Catch a Rising Star

by Tracey Bateman

  Good Lord.

  “Look, there’s nothing between us, Brian. Shelly really loves you, and I think you love her too.”

  “Then why can’t I get you out of my mind?”

  This is the same question I’ve been asking myself—and God—for months. Why can’t you get me out of your mind?

  “It’s just cold feet. Nothing more.”

  “Do you, uh, think we could go somewhere for coffee and talk?”

  “No way. You just have to wrap your mind around the fact that I’m not interested. Shelly is. So either date her or dump her, but leave me alone.”

  “Please.” Sheesh, this guy doesn’t take a hint. “I promise it won’t take long.”

  “I can’t, Brian. I’m at David’s. His kids have the chicken pox.”

  “You’re at that guy’s house?”

  “Yes. I brought the twins a basket.”

  “Trying to find a new boyfriend already?” Ah, so bitter.

  “No, the twins are sick, remember? I just told you that. We work closely, and I care about them, that’s all.” Oh, why am I even trying to explain to him? If he breaks my sister’s heart, I’ll hurt him so bad.

  “Well, I won’t keep you then,” he huffs.

  “Come on, Brian. Don’t hang up mad.” Dead air. Too late.

  When I turn around, David’s standing there. “So that was Brian?”

  “Yeah. Seems he’s playing sister switch again.” I roll my eyes, hoping he’ll get the picture that I’m not interested in resuming anything with flip-flop boy.

  “I see.” He doesn’t seem too inclined to pursue the matter. Darn it. I can’t broach the topic of my nonrelationship with Brian without being way too obvious. “Did I hear you tell him the kids have chicken pox?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have given out information without your permission.”

  “No, I don’t mind, only…”

  “What?”

  “They have the measles.”

  “Oh, Jerry told me chicken pox.” I laugh. “Oh well, if you’ve had one, you’ve had them all.”

  He frowns. “Not necessarily. Have you ever had the measles?”

  I grin. “Nope. That’s the one childhood illness I escaped—or so my mother tells me. And I have no reason to doubt her word.”

  He still doesn’t smile, despite my efforts to pull some of that serious expression from his handsome face. He insists on being stoic. “Well, do you realize you’ve been exposed to them now?”

  “Oh.” I’m picturing myself covered in red spots. Then I get a grip. I mean really, I’ve reached almost thirty without getting them, how likely is it that I’ll actually contract a childhood illness at my age? “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

  Then I remember… “Dancy said you called last night. Did you need something?” A date perhaps? No, probably not with a couple of sick children.

  His lips twist into a rueful smile. “I was just going to ask you if you’ve had the measles. You were exposed to them at work this week.”

  Figures.

  19

  One bad thing about not having a boyfriend on Valentine’s Day is that you have no date for the big night. And no man is going to ask out a woman who isn’t his wife, fiancée, or girlfriend—or at least someone he’d like a long-term relationship with—for Valentine’s Day, because it just sends the wrong message. So I’m resigned to another depressing Valentine’s Day alone. I’m pretty bitter about things at the moment anyway. Brian is acting like he never tried to woo me back and is all hot to trot for Shelly again. I haven’t had the heart to fill her in, and his silent pleading has convinced me that his call was simply a moment of weakness and now he’s truly committed to my sister. But I’m watching him. One more slipup, and I’m spilling it to her.

  The really bad news about today is that I woke up for the third day in a row with fever and body aches. I swear, if I have the measles, I’m going to kill Jerry for telling me the kids had chicken pox.

  I drag myself out of bed and pad into the kitchen for Tylenol and a huge mug of green tea.

  “You look like something the cat dragged in,” Dancy says from the table, where she’s looking very professional in her pinstriped pantsuit and brown glasses. She’s reading the best-seller list in the Times.

  “Thanks a lot,” I grouch. “Have you seen my red T-shirt from Hollister? I can’t find the dumb thing.”

  “You’re not going to work, are you?”

  I gulp down two extra-strength Tylenol. “Have to. Blythe threatened anyone who messes up the schedule this week. She’s going to the Bahamas next week for her brother’s wedding.”

