“Nothing.” You smile. “I just think you’re kind of cute.”
Bodhi breaks out in a grin. “Cute is all I get?”
“That’s all you get for tonight,” you reply, then stand on tiptoe to plant a last kiss on his lips.
“Anna,” he begins.
“Shhh,” you tell him, placing a finger over the spot you’ve just kissed, and slip into the elevator with a smile.
As the doors slide shut, your body thrums with elation and you feel like a child with a wonderful secret. You wait as the elevator operator presses the button for the penthouse suite. He looks at you out of the corner of his eye, smile lines creasing his face as he notices your mischievous grin.
“Had a good night?” he asks in a droll British accent.
“Very,” you tell him, and try to retain your composure as you exit the elevator into your hotel room foyer.
Back in your room, you strip off your clothes and fall into bed without even turning on the light. The mixture of sea air, champagne and, well—other things—have worn you out. You fall into a dreamless sleep, the sound of ocean waves still echoing in your ears.
* * *
You’re awakened much too soon by the sound of incessant pounding. You’re momentarily disoriented by the harsh morning light streaming through the windows. You shield your eyes with the back of your hand and pull the downy comforter over your head. The pounding stops for a moment, then resumes with even more force and you realize the sound is a lot closer than you first thought. You toss the blanket away and squint to look at the clock. Six forty-five. Six forty-five! Oh my God, you think, as the realization of where you are and where you are supposed to be comes crashing over you. You can only hope the clock is wrong. You ordered a wake-up call for five thirty a.m., and although you’d like to believe it’s earlier than that, the sunlight tells you the time on the clock is likely accurate.
The pounding starts up again, this time even louder. In a panic, you gather the bedsheet around you and stumble across the floor and out to the foyer to see who or what is about to knock your door off its hinges.
Through the little glass peephole you see Bodhi standing on the other side. Before he can knock again, you push open the lock and pull him into the room.
“For God sake, Anna.” Bodhi is flushed and out of breath. “I was about to call the paramedics. I’ve been knocking on your door for half an hour!”
“Oh my God!” you say as you plop back down onto the bed. “My head is pounding.”
“Sorry, but seriously, I waited in the car for as long as I could, then tried to call and text you fifteen times . . . I didn’t know if something happened to you or what.” Bodhi looks into your eyes, then covers his face with his hands and sighs up at the ceiling.
“No.” You take Bodhi’s hand and engage his eyes. “Nothing happened. Just freaking out that I slept so late. God! I was supposed to get a wake-up call.”
“They tried,” Bodhi tells you. “You didn’t pick up.”
“Ughhhh!” You flop back headfirst into the pillows. “Well, with any luck I’ll still be able get in by early afternoon. Help me get my stuff together, will you? Can you call the pilot and tell him I’m on the way?”
Bodhi bites his lower lip before saying, “Actually, I already called him and asked him to wait. He couldn’t hold the flight.”
“What?” you say in disbelief.
“Well, the whole film crew was there waiting, and the plane was due for another flight out later this afternoon from St. Thomas, so they went ahead and . . . left.”
“Fabulous!” you say, flopping back on to the unmade bed. “What am I going to do now?” You blow out a huge breath and realize too late you haven’t even brushed your teeth.
You pop up and drag the sheet clumsily along with you as you haul yourself into the bathroom. Closing the door, you drop the sheet and replace it with your robe—not that modesty is really all that necessary. You rinse your toothbrush, load it with whitening paste and begin to scrub your teeth as you crack open the door. Bodhi sits on the edge of the bed, waiting patiently. You rifle through the stream of thoughts running through your mind and talk around a mouthful of toothpaste.
“I know—I’ll call Buffy. She’s probably waiting for me. She can call the studio and tell them I came down with a twenty-four hour bug and ask them to send a plane back out as soon as they can. She’s great with that kind of thing.”
“Buffy was on the flight. She’s already gone,” Bodhi tells you in a monotone.
“What? She went without me? Wasn’t she worried about where I was? I can’t believe she didn’t wait for me!”
