Star (Beautiful Book 5)

by Lilliana Anderson

  Not Jonathan.

  Picking up the cupcake, I bite into it. It’s the softest, most flavour-filled baked treat I have ever had the pleasure of eating.

  “What was in the—” Mum busts into my room without knocking and catches me with a mouthful. “Oh, you’re eating it. Who sent it?”

  “Brad,” I say as I swallow the last of the cake and lick the crumbs off my fingers and my lips. “But there was only one.” I show her the empty box and she rolls her eyes.

  “Did you even eat breakfast?”

  “I have now.”

  Pursing her lips and shaking her head, she leaves my room while muttering something about me being as bad as my father. I smile, brushing the crumbs from my jeans as I pick up my phone and call the right guy this time.

  “I was hoping you’d call,” Brad says when we connect. “Did you get the delivery?”

  “Thank you. I did. And I ate it already. I was in tastebud heaven. Otherwise I would have called sooner.”

  He lets out a chuckle. “I’m glad it got to you OK. I had to call in a few favours to get your parents’ address.”

  “I have to admit I was curious about that one. They’re unlisted.”

  “A suitor never reveals his sources, Sandra. You should know about that code.”

  “You got it out of the receptionist at work by promising her a table at Quay, didn’t you?” Everyone in the office knows Erin is partial to a free outing in exchange for a favour.

  “That depends, will her job be in jeopardy if I admit to this? Keeping in mind she didn’t give me the actual address, simply organised the delivery on my behalf.”

  “In that case, no.” I laugh. “A sweet gift from a sexy chef is harmless and thoughtful.”

  “To be honest, the baker behind the cupcake isn’t overly attractive. But my aunt always said it doesn’t matter what a person looks like, as long as they’re useful.”

  “Very funny.”

  “Oh, you were talking about me?”

  “I’m thinking about taking it back now,” I say, my smile wide.

  “Don’t do that. I happen to think you’re incredibly sexy too.” His voice makes my stomach flip. There it is.

  “You’re making me blush.”

  “Good. That was my intention. I can dream about you while I sleep, and you can think about me while you… What are you doing for the day?”

  “I’m moving back into my place.”

  “Paparazzi not camping out there anymore?”

  “Not really. They seem to pop up whenever I’m with you or Jonathan—who I met regarding an article this week—but I don’t seem to appear in the papers when I’m alone. I’m sure they’ll back off soon. I’m not the most exciting person to report on, I’m afraid.”

  “I beg to differ, the article about us, and the pictures of you with that movie guy were high up in the suggested articles on my news app.” I close my eyes, the sweet taste in my mouth suddenly becoming sour as I realise that as long as Jonathan is in my life, everything I do in public will end up being photographed. I want my old life back.

  “I think they just desperately want to blame someone for Jonathan and Marnie DeLuca calling it quits.”

  “Jonathan,” he repeats. “You’re on a first name basis with Jonathan Masters?”

  “Well…yes. I do know him. But I’m only still in contact because he’s asked me to write an article to tell his side of things.”

  “You mean, he wants to explain why he cheats on his fiancées?”

  “It seems a little more complicated than that.”

  “It always is,” he says, his tone conveying his true thoughts on the matter.

  “You’re right. There’s never an excuse for cheating.”

  “No. There isn’t, but I imagine a man as famous as Jonathan Masters would have women throwing themselves at him.”

  “You think it’d be hard to say no?”

  “I think it takes a man with a strong moral code to be in his shoes and keep his nose clean.”

  “Once a cheater, always a cheater.” I sigh, because a big part of me wishes that weren’t true. And I feel awful even thinking that while I’m on the phone with Brad.

  “So they say. But who are we to judge? Just because I don’t agree with something a man does, doesn’t make him a bad guy. If we’re all the sum of our past decisions, then how does anyone ever move forward from their mistakes? Maybe he learned from the mess cheating caused with Leisel Marx and he had an open relationship with this Marnie woman. If a man can accept his weakness and tailor his life accordingly, maybe that’s his strength.”

  I press my lips into a smile. “That’s very philosophical of you.”

  “I get like that when I’m tired. I should probably get some sleep. It’s after twelve here.”

  “What’s Vienna like?”

  “Warm. Beautiful. Charming. But I’d rather be in Sydney watching you eat cupcakes.”

  I grin, thoughts of movie stars floating away, replaced with visions of sexy chefs. “I’m looking forward to seeing you again too. We can eat as many cupcakes together as you like.”

  “I’m thinking of taking you to the Botanical Gardens when I’m home. There’s an open-air movie that happens every spring, and I’ll return in perfect time for it. We can have a picnic, watch a film, and enjoy each other’s company.”

  “Sounds perfect. I can’t wait.”

  “Three weeks and counting. Talk soon.”

  “Sleep well.”

  When I hang up the phone, I look into the empty box, moving my tongue around my mouth as I wish for another cake to get that sweet taste back. No matter where I turn, the topic of Jonathan Masters is never far away.