  “Okay, I’ll take you. You shouldn’t have to take a cab in this condition.”

  Normally, I’d protest, but I’m feeling too miserable to consider it. “Thanks.”

  “Your red shirt is in my room. I was going to wear it yesterday, but decided to go with white.”

  Which explains where my white Gap T-shirt disappeared to.

  Ninety minutes later I’m sitting in Tonya’s chair, made up and looking like a soap queen should. You’d never know I’m running a fever of 101. Although my nose is running, and I’m starting to cough.

  “You should go to bed, Tabby,” she says, a worried frown creasing her brow. “Seriously. You’re too sick to be here.”

  “I’ll be sick and unemployed if I take off this week. You know what Blythe said.”

  She heaves a sigh. “At least promise me you’ll lie down and rest between takes.”

  “I promise.” Blood rushes to my head as I stand up, and I sit down before I hit the floor.

  “Tabby, seriously. Go home. I’ll tell Mother how sick you are.”

  “Don’t you dare.” Things are bad enough for me around here without Sharon going on one of her famous rampages on my account.

  “All right. But if you’re not over this flu in another day, I’m going to bat for you whether you like it or not.”

  “Okay, fine.” I’m too sick to argue with her—whoever she is. Tonya has suddenly been replaced by this aggressive, bossy girl all ready to sic her mama on all the meanies trying to give me the runaround. It’s endearing that she cares about me, but I truly need her to stay out of it. Between Rachel and Julie, I’m in enough hot water.

  Thankfully, Freddie pokes his head into the makeup room. “Don’t forget you’re mine after shooting today.”

  “No way, Freddie. I’m sick.” I’m not about to be bullied all over the gym when I can barely walk across the room without passing out.

  “Don’t be a wimp. You’ve missed two workouts this week already. How flabby do you want to get?”

  I walk past him and roll my eyes. “Forget it. I’m going home to bed as soon as shooting is done for today. I may or may not get in a workout this week, but you can stop trying to guilt me into it because I’m not falling for it.”

  He shrugs. “It’s your hips, butt, and thighs.”

  “Glad you remember.”

  “Believe me. Nobody else would claim them.”

  “Jerk.”

  “Wimp.”

  “Whatever.”

  I smile. He smiles. And we move on.

  Tidbits of memory are supposed to be coming to Felicia this week, so we’re showing a lot of flashback scenes. Thankfully, that means all I have to do for the most part is look reflective as the editing crew plugs in old clips of a younger version of Trey and me during the height of our love story. The twins are still on sick leave so we are filming around them and the scripts have been rewritten so they don’t need to actually be here.

  After the first scene, Blythe calls “Cut!” and I head for my dressing room to try to rest my aching head for thirty minutes until they call me again. Relief floods over me as I reach the door with my name in block letters.

  “Tabby, wait.”

  Rachel. What does she want?

  “What’s up?” I ask, trying desperately to hide the fact that I could timber to the floor any second.

&
nbsp; “David and I have a date for tonight, but his babysitter cancelled last minute. We were wondering if you could pinch-hit? We’d owe you big time.”

  Oh. My. Gosh. This is just so wrong for so many reasons and unless I’m misreading her face, she looks more than a little smug. And in my current feverish delirium, I’m seeing three of her, so I have a triple chance of recognizing the look. “Uh…” and that’s about all I can pull out of my semiconscious brain.

  “Hey, listen, if it’s a problem, I’m sure we can postpone it. It’s just that David was really looking forward to getting out after being stuck in the apartment with a couple of sick kids for more than a week. Know what I mean?”

  Okay, does she not even notice that I’m at death’s door here? But if I say no, what’s that going to look like?

  “I don’t know, Rachel. Let me think about it.”

  Her eyes narrow. “Hey, you don’t…” Eyes now go big—yeah, I’m not buying this act. “You don’t have a crush on David yourself, do you? Oh Tabby, I’m so sorry. How stupid of me.”