Bodhi looks down at his sandals. “I kind of told her I knew where you were and that I’d take care of everything and make sure you were all right. I pretty much convinced her to go.”
“Bodhi!” Your eyes widen in disbelief. “She works for me! That was not your decision, or hers, to make!”
Bodhi begins to speak, then seems to think the better of it. He closes his mouth and looks at the floor.
You toss your hands in the air. “Seriously, Bodhi, now I’m just totally on my own!”
“Look, Anna, I knew you and I would figure it out. I really don’t think it’s that big of a deal. You’ll just get there a little after everyone else. Give them time to settle in before you make your big entrance and all that. You may have to fly commercial but I’ll make sure it’s first class.”
Despite your annoyance, you smile with relief. Bodhi is so good at making you feel like everything is taken care of and clearly he’s prepared to help you figure this out.
“You’re right,” you decide. “What difference is a few hours going to make anyway?”
* * *
Three hours later, you’re sitting on your private jet, in a leather airplane seat, waiting on the tarmac for clearance to depart. Your phone begins to buzz, and you search through your oversized travel bag to extract it. The number is not one you recognize. You hesitate before picking up.
“Hello?” you answer.
“Is Ms. Chambliss available please?” asks a deep and raspy female voice on the other end.
“This is she.”
“Ms. Chambliss, this is Trudy Long, talent coordinator with PMG. Mr. Jeffries asked that I call.”
Nice, you think, the big-time director, Jeff Jeffries, couldn’t even bother to call you himself?
You run your fingernails back and forth over the edge of your seat and wait for the “talent coordinator” to continue.
“Mr. Jeffries would like to begin the script reading, Ms. Chambliss, and he is a bit concerned that his headliner isn’t yet in attendance.”
“Please tell Mr. Jeffries that I’ve been . . . unexpectedly delayed . . . and that I’m on a plane now. I should arrive in a few hours. Didn’t my assistant, Buffy, tell you I was on my way?”
“I’m sorry—I don’t know a . . . a . . . Buffy?” replies the raspy voice, obviously clueless and annoyed.
You sigh and shake your head. “Never mind.”
“Then we’ll see you shortly?” asks Trudy.
“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” you assure her.
“All right, then. Please do report directly to the set as soon as you arrive.” You’re about to hit end when Trudy’s voice comes through again. “Oh, and Ms. Chambliss?”
“Yes?”
“Mr. Jeffries did ask me to add that he hopes this isn’t going to become a habit. He likes to keep a tight schedule. After all, time is money.”
“Right,” you respond, and hit end with unnecessary force.
The heat rises to your face, flushing your cheeks, and you feel the blood rush to your head. You really can’t believe this. All signs point to this being a nightmare project. And these situations usually go from bad to worse. First you find out you’re working with a rookie costar of questionable character instead of A-lister Grant Shipley, then you miss your flight, and now you’re chastised by a glorified secretary? It’s probably not too la
te to pull out. You grab your phone again to dial your agent.
Voicemail immediately answers. “Hi, this is Rona. Your call is very important to me . . .”
“Darn,” you whisper. You end the call, your thoughts racing. You really need to talk to someone—this is not the kind of decision you’re good at making on your own. In fact, you rarely ever make any decision by yourself, whether about the length of your hair or the next movie deal. Normally, you’d call Buffy, but she’s in St. Thomas, surrounded by the people you want to talk about, so that won’t work. Who can you call?
Suddenly, it occurs to you—Bodhi. He’ll help you think logically and probably also help calm you down about the whole thing, which is just what you need.
“Finished?” asks the flight attendant, a fussy-looking man with a receding hairline and wearing a dark blue polyester suit. “We’re cleared for takeoff, Ms. Chambliss.” He pronounces your name with a pointed stare at your cell phone.
“Can you wait two seconds?”
“Oh yes, let me just ask the pilot to radio the tower to let them know you need to make another phone call before we take off,” he replies with an exaggerated snarkiness. “I’m sure everyone will be very patient.” He makes a show of folding his arms and leans against your seat back, drumming his fingers on the headrest.
