CHAPTER 7
It’s early. Really early. I never have been one to sleep late. I would have thought that the extraordinary sex would have knocked me out for a good twelve hours, but here it is, 6am and I’m wide awake. Sydney is still asleep next to me, her hair a dark sheet across her pillow in the shadows of the early morning. Even with very little light, I can see her gorgeous face. Her perfect mouth, slightly parted as she gently breathes in and out. Her long lashes against her pale cheeks, occasionally fluttering in her dreams.
I resist the urge to touch her. I need to let her sleep. She didn’t complain when I woke her up in the middle of the night and had my way with her again. It was slower, less frantic than our first time. I wanted to appreciate every touch, every stroke into her. If I wake her up again, she may not be as pleased.
I get up to look for my clothes and frown, forgetting that I only have my suit, which is currently balled up on the floor in a wrinkled heap. Sighing as I drag my hands over my face, I put on my boxer briefs, grab a blanket off of the end of the bed, and head out to the living area. It’s cold out today, my bare feet are instantly turned to ice on the hardwood floor.
I need hot coffee, and a change of clothes. I also forgot she has no television so I should get a newspaper to read while she sleeps. But Jane’s out of town so I can’t call her like I usually would. I head back into the bedroom to fish my phone out of my pants pocket and dial up Bruce as I quietly walk back out and settle onto the couch with the blanket covering everything but my face. Fuck, it’s freezing! Bruce answers after three rings, and from the sound of the shifting and scuffling noises, he was dead asleep.
“Sorry to bother you man, I need a favor. Can you get me two coffees from The Village Coffee Bar, a New York Times, and a change of clothes and bring them to Sydney’s? Her concierge will bring them up. Tell him it’s unit 8A.”
“Certainly, I can be there in thirty minutes. Would that be okay?” he asks. I can hear the shuffling sound of him getting dressed.
Bruce is a godsend. “Yeah man, thanks so much.” I hang up and smile. Now, when Sydney wakes up she’ll have a cup of her favorite coffee and I’ll have clothes so I won’t be a block of ice on her couch. I feel moderately guilty for waking up Bruce, but the thought of making Sydney happy overrides the guilt about two seconds later.
Another shiver wracks my body, I bundle the blanket up tighter around me and decide to check my email while waiting for Bruce. Great, Chad is still nagging me about the Mind of the Enemy shoot that starts in a couple of weeks. We’ve only done five movies together and I’ve executive produced three more for him and he’s flipping his shit over something as trivial as my flight?
Chad, or Thomas C. Sullivan, as the entertainment world knows him, was the director of the very first film I ever did. I’ve worked with him a lot since, and we’ve become very good friends. I know he’s just pestering me to get under my skin, he loves to watch me lose my shit. I stab out a response to his whining.
To: Chad Sullivan <[email protected]>
From: Drew Forrester <[email protected]>
What the hell dude? Do you have PMS or something? Jane is getting my flight today and sending you the info. You need a vacation before we start this shoot, because I’m not hanging out with you for six weeks if you’re going to be on the rag the whole time. I’ll be there, don’t worry your little head over me. Just show up with your fancy cameras and shit and direct this thing. I want a shiny golden naked man statue to round out my bunch.
D
Interestingly, I get an almost immediate response to my email. It’s what, 3am in L.A.? Why is he checking his email?
To: Drew Forrester <[email protected]>
From: Chad Sullivan <[email protected]>
Unwind your panties, pretty boy! The studio head is breathing down my neck for your shit. I shouldn’t have to hold your hand, this isn’t your first rodeo. And I definitely think I can make you look good enough to get one of those little gold men, I mean, I already have 4 myself, so I guess it’s your turn. And FYI, I’m currently on vacation at my perfect house on St. Bart’s. It’s my last day here so I’m living it up and don’t want any more calls about you from the boss. Jealous of my vacay??
Chad
He included an attached picture of his view from a lounge chair on a hill overlooking a brilliant turquoise bay. Of course, you can see his mangy white feet at the end of the chair in front of a sparkling infinity pool. What a dick, I haven’t been on a vacation in what feels like forever and he knows it. Suddenly inspired, I type out another email to Chad.