  How could I not recognize that challenge? “What? Me? A crush? Of course not. As a matter of fact, I’m just getting out of a bad relationship, and I’m not even close to ready for dating.” Okay, let that sink in, Miss I’m-still-married. She doesn’t even have the grace to blush. Looks like I have no choice but to babysit. Otherwise, Rachel is going to spread it around that I have a crush on David.

  “Okay, fine. What time should I be there?”

  Her beautifully painted (and, I highly suspect, collagen enhanced) lips curve into a delighted smile. “Thanks so much. Be there at seven thirty, will you? Our reservations are at eight.”

  I wave her away. “Yeah, yeah. No problem. Now leave me be to rest for a few minutes or I’ll change my mind.”

  “Okay, I’m going.” She gives me a tight squeeze, then pulls back with a frown. “Hey, you feel hot. Are you sick?”

  “I got overheated from the lights on the set.”

  Her eyes darken with what I’d think was concern if I didn’t know better. “You aren’t going to back out on us, are you?” See what I mean? Concern, yes. That her date might be ruined. Concern for my well-being? Not a chance.

  “I already said I’d do it. So I’ll do it.” I slip into my dressing room and close the door in her face.

  You agreed to do what?” Dancy’s incredulous tone fills the car and slams into my aching temple.

  “Not so loud,” I grouse. “I have a headache.”

  “You deserve a headache.” Florence Nightingale, Dancy isn’t. “What were you thinking?”

  “What else was I supposed to do?”

  “Uh, how about tell her to shove it? You know as well as I do that David isn’t interested in her as a date.”

  Dancy can afford the luxury of speculation because she’s not the one involved here. “Oh, sure. Hey, and while I tell Rachel to shove it, how about you tell Jack Quinn the same thing?”

  “Okay, okay,” she mutters. “Point taken. Still, I hate for you to get walked all over, especially when you’re sick.”

  I give a careless shrug. “At least the kids can’t get the measles again, can they?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  The sun has set, but rush hour traffic feels like it will never subside. Horns blare and gas fumes reek as we sit, backed up at six in the evening.

  “I have to be at David’s at seven thirty,” I mumble, my head pressed against the window.

  “Where’s he live?”

  “Normandie Court.”

  “On Ninety-fifth Street?”

  I nod miserably.

  “That’s not too far. We have time to go home and change into comfortable clothes, eat a bite, and still make it in plenty of time.”

  “We?”

  “You don’t think I’m sending you over there alone, do you?”

  “You’re the best! I’m so glad you didn’t give up your car.” I sigh, drifting off to sleep in the midst of the noises of the city all around me. Dancy’s eleven-year-old BMW was a gift from her parents when she graduated high school. They’d like her to upgrade, but she won’t think of it. She’s on her own and trying to prove she doesn’t need their money. She talks about the impracticality of owning a car in Manhattan where parking and traffic are a nightmare, and she’s even considered selling it, but something always holds her back. My theory is that she isn’t ready to completely cut the apron strings and that car is a connection to her folks. Laini’s theory isn’t quite as philosophical. She thinks Dancy just needs the freedom to get around on her own terms—even though she takes cabs or buses on most days.

  Tylenol has made little headway on my aches by the time we arrive at David’s apartment at seven twenty. His eyebrows go up when he sees Dancy.

  “I’m keeping Tabby company tonight,” she says with poorly concealed hostility. “I hope you don’t mind.” And that’s a challenge if I’ve ever seen one.

  He gives her a sheepish smile. “The kids’ll be thrilled to have two adults to hang out with.”

  David turns his attention to me, his expression stoic. “I was surprised you volunteered to do this,” he says. “I hope you didn’t cancel any plans. We could have gone to dinner another night.”

  I’m about to mention that I don’t have anyone to have a date with, but Dancy’s having none of that. “Well, that’s our Tabby.” Dancy slings her arm about my shoulders. “Generous to a fault. Although your girlfriend asked her to babysit. She didn’t exactly volunteer.”

  He smiles. “Rachel’s not my girlfriend. She’s a friend, friend.”

  “Really?” Dancy asks with feigned surprise. “Does she know that?”

