Starstruck Read online

  But Remy was staring at the phone, a funny expression on her face.

  “Remy?”

  “Have you seen Twitter?”

  “Of course I haven’t. Why? What is it?”

  Remy handed over her phone and Christine’s eyes widened. “Oh no.”

  “Oh yes.” Remy took it back. “It’s all over the Internet. Someone posted a photo of you and Nick together and now the speculation about the show is running wild.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know.”

  But from the tone of voice, Remy did know, and Christine did too.

  She managed not to ask—or show her growing panic—as they returned to the hotel and then rode the lift up to the third floor. She barely noticed the weird looks she got from another set of businessmen, though seriously… it was FanFest and they were at one of the closest hotels to the Olympia. Surely she was not the first cosplayer they’d seen?

  “Breathe,” Remy said. “You’re not breathing.”

  “I’m wearing a corset,” Christine bit out, but it didn’t make any difference. She knew what was coming.

  David was waiting for them when they entered the suite. “Christine, Remy, good. Come sit down. I have some news.”

  Christine lowered herself to the seat carefully, her spine held unnaturally straight by the corset’s stays, and folded her hands in her lap.

  “Connor Bell is out of surgery and it was not as bad as they thought.”

  Christine stared. “What? What does that mean?”

  “It means that with proper rest and a careful exercise regimen, he could be on set in eight weeks.”

  She let out a long breath of relief. “That’s great. It’s great, right? Why are we even talking about this? We get Connor, I don’t have to deal with Nick, everyone wins.”

  “Not so fast,” David said carefully. “Even if he’s ready to shoot, he won’t be able to film the action sequences. Definitely not right away. Maybe not ever. So that means bringing in a stunt double.”

  “So? You already discussed having a double. Right?”

  “Even so, we begin filming in five weeks. We’d have to rearrange the shooting schedule, which will cost us even more money. And I don’t need to tell you that this is not exactly an inexpensive production, Christine.”

  She flopped back in defeat against the sofa, but the corset bit into her stomach and she popped straight up again like a jack-in-the-box. “So you’re telling me I have no choice. You have to hire Nick.”

  “No.” His expression shifted to something akin to sympathy. “Alastair MacCauley is still a viable option. But if the other producers are against sticking with Connor and we’re passing on Nick, I need to be able to tell them more than ‘Cressida hates her ex-fiancé.’”

  “Right.”

  “And then there’s the matter of this photo.” David held up his phone and Christine groaned. “His fan base is going crazy, Christine. Do you have any idea how many viewers Night Music has?”

  “Connor Bell won an Academy Award.”

  “And his last film was a box office flop. Nick is hot right now. He engages with his fans, he’s got a reputation of being easy to work with—which, let’s face it, Connor does not—and he wants this role. I would suggest you try to make peace with him, because from where I’m standing, none of us may have any real choice if you want this series made.”

  “And you better do it fast,” Remy said, “because the cast announcement is in two days.”

  Christine searched for a response but there was nothing to say. Instead she levered herself to standing, picked up her carpetbag, and strode to the door.

  David called after her. “Christine—”

  “It’s okay, really. I understand.” She pulled the door open.

  And found herself looking straight at Nick Cleary, his hand raised as if to knock. She shut the door behind her with an arch of her eyebrows and strode straight past him, her head held high.

  “Chrissy, wait!”

  She slowed and turned to fix him with an icy look. “What do you want, Nick? Haven’t you done enough? Or are you just coming by to rub it in?”

  He jogged toward her, apparently abandoning his errand. “What happened? You’re ticked at me.”

  She stared at him. “You’re unbelievable. What? I didn’t give in to your ‘reformed bad boy’ routine fast enough so you decided to go behind my back to your fans?”

  “What are you talking about?” Nick’s brow furrowed. He looked completely baffled, and once again, she realized she’d underestimated his acting ability.