To: Chad Sullivan <[email protected]>
From: Drew Forrester <[email protected]>
Tell you what, big shot director. Let this poor exhausted working man use your house this coming weekend and I’ll not only win myself an Oscar, but I’ll make you look like the fucking genius that you always profess to be and get you another one too.
D
The thought of Sydney with me on St. Bart’s for a weekend, lounging by Chad’s pool in a bikini is tempting. Several days of just me and her and no interruptions or time apart, she’d have to let me get to know something about her. My email alerts me to another response from Chad.
To: Drew Forrester <[email protected]>
From: Chad Sullivan <[email protected]>
Deal. You can even use my jet to get there and my boat. It’s new so don’t fuck it up, the boat not the jet. Just show up in LA in a good mood, and don’t let your pretty face get sunburned. The execs will lose their shit! Call me later and we’ll hammer out the details, right now I’m going to go sit in my hot tub.
Chad
Perfect, now I just have to convince Sydney go with me. A text alert lets me know that Bruce just dropped off my stuff and the concierge is probably on the way up. I step over to the foyer and crack the front door to keep him from knocking and waking up Syd. An older man steps off of the elevator a second later with two cups of coffee and a duffel bag from my house.
He seems surprised when he sees me. Well, I’m sure he wasn’t expecting Andrew Forrester to answer the door. Then I remember that I’m only wearing my underwear and that pretty much explains the strange look I’m getting. A famous movie star answering the door in his skivvies. This probably makes his top ten list of weirdest moments.
I know Bruce tipped him well for me so I kindly ask him to forget about seeing me here. “You won’t mention this to anyone, right?”
The concierge looks affronted. “We are quite discreet here at The Greenwich Tower, I assure you, Mr. Forrester. Our residents and their guests enjoy complete privacy. In fact, this conversation didn’t happen.” He smiles and pushes the button to go back down to the lobby.
Stunned, I close the door behind me with my foot so I won’t spill the coffees. Well, that was easy. I hope complete privacy includes not telling Sydney that he spoke with the famous Andrew Forrester in the doorway of her loft. I bring one of the cups of coffee to the bedroom and place it on the nightstand for Sydney and take a few quick gulps of the other one, letting the hot drink warm me up enough to move around without the blanket.
The rest of the stuff I bring into the bathroom with me and take a scalding hot shower and brush my teeth. Bruce packed my toothbrush even though I didn’t think to ask for it. I’m willing to bet that he called Jane to ask her what to put in my bag. If he did, I’m sure I’ll hear about it from her later. Not only is it the middle of the night in L.A., but I haven’t spent the night with a woman in all the years that Jane’s known me, and she’s sure to have a million questions.
As I leave the bedroom, I scoop up my discarded suit and shove it into the duffel bag, then make my way into the kitchen, grinning like an idiot. The coffee keeps me warm as I get out a plate for the croissants that Bruce so kindly included with our drinks, and put everything on the kitchen table and sit so I can read the paper. It’s sometimes difficult, but I try to keep up with current events when I’m in town. When I’m on location or in L.A. it’s just about impossible, early call times and late nights make reading anything but a script a luxury.
I pull the newspaper out of the bag and unfold it and realize that this is the New York Post, not the Times. Crap, well, Bruce isn’t an assistant, and everything else was perfect so I can’t blame him. I look at the clock. It’s not quite seven. I can’t wake Sydney yet. Great, I open the Post and start to read the sports section, but it’s just a quick scan. The Pats are out of the playoffs so I’m not interested in football news. Baseball doesn’t start for two more months and I can’t stand basketball or hockey even though the Celtics and the Bruins are both great teams.
I finish both the News and the Metro sections and move on to the Entertainment section. Surprisingly, there’s a small mention about my upcoming movie, A Soldier’s Burden. Unfortunately, it’s accompanied by the photo taken with the two girls I met in the street after leaving Sydney’s loft the other night.
I scan the caption, “Actor Andrew Forrester poses with fans in NYC’s West Village”.
Isn’t that just wonderful? I scowl at the photo in disgust. You can’t trust anyone to keep anything private.
I’m still stewing over the picture when Sydney walks into the kitchen, looking absolutely radiant. She makes the awkward, post-sex disheveled look seem easy to achieve, perfect skin, tousled hair, slight beard burn on her chin and swollen lips, my dick starts to take notice.
