Starstruck

by Rachel Schurig

  The last time he had seen me, I had literally just given birth and was still roughly the size and weight of a baby hippo. Then again, I’d been six months pregnant when he made out with me at the wedding, and he hadn’t seemed to mind too much at the time.

  “Thank you,” I told him, squeezing back. The pressure and warmth of his hand against mine felt ridiculously good. I remembered those same hands wrapped around my back, cradling my head, running through my hair. I tried and failed to repress a shiver. If he noticed, he didn’t say a word.

  “What’s on the horizon?” he asked instead, breaking the intensity of the moment, and I took the opportunity to release his hand and fidget with the hem of my sweater. “Are you going back to work or…”

  “That’s the plan.” I tried to keep my voice light, though we had entered my least favorite conversational topic ever.

  “You don’t sound too thrilled about it.”

  I smiled. “That obvious, huh?”

  “Your entire face just fell.”

  “I guess I’m having some trouble figuring out how to handle it. Affordable daycare options are few and far between.”

  He frowned. “That’s terrible. Isn’t there assistance for that kind of thing?”

  “Not enough.”

  “And the father?” His face visibly hardened. “Jim?”

  I cleared my throat. “I’m trying to keep our lives as separated as possible.”

  Jackson looked almost smug, and he rubbed his face as if to cover a smile. “I see.”

  “My mom offered to watch her,” I went on. “But I’m already taking so much from them, you know? Living here and eating their food and—”

  “I’m quite sure they’re thrilled about it,” he said. “They’re crazy about you.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “They are?”

  “Of course.” He looked confused that I would question it. “Don’t you see the way they look at you?”

  I had to remind myself how perceptive Jackson was when it came to people. He had told me that he had made it a habit to study pretty much everyone he came into contact with as part of his preparation for roles.

  “I just want to feel more independent,” I explained. “I want to show Beth that I can take care of her—without so much help.”

  He nodded. “I completely understand.”

  “Anyhow, enough about me. How are you? How did filming go?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Same old.”

  “Yeah. I’m sure being on a movie set gets real old.”

  He flashed me that trademark smile. “There are worse ways to spend the day, that’s for sure. But it is getting a bit repetitive.” He made a face, his eyes simultaneously widening and darkening, baring his teeth, suddenly looking exactly like the vampire character that he played in the Darkness movies. Just as quickly as it appeared, it was gone and he was smiling again. “I mean, how many times can I make that exact same face and still have any impact?”

  “That was amazing. You totally looked like Cooper!”

  “Well, see, that’s because I am him.”

  “I know, but you’re sitting in my living room!”

  He rolled his eyes again, but he was smiling. “Well, I’m getting a little tired of being Cooper, to be honest. The franchise is feeling stale.”

  “Watch it, buddy. Those are my favorite movies.”

  His face lit up, making him look for all the world like a little kid. “They are?”

  I smacked his arm. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

  He grabbed my hand and held it to his chest. “Too late, Sofie. You love my movies.” He gestured both of our hands toward the TV. “You pause your TV on my face, clearly to allow you to study it at your leisure—”

  “I was not studying it!”

  “Sure you weren’t.”

  “Jackson, has anyone ever told you that you’re full of yourself?”

  He gave me a wink. “Maybe once or twice.”

  My hand was tingling in his, but it no longer felt overwhelming. And I wasn’t worrying about my gross hair or clothes anymore, either. In fact, all I could think was how nice this was. To sit here with him, catching up and joking around. It felt…really good. When his phone buzzed loudly, I jumped.

  “Damn,” he muttered, looking down at the screen. “I’m late.”

  The strength of the disappointment surprised me. “Another meeting?”

  He sighed, releasing my hand. “A very boring one, I’m afraid.”

  I followed him from the couch to the door, reminding myself that this goodbye wasn’t for good. He turned to face me, his eyes meeting mine. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

  “Definitely.”

