Of course the Tribe of Hope committee takes center stage again. I return the turkey wrap and pickle to its original bag and toss it all in the trash can. I’ve lost whatever appetite I had.
“I know what the deadlines are, and I’ve been working on the guest list and have some other publicists lined up to help us.”
“Well, Sophie, that’s what we needed to go over last night. It’s great that you have it all organized, I don’t underestimate you, but we need to get that info to them so the whole event is set up right.”
“So you only came over because of the event. Not to see me?” When did I become my mother? And can crucifying him for changing the subject make me any more of a hypocrite?
“You know it’s not like that.” I’d finally shaken his calm demeanor, but just barely.
“Then what is it like, Jacob?!” Tru leans back in her chair to catch my eye through the doorway. She makes a “cool it” gesture, which is a gentle warning that my rising voice is carrying into the hall.
“Never mind, Sophie. Just forget it.”
“Already forgotten.” And I honestly don’t know who has hung up on whom.
The Tonight Show taping provides the perfect opportunity to leave the office early and head home to shower and regroup before the show. The retreat is doubly welcome, as I am still so agitated by my conversation with Jacob that I doubt I could focus on much else behind my desk. And Tru needs to witness no more meltdowns.
Refreshed, I arrive at the NBC studios in Burbank right as Billy is being escorted into his dressing room. He is already out of hair and makeup and appears charged for this last-minute appearance, as if it has been scheduled for weeks.
“How’s it going?” I ask. “Are you all ready?”
“Yeah. I was telling the producer some of my stories of growing up in Texas, and she loved it.”
“Perfect. I spoke with the film’s PR department. They are thrilled for you to talk about shooting in Prague, but they don’t have any clips we can use. I got a few behind-the-scenes photos.”
“Yeah, I can wing that. We had some pretty crazy fight scenes that were tough to shoot.” This is my first big show appearance with Billy. And I am relieved to see that he seems very comfortable. There are some extremely successful and famous actors who freeze up with anxiety before live audience appearances. They’re totally fine in front of a TV or film camera, shooting something that millions of people will see, but not in front of a studio audience of two hundred and fifty tourists. Honestly, I couldn’t do either. I get stage fright making a toast at Thanksgiving.
Jay Leno himself knocks and comes in to chat with Billy before the interview. We’ve met a few times, but it’s always nice to see how friendly he is, and I think it sets so many people at ease to have them meet or catch up with him informally first. Billy immediately reminds Jay of his last appearance here, when apparently a wildlife trainer’s Amazonian snake got out of hand while Billy was still on the sofa. They laugh over the unscripted comedy that followed and then talk cars a bit before Jay goes to finish getting ready for the show.
Now that it’s clear Billy is not stressed or unprepared for the interview, I head out to schmooze with the other publicists and talent bookers I recognize in the green room. Also, I must confess that Billy looks incredible in slim, black trousers and a sea-blue shirt that highlights his eyes. My mouth is literally watering. And it doesn’t help that he kept glancing at me and sharing all these private looks. Believe me, I am not making that part up. He is definitely flirting with me tonight.
Finally having run out of safe people to make small talk with, I head back to the danger zone—I mean Billy’s dressing room. I walk in as he’s getting his mic put on. Which means his shirt is pulled up as the technician strings the wired mic up under the shirt to discreetly clip it on his collar. And the glimpse of his gorgeous abs makes the temperature in the room go up ten degrees.
“Looks good,” the audio guy says before heading out. You have no idea.
I must have kept staring, because when Billy catches my eye, there’s a smirk on his face, but then he winks at me as he passes, following the stage manager out onto set.
Of course Billy’s interview is a hit. He has the studio audience in the palm of his hand the whole time, telling funny stories about shooting his latest movie and then being so charming during the commercial breaks, taking pictures with fans in the crowd.
After the show Billy stays to sign a few autographs for crew members and visitors with backstage access. Because he’s always polite and endearingly modest, I can see why everyone around Billy feels loved and important. As one woman fairly swoons over him agreeing to pose in a picture with her, he meets my eyes and gives the faintest eye-roll, which the fan doesn’t notice as she helplessly rambles on about all of his movies she’s seen. Finally, the mob in his dressing room thins and I walk him out to where his limo is waiting.
