Star (Beautiful Book 5)

by Lilliana Anderson

  Already late for work, I head out to the kitchen where I find my mother swearing over the coffee machine.

  “You okay there?” I ask, watching as she slaps the top of it and mutters that it's a ‘fucking useless piece of junk’.

  “What? Oh yeah, I'm fine. Just the stupid coffee machine that has its days numbered,” she grumbles.

  “Let me have a look at it.” She moves out of the way so I can switch the machine off at the wall outlet to give it a chance to reset.

  “So, how was your date last night?” she asks while she watches me. “You got home early, so I'm assuming you didn't get up to any hanky-panky, which is very disappointing. I really think you could do with a little bit of rumpy pumpy in your life.”

  I roll my eyes, hitting the power switch on the coffee machine and waiting for it to go through its start-up sequence again. “Rumpy pumpy? God, Mum. Please don't try to talk sex with me. It's just disturbing.”

  “Why is it disturbing? It's not like I don't have any experience with it. Your father and I still—”

  “Don't,” I practically yell over the top of her. “I so don't want to know that you and dad are still doing it.”

  “Why is that an issue? Your father is the same age as Brad Pitt, and you wouldn't turn him down, would you?”

  “Well yes, I would turn him down. There is no way in hell I'd get involved with a celebrity.” Again. “Especially one as big as him. And comparing dad to Brad Pitt like that is all kinds of wrong. I don't want to know anything about your bedroom business. There are some things mothers and daughters shouldn't share.”

  She pokes her tongue out at me like a child who didn’t get their way, as I hear the coffee machine click to signal that it's ready.

  “There,” I say. “All fixed. Now you can have your coffee.”

  “Do you want one?”

  “No thanks, I'll just grab one at work.”

  “I still want to hear about your date,” she calls after me. “Where did he take you?”

  “To Quay,” I answer. “And if you’re that excited to find out, read this morning’s news. There’s a whole photo spread on us.”

  “What? You’re in the paper again?”

  “Bye, Mum!”

  “Wait. Get back here and explain how this happened.”

  “I’ll be late for work.”

  “You’re no fun, Sandra Emily Haegen,” she calls after me, and I respond with a laugh as I shut the front door.

  When I arrive at work, it’s to a beautiful vase full of blue flowers of various types. I expect they’re from Brad, but when I read the card that says, ‘These reminded me of your eyes - J,’ I realise they’re from Jonathan instead.

  “You can’t be serious,” I mutter, looking over the arrangement and admiring its beauty while feeling saddened that I can’t, in good conscience, keep it. So I pick them up and take them out to reception where a young girl called Erin is working the phones. She smiles at me brightly as I approach with the large arrangement in my hands.

  “Is there somewhere I can put these?” I ask when she finishes on the phone.

  “You don’t want them in your office?”

  “I’m allergic,” I explain, even though it’s a total lie.

  “Oh, well, I have some Telfast in my bag if you’d like.”

  “No. No, it’s fine. I’ll just put them somewhere where everyone can enjoy them,” I counter, scrambling for something to say to cover up my fib so I don’t have to explain why I don’t feel comfortable keeping them. Erin and I don’t talk a lot and blurting, ‘They’re from my best friend’s ex-fiancé who’s also a movie star that I drunkenly slept with and feel awkward about now,’ would be over sharing.

  “Well, they are beautiful.” She smiles. “Why don’t you put them on the table in the waiting area? They’ll look lovely there.”

  “Perfect.” I place them on the white low-line table in the corner of the room before taking the card from the stem and thanking Erin before heading back to my office.

  With the card in my hand, I close my office door and lean against it, closing my eyes. What the hell is Jonathan doing? We had a moment—a very hot moment based on the flashes of memory I’ve been getting—but it’s over. And it was most likely a result of the tense situation more than it was about us. High-stress situations push people together who’d otherwise never be interested. Johnathan and I had had a hell of a day, mixed with too much alcohol and boom we were naked and fucking like it was the last chance either of us would get to have sex. I think Jonathan needs to go back to Hollywood and fall into bed with his next co-star or some other wannabe who needs him to look important, that’ll set him back on his regular path. He doesn’t need to contact me. I pull out my phone and rapidly type out a message.