  “I’m talking about this.” She dug in her bag for her phone, then pulled up Twitter and searched for the hashtag #NickClearyIsJacksonLandry. Then held her phone two inches from his face.

  Nick took a step back and held up his hands. “Whoa. I promise you, I had nothing to do with that. I didn’t leak the photo. Someone else must have taken it.”

  “Which is exactly what you counted on when you showed up at my book signing and wanted to take a photo with me.”

  “No! Not at all. Chrissy, you have to believe me. I went there because I wanted to make a public statement that there are no hard feelings between us, at least on my side. But—”

  “Why pass up a photo op if you can bend it to your advantage?” Christine shook her head, fuming. “I read you wrong, Nick. You really will do whatever it takes to get what you want.” She hiked her bag onto her shoulder, turned on her high heel, and marched the last stretch of the hallway toward the lift. She punched the button, trying to get the car to arrive through sheer force of will. Of course the old-fashioned dial was fixed permanently in the middle, giving Nick plenty of time to catch up with her.

  “Christine, I promise you, I was not behind this. I want this role, yes, but I know you well enough to know a stunt like this would only make you dig in your heels. Please, how can I make this up to you?”

  “You can’t. It’s out there, and you can’t take it back. And now I get to disappoint your fans, because it looks like Connor Bell is going to make a full recovery.” The lift finally arrived and she darted inside, punching the close button.

  He put his hand out to stop the doors and slipped onto the lift beside her. “I heard about Connor. And I also know there’s no way he’s going to be ready to shoot in five weeks. You’ll have to delay production for him.”

  Christine shrugged. “He’s worth the wait. He brings some needed gravity to the role.”

  “Come on. He’s done nothing but snore-worthy costume dramas. He’s probably the single actor I’ve ever met who is more interesting in real life than he is on screen. He’s not right for Jackson Landry. Jackson has… life. Wit. A spark. Doesn’t take himself too seriously.”

  “Oh, and you’re perfect for the role? What prepared you for that, your impressive collection of Instagram workout selfies or four seasons of playing a brooding otherworldly incubus?”

  “He’s a shape-shifter, actually. But it’s only a role.”

  “A role you play to perfection.” She reached out and tweaked a piece of Nick’s perfectly coiffed hair, then smirked as he reached up to smooth it back in place. “You’re about the most image-conscious person I’ve ever met.”

  “You’re wrong. Let me prove it to you.”

  She was about to shut him down and kick him out of the lift when she remembered Drew’s plan. A slow smile crossed her face. “Okay, then. You want to prove it? Come with me.”

  * * *

  “A bunny suit?”

  “Shut up and put it on.” Christine pushed the pink footy-pajamas thing into his arms and guided him back to the costume shop’s dressing room, which was little more than a cubicle with a curtain. “I’ll hold onto the head for you.”

  “I still don’t understand what this is going to prove.”

  “It’s going to prove that you’re no longer the type of guy who puts himself and his career first in any situation.”

  “I didn’t—”

>   Christine sent him a disbelieving look, and he snapped his mouth closed. She continued, “It’s going to prove your willingness to do whatever is required to get this role. And what I require at this moment is a bunny suit.”

  Nick fixed her with a disbelieving stare and slid the curtain closed. She heard him mumbling the entire time he struggled into the costume, until the long hiss of a zipper indicated he was finally ensconced in the pink monstrosity. He pulled open the curtain. “Now what?”

  Christine repressed a laugh. “Now, you put this on.” She picked up the giant bunny head and plopped it onto his shoulders. “Perfect.”

  The shop girl approached, a forced smile on her face. Clearly she didn’t know what to make of the giant pink bunny either. “So… how does it fit?”

  “I think it’s perfect,” Christine answered. “We’ll take it. Nick, give her your credit card.”

  “But—” his muffled protest came from the suit.

  “Nick, credit card.”

  He sighed and fumbled for his back pocket, which really meant groping his own pink backside. “I can’t get to it.”

