Written in the Stars: A Contemporary Hollywood Romance

by Renea Mason

  "You are good. Very good. Can you tell me what I'm thinking about now?"

  He stared into my eyes. His irises were a deep amber in the sunlight glinting through the window. His unwavering concentration on me sparked butterflies in my stomach. "You're thinking that," he hesitated and bit his lip. Holy Mother of God was he sexy. "That...this ignorant sod, who can't keep tabs on his wallet, might not be a complete loser after all."

  I giggled. "True… But no." I finished the last of the water and yawned.

  "So, you're not going to tell me?" he whispered in my ear in a way that should be illegal.

  "I gave you a chance to wow me with your superhuman, Hollywood, mind-reading powers." I yawned again.

  "Only one chance, huh?"

  "Alright, fine. I'm feeling generous today. Go ahead, knock yourself out."

  He was so close to me and smelled so good. I was genuinely having fun for the first time since…Daniel. Of course, he had to be someone completely unattainable. Maybe that's why I let my guard down; somehow, I knew I was safe. I covered my mouth again, fighting another yawn, then rested my head against the seat. "Sorry..., the altitude makes me tired."

  He grazed his knuckles gently along my chin, his breath warming my face as he spoke, "I think you're thinking… you…should take a nap."

  I snickered, ignoring the shiver he evoked in me. "You sure you aren't a wizard or something?"

  "I played one in a movie once." He shrugged out of his jacket, balled it up, and leaned across me to wedge it between me and the window. "Here, it will be easier to sleep."

  "Thank you. I'm beginning to think I'm right about that wizard thing. You seem to magically know what I need."

  He released a soft laugh and patted my leg. "Does seem that way, doesn't it?"

  I couldn't respond, too lost in the comfort of his gaze.

  "Go on, get some sleep."

  I closed my eyes, letting the man of most women's dreams ease me into my own.

  2

  Shelved

  My eyes fluttered open, and I stretched my muscles, trying to remember where I was.

  His breath hot against my face was a pleasant reminder. "Welcome back. Did you sleep well?"

  I shivered and then turned to make sure he was real. "Ah, yeah. Thank you." I realized I had been resting my head on his shoulder. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to…"

  "It's quite alright. I was happy to help. You might have to endure some tabloid nonsense if the man sitting two rows in front of us sells or posts photos of you snuggled against me. I can see the headlines now. 'Beautiful Stranger Sleeps with Lachlan Sinclair on Plane.'

  I swallowed hard, not sure if it was the "beautiful" comment or the image of us in bed together flashing through my mind that made me blush. The heat coursing through me gave way to chest-tightening anxiety. What if he was married or had a girlfriend? My god, how it would look.

  He placed his hand on my knee and gave a slight squeeze. "Oh, don't worry, next week they'll be onto something else. I mean, if my life were half as exciting as the papers make it out to be..."

  Even though his reassurance was welcome, I wanted him to know I understood the gravity of the situation. "I'm so sorry. If you need me to explain to your significant other that everything was innocent, I'm happy to. I didn't mean to cause you any strife."

  He reached over and brushed a strand of hair behind my ear. "You did no such thing. Plus, I'm partially to blame. I may have encouraged you a bit."

  Encouraged me? Following that rabbit down the hole couldn't end up anywhere I was prepared to handle. "Offer still stands if things don't go so well at home."

  "There's no one at home. I was married once, ended quickly in divorce. This career makes it so hard to maintain relationships. Usually, only people in the industry understand it, and most of us are well…bloody messed up. That's how we ended up here in the first place. It's a recipe for disaster. And the public, they either fall in love with your characters and are disappointed when you don't live up to the fiction, they want something from you, or they are bloody fucking mental." He kept the volume of his voice intimate in an attempt to keep the conversation between us.

  There was something so familiar about his expression, something I had felt every day for the past seven years—loneliness. "It must make it harder being surrounded by so many people all the time, the loneliness, I mean."