Shit, the photo of me is front and center on the table. I scoop up the newspaper, hastily folding it and tossing it far enough across the table that Sydney can’t reach it. Standing, I pull her in for a kiss. “Good morning.”
She looks around at everything spread out in her kitchen. “Well, you’ve been busy.” Then her head tilts to the side in confusion, her brow furrowed as she studies the table. “How did you get out of my loft and back in without waking me for the key?”
Okay, now I feel stupid. Normal guys don’t have newspapers and coffee and bags of clothes delivered to them, I should have thought of that. “Oh, I didn’t. I had someone pick up the pastries and coffee and bring them to your lobby. Your concierge brought them up,” I admit to her, somewhat embarrassed.
“Oh.” Oh? What does that mean? “Well, thanks.” Sydney picks up a croissant and takes a big bite. Her sharp gaze finds the wadded up Post. “Did they bring the paper as well?”
Crap. I have to distract her so she won’t ask to see it. “Yes. Did you sleep well?” I look right into her deep blue eyes, willing her to talk to me.
“Except for when you woke me up in the middle of the night like a horny teenager, I slept like a rock. Which is actually unusual for me.”
Holy shit, it worked! Although, she seems displeased to have spoken so openly. Me? I’m ecstatic to have been thrown a crumb of information, accident or not.
I try to continue the dialogue, hoping to learn more about her. “You have trouble sleeping?” I’m not surprised, given how many secrets she seems to harbor. Hiding all that shit and keeping it inside would give anyone a bad case of insomnia.
“Ummmm, well, yes …” she doesn’t want to talk about it, that’s obvious, her eyes shift around the room, not meeting mine directly. “I sometimes have bad dreams, but really, it’s not a big deal.” The casual shrug she throws in is stilted and stiff and not at all convincing.
Bullshit it’s not a big deal. But she didn’t have nightmares last night. Maybe I’ll have to sleep with her every night to keep them away.
I tap my finger to my lips. “Hmmm. Maybe we’ve found a cure for your problem.” I blatantly check her out in her tiny little robe, her pert nipples visible through the thin fabric, and think of everything I could do to help her sleep better.
Adorably, a deep crimson creeps up her neck. She’s embarrassed by my flirting. I can’t help but laugh, she’s so endearing. I haven’t met a woman who feels emotions like self-consciousness in a really long time. Usually, I’m surrounded by overly confident Barbie dolls that I want to ditch as quickly as humanly possible. She’s such a refreshing change from all that phony crap. “Sydney, your reactions always surprise me.” My eyes flick down to the table, where her arms are resting. “How’s your arm? It looks good.”
She immediately stiffens and tucks her arm under the table. “It’s fine.”
Okay… She doesn’t want me to ask about that other scar again. The one that freaked her out when I mentioned it at the gym.
A glance at my phone shows that it’s already later than I thought and I realize that I should go soon. I have to call Chad and arrange for next weekend, and I don’t want to overstay my welcome. Sydney eyes me inquisitively as I stand and walk around the table so I can kneel down next to her chair and take her hand in mine. “I have to get going, when can I see you again?”
Sydney answers without her usual caution. “I have no projects lined up, and I’m just waiting for my current client to call to start work, so I’m fairly open in the next few weeks.” Then she shrinks back, as if she caught herself telling me too much too soon.
“I’ll call you later today, okay? I need to get home and check some things on my calendar.” I lean in and brush my lips across her inviting pink mouth several times before I stand up, remembering to snatch the Post off of the table before I go. I retrieve my duffel bag from the floor and head toward the foyer, Sydney trailing behind.
As I shrug on my coat she stops me, holding up a hand to keep me in place. “Wait here,” she says with a mischievous smirk. She ducks into the living room and comes back just as quickly. “A gift, I don’t want to take a chance losing our luck.” My Red Sox hat is balanced precariously on her outstretched palms, as if she’s trying not to let it touch too much of her skin, which is probably exactly what she’s doing.
Amused by her disgust for my favorite hat, I give her my biggest grin, take it from her hands, and shove it on my head, pulling it down low. Might as well get my costume ready now for when I hit the street.
“Me neither. Sydney, I’ll call you later.” I spin the brim around so I can lean in and get one more taste of her before I leave. As usual, she doesn’t disappoint.