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  She held up a finger and closed the door enough to remove the chain. When she opened it fully, he saw a hallway lined with movie art of eighties blockbusters, and an old-school, glassed-in fire extinguisher box mounted on the wall.

  “You have access to a car? And we can use it to run my errands this morning? I have five hours of non-stop running around to do before my day gets really busy, and I have to be done by noon. Do you have a license?”

  “I have a driver. ‘I’ve got a full tank of gas and half a pack of cigarettes. The sun’s up so we can wear sunglasses’.” If the Blues Brothers poster inside was a sign of a legitimate fan, she’d recognize the altered quote.

  “I’m home by twelve?” Sydney repeated.

  “I promise.”

  She nodded at him and then finished the movie quote. “‘Okay. Let’s hit it’.”

  Then she shut the door in his face again. But only for a moment this time. She reopened it and thrust a handful of bills at him. “Your first job today is to go to Bella Bean on the corner. I think they open at six on Saturdays so you should be fine. Get me a super grande cinnamon latte, please. Say yes to the first choice of every option they give you. And a sugar-crusted cranberry scone. Don’t forget to get something for yourself.” She pointed at Benny. “Get something for him too. We’re going to be running today. Take twenty minutes, okay? I can be ready by then.”

  “Okay,” Chris agreed quickly. He couldn’t afford for her to change her mind.

  She shut the door.

  “This is going to be a very long day,” he said to Benny.

  Chapter 2

  It was a nice little neighborhood. There was an equal split of smaller chain places and independent restaurants and stores. The houses and apartment blocks were older but well maintained. He and Benny made it to the sidewalk before they realized the woman hadn’t told them which corner.

  “Left or right?” Benny asked.

  “It doesn’t matter. We have time for both.”

  Chris veered left. The coffee shop was at the far end of the street. Benny hung back as he stepped up to the cash register to get a few pictures of him placing the order. “A grande cinnamon latte, please,” he said to the tattooed barista with the “Marco” nametag.

  “Skim milk or whole milk foam?”

  “Skim.”

  “Caramel or chocolate sauce?”

  “Caramel.”

  “Double cupped or cardboard sleeve?”

  “Double cupped. And a sugar-crusted cranberry scone too, please.”

  “So, you know Sydney?”

  “Yes.” Wait. What? “How did you come up with that?”

  “Syd is the only customer at this hour who gets the skim milk foam and the caramel sauce with a cinnamon latte. The scone just sealed the deal. But she doesn’t come in on the weekends,” tattooed Marco said.

  “I’m picking it up for her,” Chris explained.

  “In a tux?”

  The barista with purple hair at the espresso machine looked him over. “Oh my God, you’re Chris Peck. Everybody, it’s Chris Peck!”

  “I am.”

  “Holy shit, are you dating Sydney?”

  Chris wasn’t surprised that the redhead had made an impression on the barista. He’d only met her for a few minutes, and even with no makeup and her hair not done, he could see how unforgettable she was. The short baby-blue silk robe over her thigh-high nightshirt hadn’t hurt either. “No, we’re not dating. She won the Olympus sweepstakes, and first prize was a mortal fan getting a Greek god to act as a slave for a day. She sent me on a coffee run.”

  Tattooed Marco nodded as if it made sense. “She’s been talking about that contest for a couple weeks. She really wanted to win—”

  “Dammit!” the purple-haired barista yelled. She threw the cup she was holding into the sink beside her and turned on the cold water tap full force.

  “Are you okay?” Benny asked her, coming up to the counter.

  She turned, and Chris spotted her nametag. It said “Barney”.

  “I’m good. The steamer spits like a bitch sometimes.” She brushed her bangs out of her eyes and gave the photographer a coquettish smile.

  Seriously? She was flirting with a barely shaving intern while a bona fide Greek god in a tuxedo was standing right in front of her? It was official. This was the worst day of his career. And that included the “Nair for Men” commercial he got as his first gig.