  “You’re going to have to get to it. This is your act of contrition. I’m not paying for it.”

  He sighed and dropped his head, but the bunny ears flopped onto his chest. He fumbled for the zipper and finally unzipped it all the way, then reached around inside the suit for his wallet. He handed it over to her wordlessly.

  She flipped open the leather bifold and fished out an American Express card, then handed it to the girl. Nice, Platinum. Apparently he wasn’t doing too badly for himself. Since he wasn’t in a position to object, she flipped through the other items. An ATM card, a grocery store frequent shopper tag, his California driver’s license. A handful of British banknotes. And then, tucked into the back, was one of those narrow picture strips from an old-fashioned photo booth. She tugged it out and sucked in a sharp breath.

  The photos were of her and Nick, hamming it up for the camera with cheesy smiles, making bunny ears behind each other’s heads, kissing. And in the last one, staring at each other, so wrapped up in their connection that it was almost painful to look at.

  She remembered that night well. They’d walked around Santa Monica in the balmy summer air for hours, finally landing inside the arcade where they played Skee-Ball and air hockey for hours. It was the night that, sitting on a park bench, eating ice cream cones, Nick had asked her to marry him.

  “Ma’am?” The girl was handing back the credit card. Hastily, Christine shoved the photos back into his wallet and replaced the credit card in its slot. She scrawled an unreadable signature at the bottom of the register receipt and grabbed Nick by the arm. “Come on, Harvey. This is only our first stop.”

  He followed along docilely—too docilely—making her want to check to be sure it was really him inside the suit. A silly thought, of course, because who else would it be? She ignored the looks they were getting on the street, a woman tricked out in steampunk garb leading a six-foot pink rabbit. Surely this wasn’t the weirdest sight ever seen in Golden Lane Estate, considering this part of the city was devoted to 1950s council housing painted in garish primary colors.

  Fortunately, it wasn’t far to the Old Street tube station, though she had to keep a tight grip on his arm while they traversed the steps down to the platform. “You know,” Nick said through the bunny head, “This would be a lot easier if I could take the top off.”

  “What would be the fun in that?” she asked. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to let you fall down the steps. I only want to humiliate you, not kill you.”

  “At least you’re open about your goals,” he quipped, and she had to wrestle a smile off her face.

  Londoners were truly reserved people, because despite the initial glances they garnered, no one commented or hooted or questioned what the mismatched pair was doing on the tube. This was definitely not the weirdest thing to happen on the London Underground. Fortunately, the train arrived immediately with a whoosh of warm air and the familiar warning to “mind the gap,” which took on a new meaning as Nick shuffled into the carriage and just barely kept his ears from getting caught in the closing doors.

  Unfortunately, Christine hadn’t thought this out well, because it took two line changes and nine stops to get from Old Street to Marble Arch, where their final destination lay. The whole time, Nick stayed silent except to answer the questions Christine asked of him. She couldn’t tell if he was merely showing his patience or if inwardly he was fuming. Probably the latter. Which was just fine. This wasn’t supposed to be fun.

  “Wait, I know this,” Nick finally said when they breached the edge of Hyde Park. “We’re going to Speaker’s Corner!”

  “We are. You do know London.”

  “I love this city. That’s another reason why I want the role so much. To spend months in England filming, only a train ride away from London? I know you probably won’t believe this, but LA gets on my nerves sometimes. When I was struggling along as an actor, I felt like the sunshine was mocking me.”

  At least that’s what she thought he said, because the whole speech was muffled by the bunny head. She could have simply let it go, but instead she found herself responding, “I know. That’s why I moved to San Diego. I mean, same amount of sunshine, just less…”

  “Fakery?” he suggested.

  “Yeah, I guess. My neighbors are old-time surfers, not celebrities, at least.”

  “You’re a celebrity, you know.”

  Christine laughed. “Hardly. Unless I’m in a corset no one recognizes me.”

  “Is that why you do it? So no one will recognize you when they see you for real?”

