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: You’re going to be very disappointed then.
Me: Why?
I wait for a moment. But he doesn’t answer, so I just put my phone in my desk drawer and power up my computer to check on my schedule. I’m in the process of 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 had taken 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.
From what I saw yesterday, my schedule was cleared for the boy band article, but today, there’s a marking at eleven, simply saying ‘Junkett, Hyatt’.
“Junket? For what?” I ask myself as I pick up my internal line and call through to my editor. His receptionist answers but she would have been the one to add this to my diary, so she’s more 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 that 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 that they’ll want us to launch at the same time. PR bullshit if you ask me.”
“A mini-series? That’s not my department. Why am I going?”
“I don’t know, love. Your name was just on request and the boss said to send you.”
“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 my office in George Street to the hotel. But I arrive in plenty of time, which is why I feel strange about not seeing anyone I recognise. Normally, when there's a press junket I see colleagues from other magazines and newspapers–even a few TV reporters. But as I look around the vast lobby I see no one.
Stopping in the middle of the floor, I frown and look around again before pulling out my phone and 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 call 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."
I follow along behind him, wondering what all this mystery is about and also wondering if I somehow messed up the time and I'm obscenely late. Although, what if I'm the only one here? That would be weird... He takes me through to a conference room that is set up with a podium upfront and rows of chairs on the floor below. But for some reason, I really am the only one here.
"Take a seat, miss," he instructs, holding his hand out and pointing at the seats in the front row.
A slight concern crosses my mind as I watch him walk into the adjoining room, leaving me alone. With my phone still in my hand, I decide to bring up my mother's number just in case I've been lured into some sort of serial killer’s trap. My thumb hovers over the screen as I wait for what's to come, and then a familiar face walks through the side door looking every bit the movie star in his designer jeans and tightfitting designer T-shirt, his skin glowing, his smile and his hair—perfect.
"I should have known this would be your doing," I deadpan, my voice completely flat as I drop my phone in my bag and Jonathan makes his way toward me. And as he sits, I fold my arms tightly 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."
"Why?"
"Because I need to talk to you."
"Need, or want to talk to me?"
"Okay, want."
I let out a long sigh and fold my arms just a little tighter. "Well you've dragged me down here–talk. Tell me the highly important thing that is on your mind that is obviously way more important than anything I might have needed to do today that was legitimate work."
"This is legitimate work."
"Dragging me to a press junket where I'm the only press is legitimate work is it?"
"No, selecting you to be the reporter who explains my story is legitimate work."
"Your story?"
"Yes. I'd like to tell my side of what happened with Leisel, I mean Lisa, and also about my breakup with Simone. And I want you to be the one to do it. You're the only one I trust to tell my story correctly."
"You do understand that I'll have to contact both Lisa and Simone 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 that I'm a different person now."
"Are telling me you're different person from the man I met only a couple of weeks ago?"
"That’s exactly what I’m saying. And the man I was a few years ago. That life isn't enough for me."
"And what is enough for you?"
"I just…I want more." His eyes darken with something I feel uncomfortable recognising. It makes the butterflies in my stomach flap around violently, and I need to avert my gaze to maintain my composure.
Suddenly, he's nearness becomes too much, and I need to put the seat between us. I slide to my right.
"Are you alright?" he asks.
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, grabbing my bag and standing with a view to leave. "I'll contact my editor and let them know they need to send someone else."
He stands and catches my arm, halting me in my escape. "I don't want anyone else. Don't you understand that?"
And I do understand that. I understand that he's decided that he wants me and not just as a journalist. He wants me for me. Lord only knows why, but he’s taken an interest in me that is far greater than I’d ever be willing to take him in. And as his hand holds my arm, that searing energy from his body, forcing its way into mine, I get it, I understand the connection and I feel the attraction. But that stuff is just physical. It isn’t real. It isn’t something that creates a life. It’s something that breaks hearts. And I’ve been there. I’ve done that, and I’m not willing to put myself through it again. "I don't do movie stars,” I bite. “Or any stars for that matter," I tell him, pulling away as I turn to leave again.
He laughs. "What does that even mean?"
I continue walking, heading to the door I originally came through. "You know exactly what that means, Jonathan. It means I don’t fuck stars. But if you go out onto the street, I’m sure you’ll find a very willing female just dying to be the next Jonathan Masters conquest."
"Just have coffee, a drink, a marshmallow–anything, with me. Please. Just give me one 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.
"I'm seeing someone," I state, my back still towards him.
