In thick navy font on white card stock attached to a jumbo popsicle stick, I’m bidder #214. There’s a flurry of excitement as hundreds of people retrieve their paddles, whether they have any true intention of bidding or not. Even I, all too aware of my checkbook balance, am caught up in the moment, fanning myself with the paddle.
“First up is a VIP private tour of the Tonight Show studio conducted by Jay Leno himself, followed by two reserved front row seats to the night’s taping…”
Care of one reconnected publicist calling in a favor.
Yes, it’s good to be back.
The auction continues with a trip to Tuscany (with ten days’ use of your own villa estate), cooking lessons from an Iron Chef, a makeover shopping excursion with a celebrity stylist, an in-home design consultation with Nate Berkus, and several other one-of-a-kind opportunities. Waving over a waiter with my paddle, for a water refill, I nearly buy myself a retreat to Tucson’s Canyon Ranch. Luckily the competition refuses to be outbid, so I inadvertently help raise additional money for charity.
But just to be safe I tuck the paddle back under my plate.
There’s an audible stir from the audience. I look up to see what I’m missing.
It’s Billy’s arrival to the stage. He climbs the few steps and chivalrously bows to the now-blushing emcee before waving to the crowd. The room bursts into excited applause.
“Okay, everyone, our final auction item has generously joined us. A man who needs little introduction—Mr. Billy Fox.” He’s standing maybe twelve feet away from my seat. As he scans the immediate crowd, we lock eyes for a split second and he winks. Irene, to my left, catches the signal and playfully nudges me with her elbow.
If you only knew.
“Sorry, ladies, he’s not for sale,” the emcee teases, “but you can bid this evening for his company on a memorable dinner out. A ‘date’ with Billy Fox. Let’s start with an opening bid of five thousand dollars.”
Two tables to my right, a thirtysomething woman in emerald-green chiffon promptly raises her paddle.
“Five thousand dollars from number forty-three. Do we have seventy-five hundred?”
From much farther back, someone else joins in the bidding.
“Seventy-five hundred from number eighty-seven. Do we have ten thousand?”
I turn to Ms. Emerald, whose scrunched face is clearly calculating just how much it’s worth to her.
“Seventy-five hundred going once.”
As if watching a tennis tournament from courtside seats, the room’s collective attention shifts to my left. A few tables diagonally behind me, a challenger’s paddle is raised.
“Ten thousand to number three eleven.” The newly energized room is getting into this particular match. “Do we have twelve thousand five hundred? Ten thousand going once. Going twice…”
Ms. Emerald goes bold and raises her paddle.
“Someone’s got it bad,” whispers Irene.
“Twelve thousand five hundred to number forty-three. Do we have fifteen thousand?”
Everyone turns in his or her seat, awaiting further volley, but number 311 is spent.
“Twelve thousand five hundred going once. Going twice.” Ms. Emerald smiles triumphantly.
There’s a gasp from the back.
“Fifteen thousand from number eighty-seven,” says the emcee, relishing the drama. “Do we have seventeen thousand five hundred?”
I know Ms. Emerald is going to fold. Her crushed look says everything.
“Fifteen thousand dollars going once. Going twice. Sold to Bidder number eighty-seven. Congratulations.”
During the polite applause, I swivel around and crane my neck, trying to pick out the lucky lady. But with the entire room buzzing now that the main event is over, it’s impossible to single her out of the crowd.
Up front, Billy too seems to be distractedly searching for his winning bidder. But who wouldn’t get an ego boost if someone wanted to meet you badly enough to part with $15K?
After short closing remarks, the full house lights return.
Irene congratulates me. “Nice coup getting Billy Fox to attend. A little sex appeal always wakes up these often sleepy affairs. Speaking of… you’re being summoned.” She nods toward the stage, where Billy stands, hands in his trouser pockets, waiting expectantly.
“Excuse me,” I say, rising from my seat and then carefully climbing the steps in my ridiculously impractical heels. I’ve got all new respect for award trophy recipients.
“That was wild,” Billy says, offering me a steadying hand.
“Thanks, Billy. I really appreciate you helping out.”
“It was an honor, Boss,” he says charmingly. “Besides, all I had to do was show up. Others did the bidding.” He’s pointedly looking over my shoulder with an expression I can’t decipher.
In a twirl of fabric, I turn around with curiosity and find myself once again nearly face-to-face with Jacob.
“Jacob? What are…”
And then I see what’s clutched in his right hand, hanging at his side. It makes absolutely no sense.
Number 87.
The winning bidder’s paddle.
What?!
“You… but…,” I say, dumbfounded. Why would he do such a thing?
“Don’t you see?” Jacob says determinedly, joining us on stage. “I’m stepping up.”
Billy, never one to miss a cue, steps aside.
I’m still very confused.
Jacob explains. “I’ve heard on good authority that it’s standard protocol for the publicist to chaperone her clients.” With his free hand, Jacob brushes my bare arm, sending an electric tingle up my body. “Of course, as far as I’m concerned, Billy can simply stay home.”
The grand gesture—the one I didn’t even know I was waiting for—begins to sink in.
“But… what changed?” I ask.
“You weren’t in my life. It was really that simple. My world’s not the same—I’m not the same—without you.” He gently lifts my chin toward him. “I didn’t realize I was a fighter till I realized I wanted to fight for you.”