“Are we still on for dinner?” he casually asks as we pass from harsh studio lighting into the early evening light. I didn’t know if he even remembered his offer. He hasn’t said one thing since we talked about it earlier.
“Sure.” I sound way more relaxed than I feel.
“Cool.” And he walks past me to the driver’s side of the limo. I’m only waiting a few moments when he comes back around the car toward me. And then the car starts to pull away.
Reading the confusion on my face, Billy smiles.
“Well, he’s not really hired to wait for me to eat dinner, right? I figured you could give me a ride home afterwards. That’s okay, isn’t it?” He reaches over and takes my briefcase, and with his other hand now at the small of my back he starts leading us through the main entrance to the guest parking lot.
Well, that was a tad presumptuous, but somehow Billy is pulling it off. I unlock the Beemer by remote when we’re a few steps away. Billy aims for the passenger seat and I rush to help him toss some empty coffee cups and papers left on the seat into the back. Good impression, Sophie. Now he thinks you’re a shameless voyeur and a slob.
Getting to the restaurant is easy. It’s truly around the corner, but in LA everyone drives everywhere, however close. Billy uses the short ride to check his voicemail messages, so I have a couple moments of quiet to gather myself together. But I don’t have any great realizations or anything. All I can think about are ridiculous things like should I reapply my lip gloss or is that trying too hard?
Inside the dimly lit bistro, the hostess asks Billy if we wish to sit up front by the small jazz band or somewhere more quiet and intimate in the back. Before my head can vote for music’s welcome interference, the hostess is leading us through the restaurant to a small table for two all the way in the rear. It’s hard to ignore that we are in a really private, dark—dare I say, romantic—area of the restaurant.
Billy orders a round of celebratory champagne and with only a cursory glance at the menu asks that a few appetizers be brought to the table right away. I look slowly over my menu, focusing on the lyrical French phrases, trying to quiet my nerves. I can’t help thinking about how Jacob always orders things from the menu that he knows we both like, so we can sample each other’s meal.
“Sophie? Know what you’re gonna have?” He has that smirk again on his face, as if he can tell that I’m hiding behind my menu.
“I always think I’m going to order something different when I come here, but then I end up getting the exact same thing.”
His smirk becomes something bigger, like I just told him my favorite sex dream.
“I always get the filet. It’s the best,” I defensively explain, so he realizes I always get the best thing, not because I’m boring.
“So tell me about yourself, Sophie Atwater. What do you do for fun?”
“Um… well, I love my job.” At his non-reaction I quickly continue, “I do! I know it sounds lame, but it’s fun, exciting, and there are a lot of perks.” Eek. I didn’t mean to imply him! “You know, like going to great concerts and shows… and stuff.�
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“Yeah? What was the last band you saw?”
Put on the spot, I try to think of a band people are talking about in the office. Who did Tru say she went to see recently? Some random ska band—no, that’s not the impression I’m trying to make. I think back on all the talk shows I visit—I see musical acts perform all the time. Why am I trying so hard to impress him with the “right” answer?
“Last time I had a client on The Tonight Show, Prince was the musical guest. He performed outside, and the NBC PR chick invited me to stand with her at the front of the audience. He totally had the whole crowd in the palm of his hand. That was pretty cool.”
“Prince, huh? So you’re a classic eighties kind of girl?” I wasn’t sure how to take that. I mean, I totally love eighties music. But maybe that’s a bit cliché. He’s from Texas… if I say country music, that’s too obvious… I don’t want to seem like I’m trying too hard or have an immense desire for acid wash and big teased hair.
“I love Kid Rock.” Okay, maybe I don’t “love” him, but I do like his music. I try to think of some actual songs to add validity to my claim. Why didn’t I just say Springsteen?
“Now we’re talking.” He effortlessly deepens his good ol’ boy accent. “He’s doing a concert here next week for the new album.”