  “I’m pretty sure she does,” he drawls. “She’s still married.”

  “Are you sure she remembers that?”

  “Cut it out, Dancy.” I give her a look and she drops the arm. I meet David’s questioning gaze. “It’s no problem, really. You should just go out and have fun with Rachel.”

  “But not too much fun, if you know what I mean,” Dancy says in a teasing, slightly mocking tone. And… oh, brother . . . that’s definitely a wink-wink.

  I don’t think David gets her at all. But I do. And she’s really starting to get on my nerves. I mean, I know she’s just being all protective of me, but still. Enough already.

  The doorbell chimes before David can invite us past the foyer.

  “That must be your married date,” Dancy says in a knowing tone. I swear if she doesn’t cut it out… Oh, I need to find a place to lie down or I’m going to die.

  Of course, Dancy is right about who is at the door. Rachel appears, all smiles and cleavage. To his credit, David immediately averts his gaze from the black dress, covered (and I use the term loosely) with a faux fur cape that must have set Rachel back several thousand dollars and I know darned well isn’t going to provide any warmth on a night like this. Her arms are bare, for crying out loud.

  “Oh good,” she says as she breezes into the room like she owns the place. “Tabby’s on time.”

  Dancy bristles, but I discreetly touch her arm to keep her still.

  Rachel takes in David’s appearance and her silky eyebrows go up. I try not to be jealous, because really, who can blame her? Only a dead woman wouldn’t appreciate the sight. He looks so great in a black Armani suit, his dark hair is slicked back and he smells… oh my gosh… way too good for that witch. Stop it. Stop it now, Tabby. But a man smelling of just a soft hint of Polo—it doesn’t get any better than that.

  Rachel smiles that fakey smile of hers and slips her clawed fingers through David’s arm. “Shall we go? Trey and Julie are waiting in the taxi.”

  A double date with a guy like David—is she crazy? I wouldn’t want to share his attention if I had the chance to go out with him.

  “I just need to say good-bye to the kids first.” David disentangles from her clutches and heads toward the hallway.

  Rachel huffs. “Well, don’t be long. People are waiting.�
�

  “Excuse us,” Dancy says to the decked-out diva. “We’ll just be going in there so my sick friend here can sit down.” She points toward the living room and hauls me with her, leaving Rachel standing alone.

  “That was rude,” I hiss.

  “So what? So is she.”

  For someone who’s gone to charm school, Dancy doesn’t display very good manners.

  David and the kids show up in the living room a minute after we’ve settled onto the couch. It’s all I can do to stay seated and not stretch out on the cushions.

  “Hi, kids,” Dancy says with a friendly grin.

  “Who are you?” Jeffy asks, walking right up to her like he’s never been told not to talk to strangers.

  “She’s my friend,” I find the energy to say. “Do you guys mind if she hangs out with us?”

  The twins hesitate and look at David.

  Dancy takes matters into her own hands. “I brought cookie dough, and I’m ordering pizza. Now can I stay?”

  The twins flash their matching gapped teeth, completely won over. Envy pulls at me. Dancy’s such a natural at everything, it’s not even fair.

  David steps toward the couch and offers his hand. “Thank you for doing this.”

  I take his hand, and he frowns. “You’re hot.”

  “Thanks,” I mumble through glazed eyes. “So are you.” Then I realize what he’s saying, and my face goes even hotter. “Oh. Sorry.”

  He frowns down at me and takes a seat. His hand goes to my head before I can move. “You’re burning up with fever. What were you thinking coming over here tonight?”

  Ever on the defensive, Dancy jumps in the middle of the conversation. “She was thinking that your girlfriend put her on a guilt trip and got her to babysit.” She turns to the kids and gives them her broad smile. “But she was really happy to get to spend time with you two.”

  “Open your mouth,” David instructs.

  I do, only because I’m too miserable to say no.

  “Uh-oh.”

  “Wh-what?”

  “Sweetheart. I think you’ve got the measles. Fever, runny nose, white spots in your mouth.”

  “I thought the spots were on the skin.”