“Fifteen grand. That’s a lot for a date,” I say coyly. “Couldn’t you just, I don’t know, call me?”
“Well, it is for a good cause,” Jacob says. “And I consider it an investment with a lifetime of returns.”
Looking into the greenish-gold of his hazel eyes, I know what I want. It’s never been clearer—and mutually expressed. And he’s standing right in front of me. I grab Jacob by his grosgrain peak lapels and pull him toward me. His paddle falls to the ground as he leans in, cupping my shoulders. Our lips meet and the hundreds of onlookers fade back. Here, on this elevated stage, we’re on our own island.
And just like that I knew there are two survivors.
Eight Months Later
“Aloha” reads the subject line. Attached is an adorable photo of Charlie, bundled up in a red knit stocking cap, striped scarf, and puffy snowsuit, posing next to a lopsided snowman in what must be buried Central Park.
Will gladly trade you—the freak weather (TWELVE INCHES!!), not the kid :) xoxo Izzy
And there’s a new message from Elle, which I can’t resist opening:
You better not be reading this until you’re back, tanned and relaxed. Seriously. Put down the BlackBerry and enjoy yourself.
Busted. She does know me well.
Following the strict order, I set aside my phone and turn on the flat-screen TV. Diaper commercial. Talk show. Local news. Seinfeld. Infomercial. Golf. As usual—hundreds of channels to surf, nothing to watch. I’m about to give up when something on-screen catches my eye. Grey’s Anatomy rerun? No, that’s no Seattle Grace. But there is a pretty young nurse in scrubs passionately kissing a civilian McDreamy.
Billy Fox.
No wonder there’s a sense of déjà vu. It’s the very scene we once read together. Even the great Billy Fox can suffer a straight-to-DVD release. Watching Billy declare his love again is fascinating—only this t
ime (Did you hear that? I thought I heard something…) I stay to witness Emily’s fate. From behind the dividing curtain, a gory, hospital gown–wearing zombie lurches forward, and—somewhat familiarly—Billy’s love interest loses her brain.
Figures.
Jacob enters the room, sliding shut the glass door to the balcony, and asks, “Watcha watching?” Behind him, glistening blue water and Maui’s golden sand beaches form a panoramic view.
“Just a distraction while I was waiting for you.”
He smiles. A generous smile I pledge never again to take for granted. “Well, I’m all yours. Whatever you desire. Snorkeling? Spa visit? Helicopter tour?”
“Definitely snorkeling. Tomorrow,” I say, tugging loose the knotted belt of his terry bathrobe. “Today, I have other ideas.”
Fantasy Jake is firmly Jacob now—and I wouldn’t want my leading man any other way. With a last glance at the unlucky girl now getting her heart torn out, I turn off the TV, power down my BlackBerry (after one final peek), and hang DO NOT DISTURB on the honeymoon suite’s doorknob.
acknowledgments
Given that this story is all about Hollywood, I have to thank the show that gave me the insider’s scoop. Days of Our Lives has been my home for more than half my life. The cast and crew are my family. I am so grateful every day to have such a sensational, talented, and fun group of people to spend my time with. Some of these stories may seem familiar… but they’re not. It’s all fiction. I swear.
I’ve been so blessed in my life to have incredibly hard-core, tough, sensitive, supportive, and dependable friends. This story couldn’t have happened without each and every one of you. I love you all. I love us.
Mom and Papa, you’ve been so instrumental throughout my career. I can never thank you enough for your love and support.
There’s an incredible team of talented, hard-working people who guide my career, counsel me, and… talk me off the ledge when I need that too. Max Stubblefield, you rock. Jacob Fenton, Ennis Kamcilli, Matthew Elblonk, Carrie Simons, Melissa McGuire, and Barbara Rubin: Thank you.
Patrick Price, you turn straw into gold, my friend. Thanks for putting up with my wacky schedule.
Thanks to the whole team at Hyperion Books and especially Christine Pride, my intrepid editor, who saw something special in my story and did an incredible job guiding this process and making it the best it could be.
And thanks to Dave—my teammate, my partner, my best friend, my husband.
About the Author
Alison Sweeney is the host of NBC’s hit reality series The Biggest Loser, an award-winning actress who plays Sami Brady on NBC’s hit daytime drama Days of our Lives, and author of The Mommy Diet. She lives in Los Angeles with her husband, Dave, and their kids, Ben and Megan.
www.alisonsweeney.com
Copyright
Copyright © 2013 Bookmark Entertainment Productions, Inc.
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher. For information address Hyperion, 1500 Broadway, New York, New York 10036.
The Library of Congress has catalogued the original print edition of this book as follows:
Sweeney, Alison.
The star attraction : a novel / by Alison Sweeney.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-4013-1104-9
1. Single women—Fiction. 2. Investment bankers—Fiction. 3. Motion picture actors and actresses—Fiction. 4. Man-woman relationships—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3619.W4424S73 2013
813’.6—dc23
2012031087
eBook Edition ISBN: 978-1-4013-0500-0
Cover design by Mumtaz Mustafa
Cover photograph by Laura Klynstra
Author photograph by Robert Trachtenberg
First eBook Edition
Original trade paperback edition printed in the United States of America.
The Star Attraction Page 21