  With a sigh, I search mine and Jonathan’s name, finding the most recent image of us eating at the Hyatt a few days before. The moment he entered my life, the world paid attention. My name has been dragged through the mud, my every day scrutinised and chronicled for all to see. I want to be normal again. But that’s never going to happen if I keep getting spotted with the man in public. We need to be more careful.

  Wait. No.

  We don’t need to be careful. We need to cease contact.

  That conversation I had with him at the Hyatt is more than enough to write my article, and anything else I need can be discussed over the phone or via email. We don’t need to be seen in public together again.

  My chest tightens at the thought.

  What are you doing, Sandra?

  Rolling my eyes, I shake my head at my stupid reaction, reminding myself it’s a good thing. I don’t want a man like Jonathan in my life. He’s nothing but trouble. Right?

  Right?

  Jonathan: What was inside the box?

  The phone buzzes in my hand. Speak of the devil. I smirk as I tap out a quick message, unsure why I’m not just ignoring him all together.

  Me: a severed thumb

  Jonathan: Just wait. Tomorrow it will be an ear.

  Smiling, I tuck my phone into my back pocket then head inside to say goodbye to Mum. It’s time to go home.

  Twenty

  Jonathan

  Me: Come outside, Red. Your chariot awaits.

  Is it creepy to show up uninvited to drive the girl you’re obsessed with into work on a Monday morning? Probably…

  Sandra: What are you talking about?

  Me: I’m driving you into work today.

  Sandra: Why?

  Me: Sometimes a man needs to create his own opportunities.

  Sandra: ?? I hope that doesn’t mean you think I’ll get down and dirty in your backseat.

  Me: I had planned a conversation and a drive-thru coffee. But now…

  Sandra: Not gonna happen. I’ll catch the train.

  Me: Then I’ll catch the train with you.

  The message switches to read. A minute later, the door opens and the light of my life is locking her front door looking nervous as hell. I love that I do this to her. Nervous means she doesn’t trust herself around me. Nervous means
I have a chance.

  She drops the house keys in her big black handbag before she flicks her long hair and hitches the bag higher. I’m getting hard just looking at her in her navy skirt and white striped blouse. Pretty as a picture. I power down the passenger window as she approaches. I wonder if she realises how sexy that swing of her hips is?

  “Are you watching my house?” she asks, leaning through the window.

  “There’s a possibility I hired security to keep an eye on your house while you were gone. And it’s likely said security saw your car in the driveway and let me know you were home.”

  “You’re paying someone else to stalk me? That’s just lazy, Jonathan.”

  I grin, loving my name on her lips. “I’ve got too much money for my own good. Get in so I can drive you to work.”

  “I really prefer to catch the train.”

  “I’m happy to catch the train with you. But we both know how many photos will get taken if we’re spotted on public transport together.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “Stop asking questions you already know the answers to and get in the car. I’ll buy you a coffee.”

  “And a donut,” she says, already opening the door.

  “Done.”

  “Don’t you have a job of your own to do or something?” she asks, her long legs angling towards me as she slides into the plush leather seat. “Scripts to memorise? Premieres to choose suits for?”

  “Not a thing. I’m all yours.” I give her a big smile and a wink before I pull into the street and head for the nearest bakery to make good on my coffee and donut promise.

  “All mine,” she repeats. “What’s it going to take to make you someone else’s?”

  “Oh Red, you don’t want me with someone else.”

  “Sure I do,” she says, brushing something imaginary from her jacket. “The sooner you find someone new, the sooner you leave me alone.”

  Studying body language and tone of voice is something I’ve spent countless hours doing. Everything about Sandra says she loves being around me. Her knees angle towards me, her breathing is shallow, but she’s forcing it steady. She watches my hand when I change gears, my leg when I work the clutch, and she sneaks glances at my profile when she thinks I’m focused on traffic. Her words don’t mean shit. Her tone is too aloof, and she’s covering her insincerity by focusing on a speck of lint or aiming her words at the window instead of at me.

  “What’s your objection to dating me?”

  “I’m already dating someone.”

  “And we’ve established it’s not serious. But for argument’s sake, let pretend there’s no chef and we’re both completely single.”

  “Your life disrupts my life.”

  “Let’s pretend it doesn’t. Pretend I’m a regular guy.”

  “Who cheated on my best friend while he was engaged to her.”

  “OK. But didn’t you have a thing with Douche Bailey and now she’s with him?”

  “Yes. But—”

  “But nothing. What’s good for one is fine for the other. Pick another excuse.”

  “Well, that still leaves the cheating part of your personality.”

  “Which I’ve already spoken to you about. I regret the man I was with Leisel, and I will never be dishonest about my intentions towards a woman again.”

  “Is that what this is? You’re declaring your intentions?”

  “Fuckin’ oath, I am. And you know where you stand, right? Is there any doubt in your mind about me wanting you?”

  “No,” she says immediately, surprising me because I thought she’d sidestep the question. “I know you want me. I just can’t trust it.” Exactly as I thought.

  “Then I guess that’s what I’m working on. I’m going to earn your trust.”

  “By harassing me?”

  “No. By being here, ready and waiting for the moment you realise that chef guy is nothing but a shield you’re hiding behind.”

  I catch a slight frown when I glance at her. “I’m not hiding. I’m being honest about what I want.”