Undeterred, you dial Bodhi. He picks up on the first ring.
“Hey, Anna. I was just thinking about you.”
“Oh?” a smile plays across your face then you remember the reason for your call.
“I need some quick advice.”
“Shoot,” says Bodhi.
You plunge right in, “So, you know the whole deal with the studio signing that new guy on as my costar and all that.”
“Right,” says Bodhi, waiting for you to go on.
“Well, listen to this.” You glance sideways at the flight attendant and proceed to tell Bodhi about your phone call from Trudy Long and your doubts about continuing with the project.
Bodhi listens intently then pauses before saying, “You know what I think?”
“What?”
“You totally deserve better. You’re probably the only reason anyone would even go to see that movie. I don’t mean to sound harsh, but it’s another fluffy romance with a mostly no-name cast and without you it may as well be a movie of the week.”
You’re stunned by Bodhi’s response. “I thought you were going to tell me to take a chill pill and that I was overreacting.”
“Is that what you wanted to hear?” You quietly marvel at Bodhi’s insightfulness.
“No,” you stammer. “I just thought that’s what you’d think. So what do you think I should do?”
“Well,” Bodhi begins, “I can’t make the decision for you. What I know is that you’ve been really stressed and that the last thing you need is the tension of a bad situation to make it worse.”
“I know, but if I back out it’ll be a ridiculous battle about breach of contract, the tabloids will have a field day, and the next movie deal may be a lot harder to come by.”
Bodhi laughs. “As if, Anna. You know you could take a year off and still be in demand. Maybe even more in demand.”
“I don’t know, Bodhi. I really don’t.”
The flight attendant clears his throat loudly, and you look up at him. He inclines his head toward the cell phone, his eyebrows raised.
“Okay.” You sigh, resigning yourself to heading to St. Thomas to try to smooth things over on the set.
“Bodhi, I guess I have to go.” You can’t believe how reluctant you are to end your call with Bodhi. Just the sound of his voice is calming your nerves tremendously. “I’m already on the plane, so I might as well head down there and figure this out in person.”
Then you remember that Bodhi will have three months to himself while you’re on set in St. Thomas. Besides, you really don’t want to hang up just yet. “Hey, where are you off to while I’m gone?” you ask him.
“Headed to Kauai later today to do a little surfing and a little communing with nature. Should be fun.” He seems less than thrilled at the thought.
“Yeah,” you say, imagining the lush, unspoiled greenery of Kauai’s landscape, the gorgeous assortment of natural white, pink, and even black beaches. Not to mention the perfectly translucent turquoise water, so clear the candy-colored fish are visible even from the surface. It’s been way too long since you were in Hawaii.
“Well,” says Bodhi, “I’m sure I have room to smuggle you in my suitcase if you want to come with.”
You laugh wistfully. “Thanks, Bodhi. And thanks for being there for me.”
“That’s why they pay me the big bucks,” Bodhi jokes.
The flight attendant hasn’t moved a muscle. He clears his throat more loudly and makes a show of checking his watch.
“We can go,” you tell him.
“Why, thank you. The pilot will be so pleased.” He waits a beat then asks, “You are planning to end your call? The use of electronic devices during takeoff and landing is strictly prohibited.” His voice drips with sarcasm.
You reluctantly say goodbye to Bodhi. “Well, I’ll see you,” you say. “Have fun.”
“You too,” Bodhi says, then adds, “I’ll miss you, Anna.”
He hangs up before you can reply, and your heart squeezes painfully. You notice that the annoyed flight attendant is still standing over you.
“Okay,” you tell him, turning off your phone and tossing it back into your bag. “Let’s go.”
Your blood pressure begins to rise at the thought of walking onto the set of mostly strangers already annoyed by you. You know you’re going to have a tough time being sweet and cooperative with a director who’s treated you like a second-class citizen. And you can only imagine the self-satisfied smirk on Jackson’s face when he finds out he’s outshone you already.