  "Now look who's reading minds." He raised an eyebrow.

  "Hardly, it's just…I can empathize. I tried to go back to my job after my husband passed but found dealing with people taxing. I wasn't prepared to handle their grief, too. That's why I quit and became a writer. Fictional people are far less stressful." I smiled and studied his expression. The wistful gaze held a curious mix of empathy and awe. Looking up at him from under my eyelashes, I continued, "But you… You can't just hide away. You have to be around people all the time, guarding your grief, putting up emotional walls. You don't have the luxury of retreating. That must make the loneliness more potent."

  He didn't say anything, just closed his eyes and nodded while squeezing my knee again.

  The captain announced our descent into LAX, and it shocked me back to reality. I looked down at Lachlan's watch. "Oh, my God. How long did I sleep?"

  "Several hours. You seemed quite content."

  I hadn't slept that long continuously in years. Panic rose in me as I realized our time would be over in less than an hour. I sat up and handed his jacket to him. "Thank you for letting me use it."

  "You are most welcome, but it was me you slumbered on most." He shot me the sexiest grin.

  I brushed my hand down his sculpted shoulder and arm, grateful he let me rest my head there for a while. "Thank you for that too. And for saving me from that horrible man."

  "It was my pleasure. Thank you for the coffee and the thoughtful company."

  "It was my pleasure as well."

  We discussed the weather in LA, the last time he had been there, and his favorite restaurant in the city during our final moments together. After landing, he managed to untangle himself from the seat, standing almost too tall for the plane. Word had spread that he was on board because cell phone cameras were everywhere the eye could see.

  He extended his hand, helping me out of my seat. He tugged me along as he wedged himself in front of two twenty-somethings capturing pictures of each other with Lachlan in the frame. We trudged forward to first-class, where he made a quick stop to retrieve the bag he'd abandoned, then departed the plane.

  We walked up the jet bridge in silence, and with each quiet second that passed, his long strides carried him farther away from me. I worried I wouldn't have a chance to say goodbye. I opened my mouth to call his name, but he took a sharp left into the airport. It was too late, he'd continued, and I'd already lost him to the crowd.

  I sighed, hefting my bag along the last stretch of the jet bridge, then turned left into the airport. My breath caught in my chest. Lachlan stood next to the boarding desk, waiting for me.

  I wanted to keep our goodbye short and sweet. Our time together had been just that, and it was a perfect memory to add to my new adventure. I offered him my hand to shake. "It was nice meeting you, Lachlan."

  "Likewise, Katherine." Instead of taking my hand, he pulled me into a hug. He was so warm. The planes of muscles under his shirt were a tantalizing relief under my fingers. He had the body of a god.

  A woman squealed behind him. "Oh, my God! It's Lachlan Sinclair! Oh, oh, oh, can I please have a picture with you?" The woman pressed her body against his side.

  His entire body stiffened with the intrusion.

  I backed away from him and admonished the woman. "Could you show some respect? He's a man, not a toy." She backed away, but not far enough for my liking.

  He whispered in my ear, "Katherine, you saved me this morning, and now you're taking up the call to defend my honor? Maybe, I had it wrong…maybe, this story is where the princess saves the prince when he didn't even know he needed saving."


  "Perhaps, if she believed in fairy tales or fictional royalty for that matter."

  He grabbed my hand and squeezed. "Would you like me to walk you to baggage claim?"

  I looked around and saw the crowd gathering. "I appreciate the offer, but you should probably get out of here while you still can. Thanks again."

  The way he looked at me was something I could have become addicted to.

  "Goodbye, Katherine." He pulled me in for a tighter embrace and buried his face in my hair. His lips pressed against my cheek before he released me. His expression of affection was subtle, yet powerful.