  Me: Please don’t send me flowers.

  Jonathan: You don’t like flowers?

  Me: I do. But not from you.

  Jonathan: What do you like from me?

  Me: Silence.

  Jonathan: well, this is awkward. You’re about to be very disappointed.

  Me: Why?

  It registers as delivered then read. So, I wait for a moment, but he doesn’t answer. “Cryptic motherfucker,” I mutter before I toss my phone in my desk drawer and power up my computer, trying to forget about Jonathan Masters and his unwanted attention. I’m dating Brad now and he knows it. Sending flowers then insinuating he won’t be leaving me alone is just rude. I mean, what that hell does he think he’s going to get from this? He’s a serial cheater who slept with me before he broke it off with his fiancée. Fake fiancée or not, why in God’s name would I want him to keep calling me? We had fun, but there’s nowhere good this scenario could go.

  I’m in the process of trying to focus on writing up an article about a boy band based in Australia who found each other online and don’t even live close enough to each other to rehearse, so they do it all via webcam. It took me a month to fly around the country to all five boys for their interviews and photo shoots, and with their album due to release in a few weeks, I’m to finish their story and send it to their rep for approval before the end of the day.

  A notification slides across the top of my screen saying, ‘Junkett, Hyatt.’

  “What?” From what I saw yesterday, my schedule was cleared for the boy band article.

  “Junket? For what?” I ask myself as I pick up my internal line and call through to my editor. His receptionist answers but since she would’ve been the one to add this to my diary, she’s likely to have answers anyway. “Hi Carrie, can you tell me what this junket is supposed to be? It wasn’t in my diary yesterday, and I don’t have any questions or information on it to prepare.”

  “It came in late last night. You were a last-minute addition to the list. It’s for some mini-series from what I can tell. The advisement notice says you’ll be given an information pack when you get there. Looks like they’re trying to keep all the details hush, hush, so it’s obviously some big project they’ll want us to launch at the same time as everyone else.”

  “OK. I’ll get ready and head over there soon.”

  Gathering my things, I make my way downstairs, hail a cab and ask to be taken to the Hyatt where the junket is being held. In the city traffic, it takes almost half an hour to get from George Street to the hotel. But I arrive in plenty of time, which is why I feel strange when I walk through the tall glass doors and find nothing but giant stone columns in the hotel’s foyer. Two out of the four reception desks are manned, but they only have a few people with baggage lined up while they checkout.

  Where are the reporters sitting on the couches, drinking coffee and talking loudly? Where is the sign telling us where to go? Where are the photographers and their giant shoulder bags?

  I stop and turn in a slow circle. Where is everyone?

  I frown and pull out my phone, double-checking my schedule. It says the Hyatt. So I'm in the right place. Perhaps the details were put in wrong when the appointment was set? I'm just about to cal
l my editor's office to ask Carrie to look over the details again when I'm approached by a dark-haired man in a business suit.

  "Ms Haegen?" he asks, and I nod. "If you’ll just follow me."

  Nervous and concerned, I follow along behind him, wondering what all this mystery is about and also worrying that we did mess up the time and I'm obscenely late. He takes me through to a conference room that is set up with a podium in front and rows of chairs on the floor below. My stomach swirls like a growing storm. I’m the only one here.

  "Take a seat, miss," he instructs, holding his hand out and pointing at the seats in the front row.

  “Excuse me.” I catch his arm before he can walk away. “Where is everybody?” His eyes drop to where my hand is crushing the sleeve of his tailored suit. I release the fabric and smooth my hand over the wrinkles, muttering my apologies.

  “If you’ll just take a seat.”