  He leaned in and pulled me into a hug, and I wished I hadn’t grabbed the cardigan. It felt amazing in his arms—I could only imagine how much better it would have been without my extra layer.

  “I’ve missed you, Sofie,” he whispered, not releasing me, and I found myself squeezing him a little tighter. “I’m so happy you and Beth are doing well.”

  “I’ve missed you, too,” I said, closing my eyes. And it was true. I hadn’t even realized how much until he was here. I’d been so caught up in Beth, so busy convincing myself that he didn’t fit into my new life, I hadn’t given myself the opportunity to really think about what it was like to just be with him.

  He released me, his eyes on my mouth, and I swallowed, wondering if he was going to kiss me. He leaned in and pressed his lips against my forehead, making my stomach drop at even this little contact. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow.”

  After he left, I stood there in the doorway for a long time, watching the empty street. The excitement I felt at the prospect of seeing him in the morning was overwhelming—and worrying. I was supposed to be over him.

  Beth’s loud cry from above finally roused me, and I rubbed my fingers over the skin on my forehead as I turned to go get my daughter, wondering if it was possible to ever actually get over a guy like Jackson. Somehow, I got the feeling it was the kind of thing that took longer than a few months.

  Chapter Three

  The next morning, I was up with Beth as usual at six. She had been fussy during the night, not falling into a deep sleep until after three. As a result, I was absolutely exhausted.

  But not exhausted enough to silence the riot of excitement coursing through my body at the prospect of spending the day with Jackson Coles.

  “I don’t understand why he needs your help,” my mother said at breakfast, for about the tenth time since I had told her about my plans the night before. “Why can’t he ask your cousin or Thomas?”

  “Because they aren’t here, Mama,” I said, also for the tenth time.

  “His studio people then, whatever that means.”

  “Mama, come on. We’re friends. We chatted quite a bit at Lizzie’s wedding.” I had to fight the image of Jackson’s lips on mine that threatened to flash through my mind. Chatting. Sure. “And then he was so nice to everyone at Christmas,” I continued. “Why is it a big deal that he asked me to help him?”

  She turned her back to me, adjusting the temperature of one of the burners on the stove. “I just think spending time with some movie star you’ll probably never see again is counter-productive.”

  Here it comes, I thought, gritting my teeth.

  “You should be spending time with Jim. He’s such a nice boy, Sofia. And—”

  “Mother.” She immediately quieted at the tone of my voice. That was one nice result of my having moved out in the first trimester. She might never admit it, but I knew she was slightly afraid of me now that I showed her a little backbone. “I spend more than enough time with Jim. Stop.”

  I was pretty sure I heard a murmur of “a child needs a mother and father,” her very favorite refrain, so I quickly gulped the rest of my coffee and left the kitchen, not in the mood to get into yet another fight with her. I had more important things to do.

  Beth went down for her nap at nine, a
nd I jumped into the shower. There wasn’t enough time to do much with my curly hair, so I pulled it into a fishtail braid before putting my attention on my makeup. I felt a little rusty with the eyeliner pencil and wondered how long it had been since I’d actually put eye makeup on. I went to my closet and stared at my options. I had been thinking about what to wear ever since he left, trying to balance the desire to look fashionable with the desire to wear something that actually fit my new body. I had managed to drop most of the excess weight through nursing, but my hips seemed to have taken on a new curve I secretly feared would never leave. My chest was a lot curvier, too, but I was much more accepting of that change.

  I finally settled on a navy blue wrap dress that accentuated my cleavage while simultaneously hiding most of my remaining tummy. A pair of yellow heels had me feeling brighter and more put together than I’d felt in ages. In fact, I was actually whistling as I made my way down the stairs.

  My mother was standing in the living room, her arms crossed, eyebrows raised. Before I could say anything, she shook her head and walked to the kitchen, muttering something in Spanish that I didn’t quite catch.