  I took a deep breath, gave him a pained smile, and patted his arm. "Goodbye." I hefted my carry on onto my shoulder and turned. It was like writing the end at the finale of the story―wanting to know what happened next but knowing this was where the tale ended. Looking back to see his face one more time would've prolonged the inevitable. It simply wasn't what we were; there was no 'us.' That wasn't this story. This was the tale of two lonely people trying to make the best of several bad situations. This was not a blossoming romance: not even a fantasy, or, much less, a fairy tale. No matter how much my mind wanted to craft it into something else, our story ended here.

  I made my slow journey to baggage claim, called an Uber, and filed Lachlan Sinclair away like I would any completed story.

  3

  Dead End

  My meeting was early the next morning, but sleep was bound to be elusive, given the extensive airplane nap. I got up and did my best not to think about the events of the day before. I had to focus on my pitch. After waiting six months for a meeting with this agent, I hoped for the best but knew that writing and rejection were old reliable lovers.

  With my standard black business suit, manuscript, and leather portfolio, I made my way to the office on the twenty-second floor. As soon as the elevator doors slid open, the lemony-bleach scent of industrial cleaners filled my nose. I stepped out into the narrow corridor. My shoes clicked against the aged marble tiles while I passed one brown door after another. Stopping at the last door on the left, I read suite 1211. Evans, Markel, and Gibbson, the literary agency I had been corresponding with, was finally in reach. I turned the doorknob. What lay before my eyes and nose was not what I expected. The outdated furnishings reeked of the early eighties and cigarette smoke. Just inside the doorway was a waiting area with a desk at the far end of the room. A young woman sitting behind a computer didn't acknowledge me.

  "Hello?" I took two steps further into the room. "I'm here to see Samuel Gibbson. I have an appointment."

  Rising just enough to peek over the top of the monitor, she shot me the strangest look.

  "I'm Katherine Acosta. I submitted a manuscript under the name Iris Covington. I'm supposed to meet him here at ten a.m." According to the office clock ticking on the wall, I was exactly five minutes early.

  Standing upright, she grimaced and wrung her hands in front of her. "I'm so sorry. Someone should have called you." She seemed disturbed by my presence.

  "Why? What's wrong?" I asked hesitantly.

  "Mr. Gibbson passed away yesterday. The rest of the partners are out on bereavement."

  I stared at her, stunned, struggling for what to say. "You're serious?"

  She nodded.

  I had to push down the disappointment and fury building inside. The man died. This woman was grieving. The fact that I took a six-hour flight to get here shouldn't figure into the equation, but I was a bubbling cauldron of emotions inside. I needed to focus on anything but how I felt. "I'm… I… I'm so sorry to hear that. I…"

  We both loomed over opposite sides of her desk. We stood silent and motionless for a moment, unsure of what to say or do.

  Tentatively she offered, "If you brought your updated manuscript to review, I can present it to the other partners and see if they're interested?"

  They weren't. I had already been rejected by each of them via email. Son of a bitch. "No... thanks. I'll just…go." I pointed toward the door. "My condolences."

  Inside I wanted to scream and curse the tears, forming at the corners of my eyes. I promised myself when I started writing, I'd never let the rejection defeat me, but it was almost as though the universe was fucking with me. This wasn't rejection. This was cosmic intervention—Dumb fucking luck. I had been a fool to entertain the idea of LA. I should have remembered my place. If I was looking for a sign, this was it.

  I scheduled an Uber to pick me up and drive me back to the hotel to pick up my bags. Since I was set on heading back to the airport after I gathered my belongings, I asked the driver to wait for me.

  As I threw my clothes from yesterday in my duffle and tossed my make-up in my case, a brick of disappointment grew heavier in my stomach. The agent was dead. I was not. It was selfish of me to be upset about the brake this put on my career.

  I suddenly understood what Lachlan meant on the plane when he spoke of his success, and being trapped between knowing what you have is a gift and desire for a different outcome. My situation would pass, but he was constantly reminded. In most logical arguments, Lachlan Sinclair was the last person who needed my sympathy, but nonetheless, he had it.