“Oh yeah, I’ve heard it’s an insane tour—that he totally rocks.” I don’t know, it seems like a safe enough thing to say. I’m trying to keep up my enthusiasm here. “We rep him at the agency. The music division is always raving about him.”
“Really? You think you could get me tickets?”
“Definitely. No problem. I’ll email someone now.” Which I proceed to do while he gets the waiter’s attention and orders us another round of drinks.
A couple hours later, I am slightly more than pleasantly stuffed on delicious food and definitely buzzed off a pair of martinis. Billy has been keeping the conversation light and easy, but there’s a little hum through my nerves at the way he occasionally brushes my fingers with his as he makes a point. And the ridiculously sexy way he keeps eye contact with me, like he’s never going to let me out of his sight.
I wish I could’ve enjoyed the feeling of Billy’s complete attention without the nagging at the back of my brain—never letting me fully forget that what I’m doing is wrong. I had two more drinks than was wise just to try to get Jacob out of my head. And I’m starting to feel a little bipolar here. Because when Billy excuses himself to use the restroom, I can practically see the devil on my left shoulder and the angel on my right, each begging me to do the “right” thing. Devil-Sophie reminds me of how neglected I’ve felt the last several months. That it’s not like Jacob has asked me to marry him or anything. And that I haven’t done anything bad anyway. It’s not like Billy and I have had “sexual relations.” Yet. And then Angel-Sophie pleads with me to leave, reminding me that I am in a committed relationship, that Jacob has been nothing but honest with me from the beginning, that I owe him the same. For the record, Angel-Sophie, in her prudish Little House on the Prairie smock, is not gaining any ground on Devil-Sophie, in her Pussycat Dolls getup.
Yes, I’ve got myself a well-deserved guilty conscience. Even two strong dirty martinis can’t completely eliminate that feeling. Because, believe me, I try. As we get up to leave, and I feel the weight of Billy’s unfamiliar arm over my shoulder, I am reminded of a faint drowning sensation. Being with Billy is exciting, sexy, and thrilling to my toes, but the fact that I am cheating on Jacob makes me feel cold and clammy all over. But wait—I am not “cheating” on Jacob. I am having a work dinner with a client. It happens all the time. For that matter, Jacob has work dinners with females all the time too. This does not qualify as cheating.
Or so I try to unsuccessfully convince myself.
Distracted, and only half-listening to Billy deal with the valet, I wait in the passenger seat of my own car. I turn to my “chauffeur,” about to protest as he pulls out onto the road. Without even looking at me, he says, “It’s easier for me to just drive than explain the directions.” Which frankly, I’m relieved to hear. I would hate for him to think I’m so hammered that I can’t drive. Not to mention how embarrassing that would be. But obviously, he doesn’t care how much I drink, a lovely relief from the judgment I feel from Jacob. Happy to have found one clear weakness in Jacob—his constant harping on my intake of alcohol—I can finally relax a little, the Devil-Sophie encouraging my feelings of righteous indignation. Who is Jacob to tell me how to live my life? He makes me feel like I’m an alcoholic, for God’s sake. I mean, seriously, it’s not like I wake up at 8 A.M. and start gargling with vodka.
All thoughts of Jacob, alcohol, and injustice flee from my head when I feel Billy’s hand brush my thigh as he reaches for the radio. Okay, maybe that was an accident. But after he adjusts the dial, he brushes it again… and lingers. I sense my blood pressure start to climb. My whole face and chest are now flushed, and butterflies are performing Riverdance in my stomach.
So for the second time in a week, I find myself in the confined quarters of a car with Billy Fox. But this time definitely feels different. Equal parts alcohol, recklessness, and lust. Shaken not stirred. The interior of the car practically shimmers with sexual chemistry. And after the champagne and martinis, I really don’t care. Billy, at this point, probably perceives Jacob as a borderline negligent, definitely inattentive, absent boyfriend. Perhaps I’ve been highlighting all his worst faults, and maybe I’ve been painting a totally one-sided version of our relationship. All to impress the gorgeous man sitting mere inches away.