You close your eyes and lean your head back against the leather headrest as you try to picture crystal-blue water lapping at sugar-sand beaches dotted with gracefully swaying palms. You imagine digging your toes into the warm sand.
The unbidden thought of Bodhi laps away at the edges of your fantasy as you slide toward sleep. Your neck tingles as you imagine the feel of his fingers working the tension from your body, his lips on your neck, his teeth grazing your skin, the moment he pulls you to him and . . . a shiver runs through your body, ending in a deep and sudden clenching low in your belly. You take a deep breath and open your eyes.
“Wait!” you yell, jumping up from your seat. You step out into the airplane’s aisle and run to the front of the plane.
In an instant, you know it’s time to make your decision and take your life into your own hands. You’ve felt like little more than a pawn since you were seventeen years old, and you’re ready to start calling the shots. You feel a sudden surge of resolve not to walk onto that set without laying down some ground rules.
You lean in to the flight attendant who walks toward you in protest. “Please, Ms. Chambliss . . .
“I’m so sorry,” you tell him. “I need to make one more call.”
He rolls his eyes massively and groans. “Ms. Chambliss, if we’re going to go, we have to go now.”
“Give me just one more minute,” you plead. “It’s extremely important.”
“I’d say no if I thought you’d take no for an answer,” he sighs sourly as you run back to your seat and grab your phone.
To call the set of Tropical Tango and give the director a piece of your mind, turn to page 160.
To dial Bodhi and tell him you’ll join him in Kauai, keep reading.
You dial Bodhi’s cell and get his voice mail. Of all times! You try again, then a third time with the same result. Should you leave a message? You decide yes. You hit Send one last time, but this time there’s a ring on the other end. Bodhi answers.
“Anna?”
“Bodhi, I—”
Bodhi picks up the panicked tone in your voice. “What’s wrong?”
“No—noth
ing’s wrong.” You try to sound calm. “Listen, I’ve made a decision. I’m coming with you. To Hawaii.”
You wait for a response for what feels like minutes.
“Hello?” you ask into the silence.
“Yeah,” Bodhi sputters. “I mean, I was sort of kidding when I said that about the luggage and all—but . . . are you sure?”
“As sure as I’ve ever been about anything,” you tell him.
One hour and one extremely grumpy flight attendant later, you’re back in the car with Bodhi—his car this time, a topless Jeep Wrangler, of course. Your hair flies wildly in the wind as you race to Bodhi’s apartment. You’ve made a single call to Trudy Long to advise her not to expect you on the set. After a brief argument that ended with Trudy threatening legal action and you hanging up on her, you turn off your phone. All you want to think about are the moments ahead. You’ll deal with the mess you’ve left behind later.
The LA air is smoggy, hot, and thick, the open car making you even more aware of the city’s ugly side. The heaviest traffic is beginning to thin as the day makes its way toward late morning. You can’t wait to get away from all of this.
“I’ll just be a couple minutes,” Bodhi tells you as he pulls into a spot at the back of a low, gated, white stucco building.
“Wait, I’ll come.” You jump down from the Jeep and slam the door shut. Then you remember your luggage, sitting out in the open in the back seat of the car. Bodhi follows your gaze.
“It’ll be fine,” he assures you and swings open the wrought-iron gate leading to his building.
It’s funny to see where Bodhi lives after all this time. You feel as though you know him so intimately, but you’ve never even given a thought to the place he calls home. You walk to the door of Bodhi’s apartment across the tiled courtyard with a lovely, trickling, Spanish-tile fountain at its center.
You’re expecting a mess of flowered shirts and khakis on the floor, tapestries hung over the windows, an unmade bed and dishes in the sink. What you see when Bodhi opens the door is more surprising.
Bodhi’s apartment is large and beautifully decorated, the main room a mix of deep browns and golds with an expensive-looking, dark, carved wood table at the center. The windows are covered with burnished wood blinds, which let in a filtered light that casts a warm glow about the room. The kitchen is small but spotless and well-appointed, with ceramic tile on the floor, granite counters, and sparkling, stainless steel appliances.
Star Struck Page 7