  It wasn't long before I arrived at good ol' LAX. I had to kill five hours before my flight. I didn't feel like writing. I needed something to fill the time because it was unlikely I'd meet two handsome strangers on the same trip.

  I approached the gate agent. The young man with a bright smile greeted, "Hi Ma'am, how can I help you?"

  "I wanted to see if there was an earlier flight I could catch?"

  "Let me check." He smashed his fingers on the computer keys. "Ahh… no, I'm afraid not. There is a lot of bad weather between here and there. Many flights East coast have been cancelled. You'll be lucky if your current flight is on time."

  My head slumped forward. "Lovely."

  "I'm sorry. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

  "No, but thanks."

  I made my way to the nearest pub and sat down, taking out my phone to dial my best friend, Kelly.

  She answered after two rings. "Hey… so how'd it go?"

  "It didn't."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean, I didn't meet with the agent."

  Her voice raised two octaves. "Why the hell not?"

  I sighed, scanning the faces of the few patrons in the bar. "He's dead."

  "What?"

  "Yep, happened yesterday. They forgot to call to tell me."

  "Oh, Katherine, I'm so sorry. What happens now?"

  I closed my eyes. "Nothing. Absolutely, nothing. I'll just keep doing what I'm doing, or maybe get a hobby or something. It's a sign I just need to move on."

  "But he seemed so enthusiastic about it."

  "For all, I know, it killed him." I released a pained chuckle.

  "Don't be ridiculous. I have no doubts that you'll find a way to make it all work."

  "How are things going for you, Kelly?"

  She chuckled. "You know… the boss is still a dick. How was your flight out?"

  Damn, the trip. I had been so caught up in my self-pity, I forgot about Lachlan Sinclair. It didn't take much thought, just a small reminder of our short time together, and he was flooding my thoughts again. Something in me didn't want to share our experience. I couldn't understand why, but I decided to avoid it. "It was good. I think I'm going to plug in the laptop and check on the news. See if I can write anything. I've got at least five hours before my flight, and they said it might be delayed. I'll call you when I get back."

  "Sounds good. Safe travels."

  After several hours of typing, I pulled up the airport schedule on my phone to check the status of my flight—canceled. I huffed in frustration then lugged my bags back to the gate agent. He rebooked me on a seven a.m. departure home.

  I found a corner chair at my gate and settled in for the night, deciding it wasn't worth trying to find a hotel at this point. As I leaned my head against the wall and closed my eyes, I thought
about my nap on the plane. Lachlan Sinclair's seductive scent lingered in my nostrils while I rested my head on his coat and slept.

  No matter how much time passed while waiting for them to call me to board, I couldn't stop my mind from wandering back to what happened. A smile spread across my lips before I could catch myself. Why wouldn't I smile, though? Half the airport did. Serendipity, some might call it. Our conversation, our brief time together seemed so normal. It was hard to reconcile. It almost didn't seem real.

  Hours passed, and the gate started to fill with passengers. I stretched my neck and yawned. I still had a long flight home and decided some provisions, and a trip to the restroom were in order. Gathering up my items, I set forth, but only to come to a dead stop as I passed the first newsstand. I froze. My jaw almost hit the floor. There, in a wire rack, was a memorial to my recent flight—a seedy tabloid. They had to have scrambled to get those photos in the issue so fast. On the cover, several photos of Lachlan Sinclair and…me.

  He had warned me of the possibility. I guess I just never believed it. But that wasn't the most shocking thing. The photos were so intimate. It was easy to paint a picture out of context with only a few moments in time, but it was the one with him resting his head on mine, his arm around me as I slept, that caught me off guard. I didn't have any recollection of it happening, and there was the way he looked at me in each of the photos.

  In blocky red letters, the headline read, 'Lachlan Sinclair sleeps with a stranger on a commercial flight. Was it love at first sight?' I picked up the dastardly publication and took it to the counter. I couldn't pry my eyes away from it, even as the cashier told me the price and took my money.

  I walked out of the store and flipped the pages open to the highlighted article.