  The knock came at three to ten, and I silently thanked Jackson for being punctual. Not really wanting him to come in the house and face my mom, I stuck my head in the kitchen on the way out. “The milk for her bottle is in the fridge,” I said. “You need anything before I go?”

  “I am perfectly capable of handling her for a few hours, Sofia.”

  “Thank you, Mom.”

  She met my eyes, and I could see that she was worried. But she merely offered me a small smile. “Have a nice time with your friend. It will be good for you to get out a little.”

  I smiled at her as Jackson knocked again. “Call if you need anything,” I yelled over my shoulder, not bothering to slow my steps. I pulled open the door and felt my breath catch. Just like yesterday, the sun was glinting on his hair, making it appear much blonder than it had seemed on the TV the day before. He grinned at me and removed his Ray-Bans, not bothering to hide the appreciative journey of his eyes traveling down my figure. “You look great,” he said, leaning forward to kiss my cheek.

  “So do you.” Great was an understatement, of course, He was dressed in dark, slim-fitting jeans, and just a hint of a bright blue sweater that matched his eyes almost perfectly was peeking out from under a black wool coat.

  Before I could devour him with my eyes any further, he held out an arm. “Shall we?”

  He led me to the silver Lexus in the driveway. “Nice ride.”

  He nodded seriously. “It’s pretty good. Not quite as smooth a ride as the one I have at home, but I suppose it is a slightly older model.”

  I had never seen a picture of Jackson in a Lexus, and I had seen several tabloid shots of him in various vehicles.

  “How many cars do you own?” I asked, as he bent to open my door. He frowned a little, thinking, as I slipped into the car. “I think there are eight now. But that counts the ones I keep in L.A.”

  He shut the door and walked around to his side, so he probably missed the look of incredulity on my face. Probably eight? Eight? Some of which he kept in L.A. Because he had houses in more than one country. I shook my head, the surreal feeling that he was here, on my little street in Sterling Heights, Michigan hitting me all over again. What on earth was someone like him doing with someone like me?

  He climbed into the car, fastening his seat belt. “All right, let’s see if I can manage this driving on the wrong side of the road bit.”

  “You got here okay. Twice, now.”

  “Yes, and I nearly killed innocent motorists both times.”

  “Should I be driving?”

  “It’s a manual, love.”

  “Excuse me. I can drive a stick, thank you.”

  He looked over at me, genuinely surprised. “You can?”

  “Of course I can! I can change my own oil and put on a spare, too. Who in the hell do you think I am?”

  “Wow.” His gaze rested on my face for a long moment. “Most of the girls I know have drivers.”

  “That’s because most of the girls you know are actresses. I’m not. I’m a Detroit girl raised by an autoworker.”

  His gaze turned appreciative before he slipped his Ray-Bans back on. “That you are.” He pulled out into the road. “You can take over if I bollocks it up too much.”

  “Deal. Where are we going, anyhow?”

  He flipped the power switch on the GPS. “First place is a condo in Royal Oak.”

  I nodded. “I would have suggested Royal Oak for you. It’s very nice. Cool vibe, lots of bars and restaurants.”

  “Sounds like my kind of place.” He glanced again at the GPS. “Not too far from here, either.”

  I couldn’t help but wonder if that distance would be any kind of factor in his decision.

  We drove in silence for a few moments as I looked out the window at a world that I felt like I hadn’t seen in ages. Which was silly, because I had certainly taken Beth out numerous times in the last three months, to doctor appointments, family dinners, even church. But all of those times, my attention had been mostly on her. When was the last time I had been out just for fun? It felt like a lot longer than three months. It helped that we were having an early appearance of spring. The sky was blue, the snow had melted—there were even a few buds peeking out on the trees.

  “Was it spring in London when you left?” I asked.

  Jackson grimaced. “It rained for ten days straight before I left town.”

  “I think I would have gone to L.A. instead of Detroit, if I were you.”