  Concern becomes my primary emotion as I take my seat and watch him walk into the adjoining room, leaving me alone with my brow creased and my heart rapid firing in my chest. As a precaution, I bring my mother's number up on my phone in case I've been lured into some sort of serial killer’s trap. It may not save me, but at least they’ll be able to trace the call and find my body.

  My thumb hovers over the screen as I wait for what's to come, contemplating the sanity of sitting here like I was told. Then a familiar figure enters, looking every bit the movie star in his designer jeans and tight fitting designer T-shirt. When he grins, there’s an intensity in his eyes that has me pressing my knees together, a flash of memory showing his hand on my stomach, fingers splayed as he grins at me before disappearing between my thighs. Oh, lord. Now my nipples are hard.

  “Sandra,” he says with a nod.

  "I should have known this would be your doing," I say, clearing my throat to regain my composure as I drop my phone in my bag. He takes a seat next to me, and I’m glad I have my head down because his arm brushes against mine and now my cheeks are burning. And my nipples could cut glass.

  “It’s nice to see you too,” he says, his voice…erotic.

  I snap my head up to meet his gaze and he’s smirking. Sticking my chin out, I fold my arms across my chest. "This is a little drastic don't you think?"

  He grins and bounces his shoulder in a slight shrug. "I wanted to make sure you'd come." The way he annunciates that word does nothing for my nipple problem.

  "Why?"

  "Because I needed to see to you."

  "Needed, or wanted?"

  "Does it matter?"

  I let out a long sigh and fold my arms just a little tighter. "Well, you've dragged me down here. Tell me the highly important thing that’s on your mind since it’s obviously way more important than anything I might have needed to do at work today."

  "This is work."

  "Dragging me to a press junket where I'm the only press?"

  "No, selecting you to be the reporter who explains my story is the work."

  "Your story?"

  "Yes. I'd like to tell my side of what happened with Leisel and Marnie. And I want you to be the one to do it. You're the only one I trust to tell my side correctly."

  "You understand I'll have to contact both Lisa and Marnie to give their side of the story, right?"

  "I do. But I need to do this. I need people to know. More importantly, I need you to know I'm not the man I was when I was with Leisel. And I’m not the man Marnie has made me out to be either."

  "Then who are you?"

  "I’m the man from the hotel room."

  I suck in my breath. “All I remember from that hotel is the hangover I had the next morning.”

  His eyes leave my eyes and focus on where my arms are still folded across my chest. “I remember all of it.” His eyes return to mine and my cheeks flame.

  “Don’t do that,” I whisper, butterflies flapping around violently in my stomach. I need to avert my gaze to maintain my composure.

  “Do what?”

  “Imagine me naked.”

  His mouth quirks in a grin. “I thought you didn’t remember.”

  Suddenly, his nearness becomes too much, and I need to put a seat between us. I slide to my right and hug my handbag to my chest.

  "Are you all right, Sandra?" he asks, looking amused.

  I shake my head. "No, I don't think I am. I think…I'm just…You need to get someone else to do this," I state, standing with a view to leave. "I'll contact my editor and let them know. I can’t do this with you."

  He stands and catches my arm, halting my escape. "I don't want anyone else. Don't you understand that?"

  “Jonathan.” I close my eyes, feeling the heat of his grip searing into my skin.

  “Have dinner with me.”

  I shake my head. I do understand. I understand that he's decided he wants me and not just as a journalist. I understand there’s a connection here, and I feel the attraction. But that stuff is just physical. It isn’t real. It isn’t something that lasts. It’s something that would break my heart in the most public of ways. I can’t let myself get caught up like that again.

  In relationships, I fall hard and I fall fast. I spent a single weekend with Marcus Bailey and I didn’t get over him for months—maybe even a year—after. I never thought it was his fame that attracted me; I thought it was because there was something about him that turned my insides into a quivering mess. It’s embarrassing to think how hard I fell for him now. Just like it’s embarrassing to think about how obsessively thoughts of Jonathan keep creeping their way into my mind. It’s like a sickness. And I’m starting to wonder if it is the fame that makes me feel like this.

