surprised.

“Okay.” Was he going to ask me to take him back? Ask me to forgive him?

“Are you . . .” He paused and his eyes flicked down at the table and back to me. “Are you sleeping with Cole Brannon?”

I just looked at him for a minute.

“No!” I answered, appalled. “Did Estella,” I spat her name, “tell you that?” He paused again and nodded.

“She said her sister Sidra caught you in our apartment,” he said finally.

“
My
apartment,” I amended, just to be difficult.

I didn’t know what to say. I certainly couldn’t explain to Tom how pathetic I’d been that night, getting drunk and vomiting on a movie star—all because of him. He didn’t need to know he had that kind of power over me. I fixed him with a glare.

“Nothing happened,” I said stiffly. “It was a work thing.” Tom looked at me for a moment and nodded, seeming to accept the explanation.

“Okay,” he said. “I believe you.” I simmered silently for a minute, then changed the subject.

“So are you still with her?” I demanded. Tom looked surprised and shook his head.

“No,” he said solemnly. “No, Claire, I’m not. You’re the only one in my heart. You always have been. I just didn’t know how to appreciate it before.”

It scared me that the words didn’t repulse me. They sent a flush of warmth shooting through my body. I tried to fight it.

“You still have some things in the apartment,” I said icily.

“Do you really want me to move my things out?” he asked softly. I held my breath. Was he asking me to say he could stay? My response was put on hold as our waitress came to refill my Coke and deliver another beer to Tom. She set down our check, and Tom handed her his credit card.

“Claire,” Tom began after the waitress was gone. He again reached for my hand. “I love you so much. I’ve never loved anyone as much as I love you. And I can never express to you how sorry I am for what I’ve done.”

My eyes filled with tears, and again, I blinked them back. My heart pounded as we looked into each other’s eyes. This was one of those moments you see in Hugh Grant movies. I could practically hear the violin-laced soundtrack. “I don’t expect you to forgive me right away. Maybe you’ll never be able to. But I want to try, Claire. I want to try.” I was about to speak when our waitress interrupted us, wrenching my tear-filled eyes away from Tom and his heartfelt message.

“Excuse me,” she said, shifting from foot to foot. “I’m sorry to interrupt. But, sir, your card didn’t go through. Do you have another one?” Tom reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. He rifled quickly through and looked up at the waitress.

“Gosh, how embarrassing. No, I don’t.” He looked at me. “Claire? I’m so sorry. Can you get this meal? I’ll get the next one?” I swallowed the lump of resentment that had risen suddenly in my throat and nodded. I reached for my wallet and gave the waitress my Visa. She smiled tightly and walked away.

“I’m so sorry, Claire,” Tom said, reaching for my hand again. “I thought I had paid the balance off, but it must not have been processed yet. I feel like such a jerk.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said tightly, telling myself that he couldn’t possibly have done it on purpose. Not when he was about to ask me to take him back. Not while he was in the middle of declaring his love for me. I brushed the thought away and reached for his hand. “You were saying?”

“Right,” said Tom. He squeezed my hand and cleared his throat. “Claire, I love you more than anything in the world, and I want to work things out with you. I really do.”

“Me too,” I said softly. I hadn’t intended to admit that to him or even to myself. I hadn’t known for sure that I’d felt that way until the words were out of my mouth. Had I gone too far? But my heart was pounding, and I knew as I looked at him that I could forgive him. Things could change between us. I still loved him. And now I knew he still loved me. I should have hated him, but I couldn’t. I didn’t.