"I know."
"And there's Lisa's feelings to consider."
"I know. I'm just asking you to give me a chance. Nothing more."
I swallow hard, not wanting the word to escape my lips while at the same time knowing I can't stop it. “Why?”
“Because I like who I am around you,” he explains.
“That makes no sense. You hardly know me,” I say as I turn around to face him.
He shru
gs his shoulders. “If I know anything about this life, it’s that not a lot of it makes sense. You’ve just got to go with your gut.”
“And your gut is telling you to nag the crap out of me?”
He laughs. “Yeah. Something like that.”
"Alright," I say my voice not much louder than a whisper. “I’ll have coffee with you.”
His mouth curves into the most beautiful smile, and for a moment I feel blinded by it. “Follow me,” he says, and I do, all the while wondering what the hell I’m getting myself in to.
***
“Why do you look so guilty?” Jonathan asks, as we take a seat in a quiet corner of the hotel’s restaurant. “Is it because of that guy you’re seeing?”
“Partly,” I admit, as I look around to make sure there aren’t any secret cameras capturing us together.
“Are you exclusive?”
“No. We’ve just started seeing each other.”
“Well then, what’s the problem? We’re just having coffee. Although, 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 my throat at the comment. “You wouldn’t continue to pursue me if you really cared about what I want.”
He leans forward, looking at me with this sparkle in his eyes that makes my heart do a double beat, and he speaks in a lowered voice. “This is what you want, Sandra. You’re just not willing to admit it yet.”
Shaking my head, I hide my smile by picking up the menu and looking over it without really reading it. I’m simply looking at it for something to do.
“Maybe I’ll just get a glass of water…” I muse, and I catch him shaking his head and smiling as he raises his hand to signal the waiter.
“Can I get something for you?” a young and very star struck looking girl asks breathlessly at his side, her hands visibly shaking as she holds her pen to paper in preparation of taking down our order.
“You can get us both coffee and pancakes. But please, leave off the strawberries. I’m not a big fan and I’m pretty sure this one hates them too. The last time I saw her, she threw one at my head, so…”
The girl lets out a little giggle that was much more exaggerated than his joke required and I look away, not interested in watching him flirting with a girl almost ten years his junior.
“Great. I’ll just get that to the kitchen for you,” she says, before adding. “I just loved you in Edge of Desire. It was such a beautiful movie,” she gushes. “Do you think…?” she pulls out her phone, gesturing with it to ask if she can take her photo with him.
I grit my teeth and think, If he dares to ask me to take this, I’ll get up and walk away.
“Sure, here,” he accepts, reaching out to take her phone which he holds out as they lean into each other to fit in the frame, taking the shot.
“Thank you SO much,” she gushes, hugging her phone to her chest as she leaves us to, hopefully, go and do her job.
“That was a nice bit of teamwork,” I comment, playing with the corner of the menu the waitress forgot to take away.
“I’m a king of selfies,” he smiles. “It’s part of the job description when you’re always on my side of the camera.”
“It’s a different life to mine, I suppose.”
“It is. Hope you don’t mind me ordering for you by the way. I haven’t eaten yet and it’s still early in the day so brunch seemed like a good idea.”
“I don’t mind, as long as you don’t mind if I don’t necessarily eat it.”
He laughs. “I don’t mind at all.”
“I, um, didn’t know you hated strawberries.”
He scrunches his nose up, and it looks quite adorable. “It’s not that I hate them, I don’t mind strawberry flavour. It’s just that I have this massive aversion to anything with seeds. It’s ridiculous, but the moment I eat something and I hit a seed, I get this shiver running down my spine. Ugh,” he says, his shoulders rolling as if the mere thought of it causes his body to react. “I certainly don’t hate them enough to throw them at people.”
Dropping my eyes, I feel my cheeks heat in a blush. I find it odd that a man like Jonathan has picked up on a characteristic about me that is really quite insignificant and generally something people don’t pick up on unless I tell them. Most people think I’m crazy for not liking strawberries, but then, here’s a man with a similar aversion who picked up on my distaste simply by noticing that I didn’t eat any part of the one I threw at him in anger. I don’t know if I’m flattered, or slightly creeped out, but I certainly get the feeling that perhaps there’s a little more to Jonathan than meets the eye.
When our coffees arrive, a man who appears to be the manager carries them. I assume that our waitress has been taken off our table for asking Jonathan for the photo, which is a little sad for me because it didn’t seem that Jonathan minded her excitement at all.