  “You’re right, you are. You want stability, dependability and devotion. And I’m going to give that to you.”

  She barks out a laugh and shakes her head. “For how long?” Another tell, she’s worried I’ll leave her.

  “As long as it takes.”

  “It could take forever.”

  “Then I guess we’re gonna get to know each other really well.”

  “I guess we are,” she muses, glancing at me with a smile before hiding it by looking out the window.

  I, on the other hand, am not hiding a bloody thing because that’s the first time she’s agreed with me. We’re making progress.

  Twenty-One

  Sandra

  If we were in a movie, there’d be a musical montage showing the growth of Jonathan’s and my relationship. No, we’re not together, and I’ve been adamant the whole time that we never will be. But the man has grown on me to the point where I now consider him a friend. Somehow in my mind, I’ve separated him from the movie star persona we see in the media, and I see him for the person he is. Jonathan. My friend.

  It took almost a month for me to relax to the point where I’m comfortable around him. At first I was on edge, but true to his word, he wore me down by being my regular chauffeur and frequent companion, picking me up each day and bringing me home. We’ve had many a lunch or dinner, seen a movie together—and he didn’t even try to hold my hand—we’ve taken long walks around the city and he even took me to the Sunday Markets at The Rocks. It’s like Lisa left and left me her ex-fiancé as a replacement best friend. And I can see why they got along now, there’s something easy about having Jonathan in your life, showering you with attention. It makes me want to believe it’s real.

  But he’s just a stand in.

  And I’m just a distraction from his flailing career.

  Once the article I wrote about him and his history with women published, the media interest in our relationship was renewed. But while there have been a number of photos of us together in the tabloids, he’s been quite adamant that we’re just friends in all of his interviews, which I’ve appreciated, because it means that Brad understands that too, and our relationship is growing as we’ve gotten to know each other better by phone while he travels.

  I think Brad would be in my montage too. I can see it now: the music would be, You Are The Best Thing by Ray LaMontagne. The scenes would flick back and forth showing Jonathan and I enjoying each other's company. Then it would show me on the phone with Brad flirting my arse off, or texting him and having Jonathan steal my phone and do a dramatic reading of our texts while I chase him to get my phone back. I would then elbow him in the side when he returns it to me, laughing.

  All that play would be interspersed with Jonathan alone at his red carpet events being questioned about his relationship with me. In each instance the music would fade a little and he would say, ‘No, Red and I are just friends.’ And we’d probably see me telling my co-workers, ‘We’re just friends’ too. But they don’t believe it. And I don’t care, because I know how things are. They can think what they like.

  The montage would cut back to us together, probably showing that time he came to pick me up from an interview I conducted after a concert late at night. Each time I went to open the door he drove off a little then stopped and did it all over again, laughing his arse off like a teenager when he finally let me in the car and I began to slap him on his arm and chest.

  Then, the music would begin to fade out, perhaps with a little more footage, proving that our relationship is only friendship, and it would end with us sitting right where we are now, on the side of the river bank looking up at the clouds like a couple kids, trying to make pictures to entertain ourselves.

  "That one's a rabbit," he says, pointing out an oddly shaped cloud above us.

  "That is not a rabbit," I argue. "It looks more like a pair of scissors."

  "How can you not see a rabb
it in that cloud? It’s a fucking rabbit. What's ridiculous is that you think you see scissors.”

  "It is scissors."

  "It's a god dammed fucking rabbit.” He laughs.

  “It’s scissors!” I insist.

  “Whatever. Hey, you want to come to a movie premiere tonight? It’s one of those romantical things you chicks like to cry over when you’re on your period.”

  “Romantical isn’t even a word,” I counter, still squinting up at the sky as the clouds drift slowly overhead. Cry over on our period? How is this man not married yet?

  “Sure it is. I said it didn’t I?”

  I sit up and frown, running through the calendar in my mind. “Doesn’t make it a word,” I say distractedly. Shit.

  “Yeah well, ‘selfie’ wasn’t a word until they added it to the dictionary. Just because ‘romantical’ isn’t recognised by the people at Websters yet, doesn’t make it wrong. And will you come, or not?”

  “Not.” I wrap my arms around my knees. “I have a date tonight.”

  “A date? Who with? The chef? Is he back?”

  “His name is Brad and yes, he’s back.” I get to my feet and look out at the water in front of us, tying to keep calm while my heart thuds away in my chest. I’m late.

  “You’re seriously still dating him?”

  “Of course I am. You know I am,” I say, collecting my bag as panic pushes up through my lungs.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Home. I need to get ready.” I need to get to a chemist.

  “It’s barely past lunch.”

  “Well, I need to wash my hair. It takes a long time to dry.”

  "Wait. What is this, Red? You’re running away from me?”

  “No. I just have things to do. I’ll call you tomorrow.” I touch his arm lightly and step away, but he catches my hand.

  “What does Brad have that I don’t?” he asks, his voice somber.

  Pressing my lips together, I force myself to meet his questioning eyes. "A normal life," I answer.

  "Is that what you want? Normal?”

  “Yes.”

  “Normal is boring.”