He’s correct on both counts. That I am from Los Angeles and that we get very testy about folks from neighboring cities trying to claim residence.
“This place still feels magical to me,” he says. “Been here almost five years, made almost eight movies, and it’s all still magic. Bet that makes me seem like a sap.”
It doesn’t. It makes him seem inhumanly charming.
The puppy is asleep on his lap.
“I haven’t named her yet,” he tells me. “I’m waiting for it to come to me.”
We pull up in front of a gorgeous white-stone mansion.
Gabe lets the puppy explore the backyard while we get a tour of the amenities. The real estate agent is bending over backward trying to make this sale, but unfortunately for her, Gabe has decided that my opinion matters a great deal.
And although the house is beautiful, it’s not really my style. Which means that today, it’s not Gabe’s style either.
We bid the real estate agent goodbye and begin our own farewells. Gabe has given me several hours of his time and yet, I’m not ready to say goodbye. I’ve been fully charmed by the future Bond. That’s the only excuse I have for what happens next.
Gabe mentions that he has a premiere to go to the following night and as I hand his adorable sleeping puppy over to him, I somehow manage to finagle an invite to the after-party.
Chapter
1
I arrived early and damp. The blue cotton blouse that had looked professional and flattering in my apartment mirror was now stuck to my armpits in dark, wet half-moons. Lifting my arms, I blasted the AC in my car, hoping both to dry my shirt and shock the nervousness out of my system.
I’d interviewed celebrities before.
I’d even interviewed supernaturally beautiful celebrities before.
This was different.
Gabe Parker wasn’t just any celebrity. He was my number one, heart-fluttering, palm-sweating, thigh-clenching celebrity crush. I’d entertained multiple extensive, detailed fantasies about him. I’d done numerous searches for paparazzi pictures of him. Until this morning, a shirtless photo of him had been the lock screen of my phone.
I had zero chill when it came to Gabe Parker.
If Jeremy and I were still dating, there’d be a major possibility he would have tried to veto this interview. He knew how I felt about Gabe. When he’d insisted on us declaring our “free pass” celebrities, I’d chosen Gabe. Jeremy had pouted.
It was ridiculous, of course.
Gabe would probably be charming and kind and amiable. It wouldn’t be because he liked me, or thought I was interesting, or because we had any sort of deep emotional connection. It would be because it was his job to charm me. And it was my job to be charmed.
His management had been very, very clear about the kind of profile they were expecting me to turn in. What they wanted in exchange for the access Broad Sheets was getting to Gabe before he started shooting.
They wanted a story that would counter the bad press his casting had caused. They wanted a story that would convince the naysayers that he was the best choice for Bond. They wanted me to sell him to America. To the world.
I wanted a story that would keep getting me work.
I blogged and sent short stories to literary magazines like I was tossing rocks into the ocean.
I’d only gotten one published, and then, just when I was considering that maybe I should give up trying to be a writer, I’d gotten the gig at Broad Sheets.
I’d been recommended by a former professor who had once called my writing “mainstream”—as much of an insult as one could get in an esteemed MFA program but apparently exactly what Broad Sheets was looking for.
Jeremy called the stuff I was doing “puff pieces,” but we’d still celebrated when I got the job—spending a good chunk of my first paycheck on bottomless fries and happy hour beers.
The editors at Broad Sheets seemed to like my writing—at least, they kept giving me work—and every month I could pay my bills with the money I made off my writing felt like an accomplishment.
I knew that this interview was an opportunity to show that I could take on more high-profile, better-paying articles. It needed to go well.
Even though I’d just checked it five minutes ago, I scanned my bag again to make sure that I had a pen, my notebook with the questions I’d written out last night, and my tape recorder, which had a new set of batteries. I was as prepared as I was going to be.
My armpits were now cold and wet. I realized, with horror, that I wasn’t one hundred percent sure I’d put deodorant on. I gave myself a sniff, but couldn’t tell.