Page 9 of Lucky Star

“Do I love her? How can you even ask me that? Of course, I love her. Haven’t you been listening to a word I said? She’s the other half of me, all I’ve ever wanted. I’d die for her. Fuck, I’d kill for her. That’s why I have to leave.”

Broderick hit pause and the image captured on the screen was Cameron’s face, his crystal blue eyes staring back at me, the hurt and anguish of the character laid bare for all the world to see.

“And him?”

I said the only thing I could, my voice catching. “He’s perfect.”

When Broderick flicked the lights back on, I felt him staring at me as I stared at Cameron. After a few protracted heartbeats, I blinked, and turned to my boss, hoping my face wouldn’t betray my emotions.

“That’s right,” he said, rubbing his hand across his chin. “I forgot you know him.”

I could have denied it, but there was no reason to. If Cameron landed this role, it would be obvious to everyone involved with the movie that we had a history.

“Yeah, we’re ... friends.” I tripped over the word because I didn’t know if that was true anymore. We’d been friends—the best of friends—and then for one glorious night, he’d been my lover. But now? Now, Cameron seemed like a bittersweet memory.

Broderick assessed me with watchful eyes before grabbing a decanter of scotch. Pouring a slug into two glasses, he extended one my way. “From the look on your face, I’d say you’re more than friends.”

I drank down a mouthful of the smoky amber liquid and immediately recognized it as an Islay single malt. I closed my eyes to better appreciate the peat smoke and brine, and when I opened them, Broderick was staring at me again with a sly smile on his face.

“You like?”

“Islay’s my favorite. Is this a Bowmore?” I raised it to the light with a swirl as I watched the ‘legs’ slink down the glass.

Shocked eyebrows shot up Broderick’s forehead. I knew that look: he was surprised a woman knew her whisky. Surprised I knew my whisky.

“Yes,” he remarked casually, trying to cover his shock by splashing another finger into my glass before leaning back in his chair. Then, bringing the conversation back to its earlier, more pertinent topic, he said, “If we cast him, will that be a problem for you? Can you work with him without letting your personal feelings get in the way?”

I took one last drink and placed the glass on his desk. I hated that he felt the need to ask me in the first place, but I played along. I was under no illusion that if the choice were between me, a lowly PA, or Cameron, his Next Big Star, I’d be gone in a heartbeat. Oh sure, Broderick would find me another job somewhere else, but this was business, and if I proved a liability in any way, shape, or form, he couldn’t have me around.

“Of course,” I said with a benign smile as I pushed my pain to the back burner.

* * *

Exactly one week later,Broderick asked me to call the blogger who’d helped us squash a rumor a drug-addled starlet had started that she was up for a role in the film and offer her an exclusive on casting.

By ten-thirty that morning, Cameron’s name and a selfie had been pulled from his Instagram account and been splashed on most entertainment sites in the U.S., and several in Canada and the U.K. as well.

And once noon hit, my phone started ringing off the hook with people wanting to know more about the movie’s unknown stars.

By five o’clock, I’d distributed media kits for Cameron and Jillian Templeton, the actress who’d be playing Arabella, including their headshots, bios, the book’s synopsis, and character descriptions.

All the while, I’d had zero interaction with Cameron, all the back and forth handled between me and his agent. Normally, this wouldn’t have been unusual, but it felt weird having a complete stranger confirm information I already knew. It was almost like he was any random actor, not someone I’d given my heart, soul, and body to. The impersonal nature of it all made me feel slightly nauseated.

But unless I actually started vomiting all over my desk, I needed to get my tasks for the day finished. I’d told Broderick my relationship with Cameron wouldn’t affect my job and I was going to prove it.

When most everyone had gone home for the night, I asked Broderick how long I’d be playing at being his PR person, but he’d shrugged and walked out, his hair sticking up in all directions. I decided not to tell him about the Post-It note stuck to his ass.

By eight o’clock, I was at my desk canvasing my Twitter feed. In addition to that first selfie that’d been posted, there were now several more pictures that had been lifted from Cameron’s Instagram and Facebook page, and this time they included our other friends ... and me.

Since I’d never had reason to lock down my social media before, my life—such as it was on the internet—was pretty much an open book. Aside from a few overly-zealous fans who’d tracked me down when word of the movie first leaked, I’d never considered going incognito. But now, seeing my face plastered all over a bunch of random blogs felt like an invasion of my privacy so I logged in to every one of my accounts and turned all my settings to private. I almost texted Cameron to tell him to do the same, but then remembered he wasn’t talking to me anymore.

I emailed his agent instead with the recommendation

When the clock struck nine, a rumor surfaced that his friend James’s fiancé—a woman who could double as a Swedish supermodel—was Cameron’s secret girlfriend. Seeing that false story pissed me off more than I’d anticipated.

Which was ridiculous.

It wasn’t as if I Cameron and I were together, but I was upset all the same. Especially since while there were more pictures of the two of us on his feed than anyone else, but no one had suggested I might be his secret girlfriend. Never mind I was the only woman in those photos he’d ever had sex with.

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