I guess, semi-subconsciously, I figured if Billy thought I was in an unhappy relationship, it would be almost like I wasn’t in a relationship at all. I was going for the vulnerable weak girl approach. As he steers the car up the windy roads toward his home in the Hollywood Hills, I look around and realize it’s going to be a bit complicated to find my way back to the freeway. Billy squeezes my leg, and again reads my mind.
“Why don’t you come in? I’ll draw you a map of how to get out of here.” His eyes size up my condition. “Maybe get you a bottle of water too.”
“Sure,” I say, only because I can’t think with his fingertips grazing my thigh.
We get out of the car, and I can’t help but stop in awe of his elegant designer home. It’s breathtaking. Neither ubiquitous Spanish Villa–style nor Mid-Century Modern exactly, Billy’s “crib”—a sprawling ranch-style mansion that appears at the twist of the hill—is uniquely him and worthy of Architectural Digest. That’s me—always thinking like a publicist. He takes my hand and leads me up the front steps. I touch the beautiful limestone columns on either side of the entryway and delicately step inside. A richly colored Moroccan rug invites you to kick off your shoes in the sconce-lit foyer. Down the hall, I catch a peek of charcoal-gray couches and a Bauhaus-style leather armchair with a Wii game controller resting on its seat. A bachelor obviously lives here, because it’s neat but not hospital clean. While I’m still poised in the doorway, Billy uses his grip on my hand to pull me closer. Without really thinking about it, I let him.
And knowing all the million reasons why this is such a bad idea, when he leans in to kiss me, I do absolutely nothing to stop myself from kissing him back. And, holy crap, I am kissing him back. And I am loving every second of it.
Before the kiss escalates, Billy draws back, offers another irresistible smile, and says, “Come on… come in. Did you want some water? I’ll show you around. Give you the tour.” He tugs me past a formal dining room—the vast windows of which reveal LA’s twinkling glow below—into a perfect chef’s kitchen of brushed stainless steel, industrial pendant lighting, and seemingly miles of sleek blue-gray slate countertop. More than half my apartment could fit in this single room. I lean back against the gorgeous counter as he opens a hidden refrigerator door and pulls out two bottles of chilled Fiji water.
For some reason just looking at the sweating water bottle in my hand revives the buzzed Angel-Sophie.
“You know what? I should go.”
“Really?” Billy seems sincerely caught off-guard. I see the initial look of surprise on his face before he covers it with another mischievous smile, and it seals the deal.
“Yup. I’ve got work tomorrow.” I take a fortifying swig of artisan water, letting its coolness focus me. “I’ll come take a tour some other time. Definitely.” I mean, I don’t want to burn my bridges here or anything. I just know that right now I have to get out of here before any line left is crossed.
“Let me draw you a map, then.” Billy steps away and starts to open a drawer.
“That’s what the GPS is for. I’m good.” He shuts the drawer and leans back against the island, his arms crossed, and he’s staring at me curiously.
“Sophie. What’s up? Are you okay?”
“Yeah, yeah.” I want to be subtle, but I can’t seem to slow down. “I just realized what time it is.” I slide past him on my way back to the foyer. His footsteps echo behind me as I reach the front door.
“Sophie. We’re cool. Right?” He’s not touching me, at all, but I feel him just behind me. His mouth is so close to my ear, and immediately, my fingers clench on the doorknob. I know if I turn around, I’m not leaving here tonight.
“Good night, Billy. I’ll call you tomorrow.” Still holding the doorknob, I turn my head enough to kiss him quickly on the mouth. Before he can get traction, I pull away and take the stairs back to my car two at a time.
“Good night, Sophie. Drive carefully.” He stands at the door and watches until I am driving away.
I am so grateful to have a work event excuse tonight. Honestly, at this point, three days after “the kiss,” I would have made up an event and then hidden inside my apartment with the lights off to avoid facing Jacob. We haven’t spoken since our heated phone call. I recognize how crazy I sound, but maybe I’m actually protecting him from my company until I get my head straightened out. My heart too.
How positively “noble” of me.
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