How to Sleep with a Movie Star by Kristin Harmel Read Free Book Online Page A

theirs—and our worlds never intersect again. At the end of the day, I shop at the Gap while they’re having their clothes individually designed by Giorgio Armani himself while lounging poolside at his sprawling Lake Como villa. I worry that I won’t find anyone else if I break up with Tom, while they worry about whether to date Tom Cruise, Leo DiCaprio or Ashton Kutcher after their current relationship ends. I agonize over spending $1,000 a month for a rent-controlled apartment that’s practically falling apart while they spend millions of dollars on their Beverly Hills mansions or Manhattan penthouses and don’t think twice about it.
    Sure, I’m happy with my life. I don’t think I’d ever want to swim in the fishbowl of fame anyhow. But sometimes it can be a bit demoralizing when I have to have a close-up glimpse of how my life looks next to theirs.
    So, hot or not—okay, grade-A gorgeous or not—Cole Brannon didn’t make the top of my People I Want to Have Brunch with Tomorrow list. Really. He may have been the sexiest guy in Hollywood—quite possibly in all of America—but he was probably just as self-absorbed as the rest of them. Maybe more so. Ego is usually directly proportional to physical attractiveness, and by those standards, Cole’s ego should be roughly the size of Texas.
    Besides, I’d prefer breakfast in bed with Tom, preferably post-sex, to a boring breakfast with yet another movie star.
    Unfortunately, I had to remind myself, breakfast in bed with Tom didn’t actually appear to be an option at the moment, however, as Tom had never technically prepared a meal for me in his life. Then of course there was the whole post-sex thing, which seemed equally unlikely. We would actually have to
have
sex at some point in order to be
post
-sex. Details, details.
    I finally shut down my computer, grabbed my notes, and called the company car service—the one perk to working late. I could finish my Cole Brannon research at home just as well as I could here.
    On the ride downtown, I resisted the workaholic urge to look over my notes and instead looked out the window at the twilit city streaming by me. Manhattan rolled by in waves of yellow taxis, strolling couples, and businesspeople trying to flag down rides home. The hectic glow of Times Square disappeared behind us as we drove, passing the Flatiron Building, then Union Square, where I often bought fresh fruits, vegetables, and bread at the farmer’s market on Saturdays. The Virgin Megastore on Fourteenth flashed its bright lights as we drove by, and three-story posters of Madonna, matchbox twenty, Courtney Jaye, and Sister Hazel—all of whom I’d interviewed—kept watch over the city from the windows. As we passed the Strand, I recalled with longing the days when I had time to browse through their endless supply of books for hours, finally settling on a quick read or two to get lost in over coffee in Little Italy. It felt like ages since I’d had that kind of spare time.
    Finally, the car turned left on Eighth Street. In a moment, we slowly crossed St. Mark’s Place, where NYU students and Village funksters decked out in all the colors of the rainbow perused record stores, scanned the endless rows of silver rings, sunglasses, and scarves, or ducked into cheap sandwich shops. As we turned onto Second Avenue, I asked the driver to drop me at one of my favorite Chinese restaurants in the neighborhood, two blocks up from my apartment. It wasn’t until I stepped inside that I remembered I’d promised to call Tom before leaving the office.
    “I thought you were going to be a few more hours,” Tom said when he answered the phone a couple of minutes later. I grimaced as my stomach growled, triggered by the sweet, spicy smells that now surrounded me. Mr. Wong, the store owner, stared at me patiently.
    “I figured I’d just finish up reading all these clips at home,” I said, smiling at Mr. Wong. “I wanted to see you.”
    “Oh,” said Tom. He was