  It’s not like I’m a fame whore. I interview famous people all the time, but Marcus Bailey and Jonathan Masters are huge, and maybe catching the eye of a man at the top of the stardom ladder is what gets me all giddy. Maybe I am that shallow? I never thought I was, but this is too coincidental to ignore. Not to mention it’s unfair to Brad.

  I pull my arm from his grip and step away. “I’m seeing someone else,” I tell him as I turn to leave again.

  He catches my arm again. "Tell him your taken."

  I bark out a laugh. He can’t be serious. "I’m telling you I’m taken. Why don’t you go out onto the street and grab the first pretty blonde you see? I’m sure you’ll find one who’s more than willing to be the next Jonathan Masters conquest." Pulling my arm from his grip a second time, I make my way towards the exit.

  "Just have coffee, a drink, a marshmallow—anything—with me,” he calls out. “Please. All I want is a chance."

  I pause before I reach the door, the pleading tone in his voice causing me to close my eyes as an overwhelming sense of something-I-don't-want-to-give-a-name-to washes over me and twists my stomach, creating a pressure in my chest.

  "What about Lisa?" I ask, my back still towards him.

  “Has she contacted you?”

  I turn back to face him. “No.”

  "Then, I don’t know. We can cross that bridge when we come to it."

  "And what makes you think there’ll be a bridge?"

  He shrugs. “Because I like who I am around you.” My chest tightens at his words. But it’s hard to trust them, he’s an actor, after all. He says this kind of stuff for a living.

  “You hardly know me.”

  He slides his hands into his pockets. “If there’s one thing I know of this life, it’s that not a lot of it makes sense. You’ve just got to go with your gut and hope for the best.”

  “And your gut is telling you to nag the crap out of me?”

  He laughs. “Yeah. Something like that.”

  Pulling my lip between my teeth, I study his earnest face and feel myself giving in even before I say, "One coffee.”

  His mouth curves into the most beautiful smile, and for a moment I’m blinded by it, my knees weak, my stomach fluttery. What the hell am I getting myself into?

  Sixteen

  Jonathan

  “Why do you look so gu
ilty?” I ask as we take a seat in a quiet corner of the hotel’s restaurant. Sandra keeps pulling her hair over her shoulder and tilting her head like she’s doing her best to remain unseen. It’s the least inconspicuous thing I’ve seen in my life. She’s adorable.

  “I don’t want to be tomorrow’s news story,” she whispers. “Why couldn’t we have coffee somewhere private?”

  I grin. “You want me to get us a room?” Her cheeks brighten and I grin so hard my cheeks pinch. Fuck I love making her blush.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she hisses.

  “Are you worried you won’t be able to control yourself around me?” I tease, watching her turn a deeper shade of red.

  “I think I could manage,” she scoffs, but I can see those gorgeous little peaks of her hard nipples pressing against her blouse. I would literally give anything right now to suck those tight buds between my teeth and listen to her moan. I’m getting hard just thinking about it.

  “Are you worried about that guy you’re seeing?”

  “Partly,” she admits, looking around uncomfortably.

  “How long have you been dating?” I ask, because it can’t have been too long since she was single when we were together a week and a half ago. Unless she wasn’t.

  “It’s new,” she says, rubbing her hand up and down her upper arm.

  “Brand new?”

  “We’ve had one date.”

  “Are you exclusive?”

  “No. Well, kind of. Nothing’s official. We’re seeing how things go…”

  “Sounds complicated,” I say. “But since we’re just having coffee, I don’t think it’s breaking any rules.” She picks up the menu and drums her fingers against the table. I’m making her nervous. “If you’re hungry, then please, eat. I don’t want to make you feel like you can’t have whatever you want.”

  A laugh escapes her throat as she puts the menu back with jerky movements. “You wouldn’t continue to pursue me if you cared about what I want.”

  I lean forward and wait until she stops fidgeting and meets my eyes. “This is what you want, Sandra. You’re just not willing to admit it yet.”