  While Benny gave purple Barney his order, tattooed Marco informed Chris that he was also an actor. While he waited for his change, Chris was treated to what he thought was supposed to be a Robert DeNiro impression, from “Meet the Parents” if he wasn’t mistaken. After that, Chris grinned and bore it while several customers took pictures on their cell phones of him playing personal assistant. He was lucky; fetching coffee ranked pretty low on the possible embarrassment scale. He stuck around for a handful of autographs before giving his regrets about having to get back to his duties. He wondered how long it would be before one of the various press outlets picked up the photos from Twitter or Facebook. He hoped that Benny’s uploads to the show’s sites were first. It would drive traffic and make him look better.

  Karma, man, he said to himself. Humility. He could tell he’d be learning lots of humility today. He’d be happy to learn it if it landed him the High Note lead. If he did this good deed and followed through on this crap job now, he would be repaid. Doing a latte run in a tuxedo could be considered romantic, if people looked at it right. And squinted hard. “I can’t believe I’m going to be doing shit like this all day,” Chris grumbled to the intern. He could learn and gripe at the same time. There was nothing unkarmic about that.

  “It could be worse. Technically, according to the terms of service of the sweepstakes, she could ask you to wear your costume all day. I saw a pool when we pulled up to her complex. Imagine yourself in a toga waving a palm frond over her in between serving her frothy drinks on a silver tray.”

  Chris stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk. “If even a hint of that crosses your lips, you’ll be doing promo work for Roadkill Kitchen until you hit puberty.”

  Benny gulped. “I won’t say a word.”

  The sun was coming up on the return trip. Chris was surprised at the amount of foot traffic considering the hour. They’d dodged a cyclist, a jogger with a retriever on a leash, and a double baby stroller by the time they got back to her unit. As they backtracked, he noticed the row houses on Sydney’s street all had bright flowers in window boxes. Hers were red and yellow. They were nice. The houses looked much more lived-in than the sterile apartments in Burbank where he rented.

  Too soon, Chris plastered on another smile and held the tray of coffees up like a pro. “Let’s see what our winner is like when she’s awake.”

  He was getting tired of knocking on this door.

  * * * *

  That had to be one of the fastest showers in history. Thank God she’d shaved her legs the night before since she knew she was going to be on the beach playing volleyball all afternoon. Now Sydney was stuck in front of her closet in a jam. What did one wear for spending the day in the company of a television star who would be playing the role of one’s personal servant? The guy could make her look bad if he was wearing a sack, forget about competing with a tuxedo. Jeans were too frumpy, and she wanted to look good. Well, as good as Jane Average could look standing next to a Greek god.

  Her hand moved to the next hanger with no conscious thought. A nice dress would be ideal but utterly impractical for the errands she had to get done today. She swished past blouses and skirts and slacks. Her wardrobe had shrunk significantly in the last year as she’d started to cover more skin when she went out, but Sydney hadn’t realized now she’d sacrificed sexy along with revealing. She was paying for that oversight now. She hesitated when she hit a green, brown, and white capris and cotton knit combo.

  That would work.

  She was in the bathroom when the knocking on her front door started
again. “Be right there!” she shouted. She still took a moment to double-check herself in the mirror. Her glasses were gone, and her contacts were in. She’d gotten rid of the Pebbles ponytail, and her strawberry blonde hair was plaited into a French braid that was tucked under and pinned at the base of her neck. She’d put on eyeliner and mascara to make her hazel eyes pop a little for the camera, and then enough blush and lipstick to give herself some color. Foundation was great at night, but during the day it wasn’t worth it to try to tone down her freckles.

  She leaned in to the mirror and checked again. It used to be she’d glance and go, but her self-confidence had vanished with her old clothes. Every day she fought to get a piece of her old life back. She’d already planned to force herself out of her comfort zone today. Karma seemed to be rewarding her determination by throwing this contest her way to make sure she didn’t back out of her decision.