We thank the manager and I watch, dumbfounded as Jonathan picks up four packets of sugar and holds them together, ripping off their tops and pouring all four of them into his tiny cup.
“You’ll get diabetes doing that.”
“Thanks, mum,” he smiles, stirring the sugar through with his spoon.
***
For a while, we make small talk, and slowly, I relax and we begin to have a proper conversation. I even eat my pancakes, and order a second coffee as our conversation continues.
We get along so well, finding conversation in the simplest of things, along with a multitude of shared interests. If I really wanted to, I could pretend that Jonathan was just a regular guy and not some movie star with a reputation for bedding as many women as he pleased, despite being in a committed relationship. But that's something I can't look past. No matter how much I like him, or enjoy his company, Jonathan would have the power to destroy me. I mean, what if I allow myself to get caught in his charm and let him become a part of my life? Knowing what I know about him would mean that I’d be forever looking for the moment when he strays, or at the very least, I’d enter into a relationship with him, knowing it was nothing more than a fling that would end the moment he leaves town.
And I don't want that. I don't want that at all.
No. I need to remember who he is, what he’s inclined to do, and why I need to stay away. He’s a heart breaker and I’m a woman who doesn’t share. It’s as simple as that.
Downing the last my coffee, I dig my wallet out of my handbag and place some money on the table. "I better get going," I say.
"Put your money away, they’re already charging the bill to my room."
"No, let me pay. I didn't properly thank you for organising someone to fix my window.”
He pushes my money back to me. "You're very welcome but I'm still not letting you pay.”
Relenting I take the money and put it back in my bag, saying, "Well, this was nice. I actually had a nice time."
"Nice enough to do it again?" he asks hopefully.
"Oh, no. I don’t think so.”
"Come on, you know you want to. There's no pressure or anything. Let's just, hang out, and see where things go. At the very least I think we could be really good friends. And everyone needs a good friend in their life."
“No. They don’t,” I argue.
"Will you at least think about it?"
“I really don’t–” I start but he holds up his hand and stops me.
"Listen, we both know how this is going to go, I’m going to keep texting you and asking you to hang out. And you’re going to keep saying no until one day you say yes. So let’s just skip all that bullshit, admit that we get along like wild fire–and yes, I just called us wild fire–and hang out. It doesn’t have to mean anything unless you want it to. I can promise you that much."
I grin in response, shaking my head as I pull my lip between my teeth. "Something tells me that arguing with you will get me nowhere. You just don’t seem to understand the concept of ‘no’."
"Then we’re on the same page.”
&n
bsp; "Probably not," I laugh as I stand up and leave.
"Catch you later, Red," he calls out as I walk away, and I frown, releasing a laugh as I wonder how I managed to get a nickname so quickly. And as I leave, I can't help but notice that I step a little lighter, a smile playing on the edge of my lips for the rest of the day.
Chapter 12
"I think I might go back to my place tonight," I tell my mother that evening as we sit across from each other eating chicken and avocado salad for our evening meal. “Things seem to have calmed down enough now.”
"I’d be going back too," she agrees. "You can't exactly bring that chef of yours back here to roll around on that tiny bed. Not to mention the floral pattern the boy band posters. That stuff is just embarrassing."
Shaking my head, I spear a piece of chicken with my fork. "No one else I know has a mother like you, you know."
“And thank god for that. Even I know the world can’t handle too many awesome people like me,” she states as a matter of fact.
I press my lips in a smile as I stand up and wrap my arms around her neck. “I love you, mum.”
She pats my arm, her voice sounding serious for a change. “I love you too, sweetheart. Now, eat your food before your father comes home, otherwise he’ll get to the television before we do and force us to watch Sons of Anarchy. I have a Nicolas Sparks movie that you’ll love.”
Taking my seat, I finish my food then help her with the dishes before we settle in to our movie, watching as yet another of his novels plays out on the screen and leaves us all devastated and heartbroken for the characters at the end.
“I hate Nicolas Sparks,” mum cries, blowing her nose into a tissue as tears stream down her face. “I don’t know why I keep doing this to myself.”
“Me too,” my father says as he takes the box of tissues from my mother and dabs one at his eyes. He’d come home part way through the movie and joined us, and being a fairly emotional man, he got wrapped up in the story too. “At least in Sons of Anarchy you know it’s going to end badly.”
“How are you not crying, Sandra?” mum asks, her brow furrowed in bewilderment as she takes in my dry eyes.
A Beautiful Star (Beautiful Series, Book 5) Page 6