I'm not normally a spaz, I promise. And I'm not normally the sort of girl who makes a fool out of herself trying to pick up guys at the local bar. Usually, I'm just Felicia Liddle, an all-around normal sort of person.Except that I write for Celebrity Spark, one of the country's premier celebrity news publications. Working there has been my goal from the moment I graduated from college - where I doubled up in Journalism and Psychology - and my dream ever since I was old enough to read the tabloid covers at the supermarket.Yeah, I'm that girl you've seen buying an armload of celeb magazines and frozen dinners at the checkout counter. And no, I'm not ashamed of it. I make no secret of the fact that I'm fascinated by celebrity culture (and fascinated by our culture's fascination with celebrity culture) even if it's not exactly something most people go around bragging about. But I worked my ass off to land this job. It took me five years of busting my butt at internship after internship
My new boss stared at me with an intensity that made my insides go all twisty. I couldn't tell whether the way he slightly narrowed his eyes meant he was intrigued or merely shocked that I, a lowly staff writer, dared to address him that way. Mr. Sexy Mogul was probably used to people like me groveling at his feet. I held my breath, expecting him to throw me out without another word.When he finally spoke, though, his voice was as calm as it had been a moment before. And there was a spark of something in his eyes that looked almost like humor."Emilia Torres might be a popular actress," he said, "but frankly, this magazine can do better."I'm pretty sure I gaped at him. "Better?" I couldn't believe it. Emilia Torres is all anyone is talking about now. Her latest film, Cataclysm: Earth, has a larger budget than any movie in Hollywood's history - and costars Luca Fontaine, her former/ongoing/future flame and the highest-paid action star in the biz. The two have been fixtures in the ta
Why did I have the feeling that my new boss had just played me?"Snagging an interview with Luca Fontaine would be a feat, considering his general attitude toward interviews," he said, walking over to the table and leaning against the chair next to mine. "How exactly do you plan to do it? I'm assuming he hasn't already consented?"God, I hadn't realized how tall he was until he was towering over me. Between that and those eyes, my voice wanted to die in my throat. Besides - this was where my plan got sticky. But Roman Everet was asking me questions, which meant he was at least entertaining the idea of letting me try. I just needed to give him a reasonable answer and then I could work on the real plan later.Unfortunately, no answer - reasonable or otherwise - was popping into my brain. It was hard enough to get Emilia to agree to an interview with me, as unimportant as I am, and as Mr. Everet so kindly pointed out, she was usually eager to talk to the press. But as the silence stret
Okay, so that brings us back to me dry-heaving in the bathroom of a dumpy bar.In the two days since my meeting with Mr. Everet, I've racked my brain for ideas of how I'm going to pull this off. And honestly? Against all odds, I've come to the conclusion that my best chance of getting an interview with Luca or any of the Fontaines will be to go with my original spur-of-the-moment (incredibly insane) plan to somehow charm my way in. I have nothing else to offer them - nothing they need, anyway. When you're Hollywood royalty, you're pretty much set in terms of money, fame, and connections. And the Fontaines are more than just royalty - they're a multi-generational dynasty. If you can name a position in the film industry, a Fontaine has been there. And won all the awards. And probably caused a lot of trouble - and broken a few hearts - along the way.In other words, they are the wet dream of every celebrity news outlet in existence. Except you don't become as big as the Fontaines withou
My new boss stares at me, eyebrow raised in a question."I mean it," I repeat. "Tell me what I'm doing wrong, Mr. Everet.""Roman.""What?""Call me Roman."Using his first name makes this worse. It makes it... intimate. At least when he was "Mr. Everet" I could sort of pretend he wasn't a real person. The formality made it safer. Easier. But that's not exactly something I can explain to the man in front of me."Okay," I say. "Roman. I'd like to hear what you think I'm doing wrong."He doesn't respond immediately. Instead, he takes a long, slow drink, and I can't decide if he's giving me one last chance to walk away or if he just likes to watch me squirm. Finally, he puts his glass down."It's too much," he repeats."What is?""Everything. The way you're dressed. The way you try to get the attention of these men. It's coming off as desperate.""Desperate?" Oh, God. I mean, I know I feel desperate, but I didn't realize everyone else could see it.But Roman isn't finished."
Roman's hazel eyes flash with amusement. "Let's get started, then." He glances around the room once more. "Who is it going to be?""I have to pick?""Would you prefer I choose your target?"Okay, maybe not. I bite my lip and take another look at the men around me. Who should I approach? Someone alone, preferably. I don't think I have the skills to get a guy away from his friends. Maybe that guy over by the dart board who looks barely old enough to drink - he's got a frat-boy look, and if I know anything about frat boys, they'll respond to anything with breasts. But Roman might think he's too easy a target - seducing him won't prove anything. Besides, Frat Guy seems to be checking out that table of young women by the door. If I go over there and get rejected by him, I'm not sure I'll ever live it down. Next!My eyes fall next on an older man - probably in his mid- to late-fifties. He's nursing a beer by himself at a table in the corner. But as I watch, he straightens and lets out a
Chuck's not much of a conversationalist. Or maybe he's figured out that I couldn't name a single professional baseball player if my life depended on it. Either way, he doesn't say a word to me. And I, panicked and confused as I am, don't say a word to him. I feel like I should comment on the game, to at least try to make this work, but I know that I'll reveal my lie as soon as I open my mouth. And all I can think about is how Roman is watching me, waiting for me to make my move. The pressure is building with every passing second. I need to say something. Anything."What else do you like?" I ask him.He's still looking at the TV. "Hm?""What else do you like? Besides baseball, I mean. And chili fries."He shrugs, still watching the game. "Football. Basketball. Not really into hockey.""Ah." Is he making this hard on purpose? Is he not interested in me after all? If not, then why did he invite me to sit down?I have the urge to look back at Roman again, as if somehow his expression
If I felt like an idiot at the bar, I feel even worse the following morning. My head is killing me. Yeah, that's definitely the last time I trust the promises of a Long Island Iced Tea. That bitch.It's Saturday, which is when I'd normally sleep in, but for some reason I told Roman I'd meet him for lunch so we can discuss my strategy. I still have no idea why I agreed. Oh, right - I was drunk and stupid last night.As I pull on my jeans, I consider calling and canceling. The thought of facing him after last night makes me want to throw up - but on the other hand, that might just be the hangover. With my luck, I'll take one look at him and get sick all over his shiny designer shoes.The more I think about it, though, the more I realize that for some weird reason, I want to go. It doesn't matter if Roman actually believes I can pull this off, or if he's only doing this for his own pleasure. This is my chance to show him how far I'm willing to go for this job - and to learn a couple of