  Sydney looked at the clock on the microwave. It said 6:38 a.m. If she was going to be up this early, she was going to make the most of it. She grabbed her purse, keys, and white straw hat off the kitchen table, hook in the entryway, and closet shelf respectively. It was time to get down to business.

  She opened the door to find the actor holding the coffee tray out toward her. He presented the bag of pastries with a flourish. “Miss Richardson.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Peck. Shall we sit outside and have breakfast?” Wow, she was overdoing the formal stuff. Sydney was prepared to admit she was more than a little star-struck at the thought of buying coffee for a movie star. Really, who plans for that on a random Saturday? She stepped out to greet him.

  The photographer kid reached for her door. It was most likely a polite gesture since her hands would be full once she accepted the coffee tray, but she hip-checked him before he touched the knob. “We won’t be eating inside. And we definitely won’t be taking any photos of the inside of my house.”

  “I only need a couple shots,” Benny protested.

  “I didn’t have time to put away everything that has identifying information on it. I don’t need a partial credit card statement or my home address appearing in the background of a publicity photo. Outside is okay, so long as you don’t publish the street or neighborhood.”

  “Benny, no. The outside of your home will be fine, Sydney,” Chris interrupted.

  Sydney offered him her first real smile of the morning. “Thank you, Mr. Peck.”

  “Just Chris.”

  “Sure, Chris.” See, she could do this. It’s not like he was a drop-dead gorgeous movie star with millions of fans or anything. Absolutely he could be Just Chris if he wanted to. But now that they’d introduced themselves, what else did they have to say to each other?

  The front steps faced east so they were treated to a stunning, smog-less view of the sun breaching the farthest skyscrapers. Sydney peeled the lid off her cinnamon latte and let the first waft of steam hit her nose. She hoped to be inspired by the caffeine. “Cinnamon, skim milk foam, caramel sauce, double-cupped. Perfect.” She set it on the step beside her without taking a sip.

  She opened the paper bag with the Bella Bean logo on either side and found three smaller matching bags. The first was a sugar-crusted cranberry scone. She shrugged off Chris’ amused look and didn’t hesitate to break off a corner and pop it into her mouth. Paychecks and pastries were the only things worth getting up for. She set the little bag against her coffee cup and fished another out. She peeked into it and held it up to be claimed. “Which one of you made a new friend this morning?” Sydney turned the bag so they could both see the “Barney—310-555-8908” scrawled in black marker.

  Benny sheepishly held out his hand. “What? She was cute.”

  “She had purple hair,” Chris said.

  Sydney looked at the last items in the bag. “I think they forgot your order, Chris. There’s only a yogurt and a spoon in here.” She noticed Benny had backed off a couple steps, but she was more concerned about starving her slave for a day.

  “That’s all I wanted.”

  “No muffin? No bagel? No scone? Did I short you on the cash?” God, please let her not have made him pay for his own breakfast.

  “Wheat-free diet,” Chris explained. He sat up a little straighter and rolled his shoulders as he reached for his yogurt.

  “Wheat-free diet? No wheat? No flour? No cake?” Sydney exclaimed. No cake! That was horrible. And appalling. It was unfathomable in all honesty. “What the hell kind of life is that?” She tossed him the big bag, then picked up the little one containing her scone and clutched it to her chest. She broke off another piece and savored it slowly. “That’s a terrible diet. Besides, you don’t need it.”

  “Thanks.”

  It was true. Between the shirt and the jacket, she couldn’t see a six-pack, but the guy spent all day in front of a camera wearing a toga. He probably had the arms to match. He definitely had a tan that a white toga would set off. It was a real tan too, not a booth-generated or sprayed-on one. Chris was old-school movie star good looking: tall, dark, and handsome. If it were just based on appearance, it would be no hardship to spend the day staring at him. But if they were going to be interacting, she hoped there was more. Looks weren’t everything. She knew that.

  “If you want to follow somebody’s nutritional advice, try Oscar Wilde,” she suggested. What was with her today? Open mouth, insert foot.

  “And what does a dead playwright have to say about nutrition?” Chris asked with a smile.