  He smiled, eyes on the road. “I’ll be there next week. L.A. can wait.”

  “You have a place there?”

  He nodded. “Up in the hills. It’s my favorite property, I think. The land, at least. Fantastic views in every direction.”

  I swallowed. “How, uh, many properties do you have?”

  He seemed to tense a little, and I immediately regretted bringing it up. The last thing I wanted was for him to feel uncomfortable around me, like I was some kind of crazy fan or, worse, a gold digger.

  “I have houses in L.A., London, Somerset, and the south of France.”

  “Holy shit,” I muttered, forgetting about my goal of making him feel comfortable. “I can’t even manage to get an apartment.”

  “It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.” His voice was tight. “I mean…” He sighed, running his hand through his hair. “Never mind.”

  “No, you can tell me.”

  There was a slight beat of silence. Then—

  “I know what it sounds like, you know. What a spoiled wanker I am. Sitting here and complaining about it would make me even worse.”

  I didn’t like the sound of his voice. He seemed angry—not at me, but at himself. “You can complain,” I said. “I’m totally spoiled, and I complain all the time.”

  The tightness in his face faded, and he smiled. “You do, eh?”

  “Oh, yeah. Like, my mom is the best cook in the entire world. The best. She makes me hot meals three times a day. You think I don’t complain about how fat that makes me?”

  He shook his head. “You are not fat.”

  “I can sure as hell put away a plateful of carnitas.”

  “What else do you complain about?”

  “You name it, it’s probably pissed me off at one time or another. The weather—hot or cold. If it’s rainy, I’m mad that my hair will frizz. If it’s too sunny, I bitch about my eyes hurting. Traffic. People crowding me at the grocery store. My sister. My cousins. Seriously, Jackson. I am like, an Olympic-level bitcher.”

  He was really laughing then, and I felt a rush of satisfaction at making him feel better.

  “It’s even worse because I grew up with Lizzie, who’s basically a saint. That girl never complains. I was always the bratty one. Grade-A Brat.”

  “I don’t think you’re a brat. A little sarcastic, maybe.”

  It was my t
urn to laugh. “That was very diplomatic, thanks. So what did you want to bitch about?”

  Still smiling, he shrugged. “I was just going to say that having several places means that none of them really feel like home, you know? Sometimes, it’s more like going to a hotel. It’s nice and it’s clean and I have people there to help me, but it doesn’t feel like mine.”

  I wondered what that would be like. To travel so often, to never put down roots. I thought about this neighborhood that I had never left. Our church was only a fifteen-minute drive. My aunt and uncle—Lizzie’s parents—were only a few blocks away, and they weren’t the only ones. I had relatives or church friends on pretty much every street in the neighborhood. It was common to see at least three people I knew in the grocery store. I’d had the same bedroom since the day I was born, for goodness’s sake.

  “I can see that,” I told him. “I think I would want to feel more connected to a place.”

  He nodded, looking grateful. “I remember being so blown away at your Christmas gathering—how comfortable you all seemed at the Medinas.”

  “I’m there pretty much every week.”

  His voice was soft. “I think that would be nice.”

  “What house feels the most like home for you?”

  “Hmmm. I guess my flat in London. I supervised the decorating myself, so most of the stuff I actually picked out.” He made a face. “Most of the other places were designed by decorators when I wasn’t even in town. It’s hard to feel connected to that stuff, you know?” He grimaced. “There I go again with the complaining.”

  “Well, I think you should pick out the stuff for your place here. So that you feel more connected to it. I could help you.”

  He smiled weakly. “They’re all furnished. These types of places usually are.”

  I felt a little stupid. Of course a major celebrity would rent a furnished home. Did I really think he was going to have the time to go shopping for love seats?

  “Well,” I said bracingly, “I still think you should pick out at least one thing that you really like for your place. Even if it’s like, a vase or something. There should be one thing there that feels like yours.”