  “Look, here we are.” Christine conveniently skipped over his question as they approached the famous Speaker’s Corner, which was really just a section of Hyde Park with an iron railing and an ugly mushroom-shaped concession stand. She had to admit she’d been expecting something far grander given its storied history.

  Currently, there was a man wearing a beanie, shouting something about the British government and Marxist economics, but she couldn’t figure out whether he was criticizing or making suggestions and whether he was for or against. Eventually, as the watchers trickled away, he hopped down from his folding step stool, tucked it under his arm, and wandered off to buy a cappuccino. Christine and Nick looked at each other and started to laugh.

  “Okay, your turn.”

  “What am I talking about?” he asked, seemingly unperturbed by the whole situation.

  “You’re reciting the Gettysburg Address, of course. Here, I’ve got a copy in my bag for you.”

  “Chrissy, how am I going to read anything through this thing? I can barely see an inch in front of me.”

  “Then you’re just going to have to recite it from memory.” She cocked her head. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten it already. You were so proud that you could still remember your eighth-grade speech.”

  He made a sound that seemed like a sigh. “I remember. Okay, let’s get this going.” He marched over to the spot near the railing Beanie Guy had just vacated while Christine pulled out her cell phone and moved into position to video tape him. She snickered to herself as he adjusted the bunny head and tugged up the sagging pink legs.

  “Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal…” Nick’s voice rang out, somehow clear despite the stupid suit. He projected like a Shakespearean actor. “Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation or any nation so conceived and also so dedicated can long endure.”

  Christine watched on, marveling that he was taking this seriously. And that somehow, despite the fact he was wearing a bunny suit, he was managing to give it the gravity it deserved.

  “The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here…”

  All the amusement she’d f
elt in this whole endeavor drained away. It was childish and mean and probably more than a little disrespectful toward one of her country’s pivotal moments. She was suddenly ashamed of having gone to so much trouble to set it up. When his final words faded away, he lifted the head off the bunny suit and grinned. “Did you get it?”

  “Got it,” she said, pressing stop. But as she attached it to the tweet from her anonymous account, she hesitated.

  “What’s wrong?” He marched over to her, his hair sticking out in all directions, a couple of locks clinging to his sweaty forehead.

  “Why do you still have photos of us in your wallet?”

  His eyes met hers, his face suddenly guarded as if he’d been caught at something. He took the phone from her hand. “Here, I’ll make it easy on you. It’s posted.” He handed the phone back. “Now the whole world can see my epic oration and you don’t have to feel guilty about it.”

  She didn’t even look at the phone. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “And you don’t want to hear the answer.” He glanced down at himself. “If it’s okay with you, I’m going to get out of this thing.”

  “Sure. Whatever. The deed is done.”

  He frowned. “I thought this is what you wanted. Or did you expect me to balk and prove that you’re right about me?”

  Her eyes leapt back to his face. “That’s not what I was doing.”

  “Wasn’t it?” He unzipped the costume and carefully stepped out, then draped it over his arm. “You wanted to prove that my ego was bigger than my desire for this role. That I was all talk. And you were wrong.”

  His eyes issued a challenge, and her first instinct was to argue. But she couldn’t. “You’re right. I was wrong.”

  Without another word, she walked straight to the street, flagged down a cab, and climbed inside.

  Leaving him and his bunny suit behind.

  It would have been easy enough to grab a cab since he was no longer dressed like a big pink rabbit, but instead Nick took his time, walking what must have been miles around Hyde Park and finally ending up on the other side, looking out at the Serpentine. Christine confounded him. Christine of the leather pants and steampunk sass and quicksilver moods that could go from irritated to amused to sad in a mere moment. In the years he’d known her, she’d never been what he would have called passionate. Single-minded, yes. Determined, absolutely. But whatever passion she might have felt always seemed directed toward her characters, never outside herself. Never toward him. And that had been part of the problem, why it had been so easy to walk away.