  “Everything in moderation, including moderation,” Sydney said. “It works for me.” She took a big bite of the scone and got a mouthful of cranberries. Damn, that was tart, even with the sugar crust.

  Chris gave her a funny look, and she realized she’d scrunched up her face in reaction to the blast of sourness. She swallowed a couple times, choking on the dry pastry. Then she took a smaller, cranberry-free bite.

  The Wilde diet did work for her. Nobody was going to mistake her for an actress. She didn’t have the one percent body fat thing going on. She had muscles and curves and all her original parts, not including a capped tooth and some fillings. She was more than pleased to slide from a size eight into a size six on occasion, if the cut of the dress was right, but she wasn’t going to kill herself by sacrificing flour to do it. If she were to get in front of a camera she’d have to lose fifteen pounds, but right now in the real world, she felt she was a pretty damned good size and shape.

  She heard a series of faint clicks and looked down the walkway. Now she understood why Benny had backed off. While she was flipping out about the thought of a cakeless life, he’d been taking candid shots of her and Chris on the steps. The actor’s shoulder twist had been to improve the shot. She hadn’t even realized what was going on. That must be the difference between her and someone who spent his life in front of a camera. She wondered if Chris had even realized what he’d done.

  “What do you do for a living, Sydney?” he asked.

  “I work in a call center. It’s very unglamorous.” She jumped to her feet and brushed a couple stray crumbs off her lips. She couldn’t match the excitement of his job. Well, she assumed it would be exciting when he wasn’t being offered up as a sweepstakes prize.

  Speaking of, she’d promised to let Benny take pictures of them doing things in exchange for Chris lending her his chauffer and limo. She should get started. “Are you a cat person or a dog person?”

  Chris climbed to his own feet. “Cat?”

  “Great, because snack time’s over and we have to get to work. But first we have to get you out of those clothes.” Sydney tipped the cup back and drained the last of her latte.

  Chapter 3

  “That’s not part of the services offered.” There it was. Chris had been expecting a freaking-out OMG-you’re-famous reaction, especially since he’d arrived unannounced. He had that effect on fans, but Sydney had been treating him like a real person, which was a nice surprise. He would have bet cash money that the whole cake interlude had been legitimate. He�
�d already made a note not to get between this woman and any desserts. But, no, he wasn’t a human being after all—not to her. His smile vanished.

  He was scowling so hard it took a moment for him to realize that she was flapping her hands up and down as she tried not to spew a mouthful of coffee.

  “No! No, no, no, not what I meant!” she sputtered. “I don’t want to see you naked. Not that you wouldn’t look good naked. I’m sure you look really, really good naked. God, I probably can’t say that, either. What I meant was that you can’t wear a tuxedo—not where we're going. Do you have any normal people clothes?”

  Now he was almost offended that the cute redhead didn’t want to see him out of his tuxedo. He’d never had any complaints before. Or anyone turn him down at all. He checked out what she was wearing. The nightwear had been endearing, but this outfit had the “classy casual and I’m not trying that hard” vibe. She wore it well. The green and brown set off her eyes. When she smiled, they got cute little crinkles at the corners. Her braid wasn’t as sexy as the ponytail had been, though. “Sure. I brought something to wear after I was done here.”

  “Unless they’re club clothes, they’ll probably be a lot better for running around in.”

  Christ, he was confused. She wanted him to look like a regular person when they were out in public together? Chris couldn’t think of the last time that had happened on a date. Maybe before his Rebel Wing days, while he was still scrambling for guest spots. All of his girlfriends since then seemed to want to go out with him for the press coverage.

  Not that Sydney was a girlfriend. This was a photo opportunity. Chris considered the change of clothes he’d packed. He supposed they would do for an everyday look, but he’d hoped to make a better impression in the photos. The penguin suit was a pain in the ass, but it would show he had a sense of humor about the “slave for a day” event, and that was what he was going for. Looking average was average. He’d have to compensate for the comfort.