Written in the Stars Series Collection Read online

  “I’m sorry. But I just don’t think journalism is for me.”

  “Why not? Yesterday you were keen. What’s changed?”

  Jack Dean. Even though I didn’t know him, something about this picture struck me like a set-up. There was something not quite right about it. It seemed like a publicity stunt.

  “The photo,” I said finally. “I don’t know what it is, but it seems staged somehow. I’ve watched Jack Dean’s work and seen interviews, and he seems like too nice of a guy to do this kind of thing.”

  Susan nodded and smiled. “You’re right. It is staged. It’s a publicity stunt for the film set up to hopefully boost box office sales and press. It’s not doing so well. I got an email from Jack Dean’s manager yesterday telling us to share this.”

  My jaw fell open for the second time that day. “Why would his manager do something like that? This is the kind of thing someone would want shut down, not want it to go viral.”

  “I know. But honestly, I think the studios are desperate at this point. And that leads me to my next point, the real reason I asked you to come into my office.”

  I braced myself, holding my breath.

  “The premiere is booked for next week in Sydney. Jack Dean’s manager asked me if I could send one of my reporters along to get an exclusive. I want you to go.”

  “Me? Are you serious? But I don’t think I’m ready.”

  “I think you are. And Chloe, the way this industry works is, for a falling star, any publicity is good publicity. You have what it takes. All you have to do is get over the fact that you’re ruining someone’s life and trust in yourself.”

  3

  Chloe?”

  I was pulled from the screen of my phone by a cacophony of sound.

  It was starting. I looked up into the face of Susan. She didn’t look impressed. Instead, she seemed awfully stressed and about ready to have a conniption at any given moment.

  Susan pursed her lips together in a tight line and furrowed her brows.

  “Chloe, I am not paying you to surf the internet. Be alert. He’s coming, and I need you to get the exclusive.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Sorry.” I slipped my phone in my pocket and pushed through the horde of reporters and journalists, making my way to the front of the media section of the red carpet.

  We were at the premiere of a big upcoming blockbuster film, and Hollywood’s latest ‘IT’ boy was in town. Doing this, being on the red carpets, and interviewing celebrities was something I never imagined myself doing. I’d wanted to be a writer since I was a little girl, but as soon as I finished university, the naïve young twenty-one-year-old Chloe thought she’d get a job straight away in a top magazine or website and get paid thousands of dollars to make-up crap about celebrities. Oh, that Chloe was a fool! Three years later, and here I am, twenty-four-year-old Chloe, taking any opportunity that comes my way with enthusiasm, (even faked) and saying yes to just about anything to get my foot in the door and make ends meet in this stupidly expensive city.

  When I say anything, I mean writing other uni student’s CVs and cover letters, even writing obituaries for the newspaper in the small town where I grew up. Any paying job was a job. It was money, and I needed every bit just to survive. So how did I get here, you ask? From small-town causal obituary writer to celebrity gossip columnist and entertainment reporter? Talking to celebrities on the red carpet of blockbuster film premieres? I’ll tell you.

  Six months ago, my sister asked me to help at Sydney Fashion Week. They needed a few more bar staff to serve champagne. It was paid—so, of course, I said yes. My sister had been working in the fashion industry for a few years and currently worked in the office of a local fashion label. Her boss was attending, and they needed more people to help out backstage, handing the models their clothes and such. So she volunteered her time backstage while I poured endless streams of bubbly for the VIP guests.

  Most of the guests in attendance were celebrities, fashion bloggers, journalists, or supermodels. I knew this would probably be the event to get my foot in the door of the entertainment industry. And I was right. Towards the end of the night, my sister introduced me to Susan, my current boss. She was the editor of the top entertainment news website in the country. When my sister told her I was a writer, Susan gave me her details and told me to call her office to set up an interview. She’d also ask that I send her some of my previous work. Something I’d written. I froze on the spot, panicking. Up until that point, I hadn’t taken myself very seriously when it came to writing. Sure, I’d had ideas for a novel and a screenplay for years, and had written short stories and plays, most of them for uni assignments, but I’d never published anything. They’d all been a bit of fun. Luckily, my sister thought I was terrific and had what it takes, so she made me email in one of my poems. I thought the poem was god- awful and the worst piece of shit ever created. But Emily didn’t. So I sent the email a few days after Fashion Week, and one week later, I got the call for an interview with the company that ran the website.

  Flash forward six months, and here I was waiting to interview one of the world’s biggest stars at the premiere of his new film. I still didn’t think I deserved this. I still thought I was a fraud, and it was by some cosmic joke that Susan hired me, and at any moment, she was going to say, “Oh, sorry. I didn’t really hire you. It was a mistake, and you’re just not good enough to write for us.” Hardy-har-har. Not that someone like Susan would say that, but that’s what she was probably thinking.

  It hadn’t happened yet, but it would probably happen soon.

  I still had imposter syndrome, though.

  If I didn’t get at least a few words in and an answer from Jack Dean, the world’s biggest star, my fears would become a reality.

  I continued pushing my way through the line of photographers and other media people and shouldered my way to the front of the line just in time for Jack to pass. My heart leapt into my throat as my brain stopped working, and I forgot my questions. Thankfully, Jack stopped at the first reporter, and I had more time to prepare myself. I took my phone out again and found my notes. I then readied the voice recording app and waited until it was my turn.

  I had a couple of questions prepared that Susan wanted me to ask Jack, things they knew would solicit ‘juicy’ answers that would bring traffic to the website. I knew this whole interview was an exclusive and to bring in the traffic, but I had to make this interview good. I couldn’t make a fool of myself. This interview could make or break me.

  “No pressure at all, Chloe,” I said to myself, hopping from foot to foot to keep myself from having the nervous shakes. But it was no use. I was already sweating. And I needed to pee. Ugh. This wasn’t going to end well.

  Jack was now with the next reporter, and there were a camera and bright, hot lights pointed at him. Squinting a little as he spoke to the reporter, he showed no sign of discomfort. And because the lights were shining on him, and he was practically standing in front of me, I could see the full extent of his beauty. And boy, was this man beautiful! I had never thought of a man as beautiful before, but now I could see why some women said so. Jack Dean was freaking gorgeous. He had dark brown hair, almost black. The lights made his hair look like dark chocolate. And his eyes… oh, man. Don’t get me started on his eyes. I could now see the appeal. I could see why he was the new Sexiest Man Alive. He had the most decadent hazel eyes I had ever seen. God, how I wanted to dive into those eyes.

  But this wasn’t me. I wasn’t one to fall for the guy everyone else wanted. Or consume popular media. I liked unique things, whimsical things. Obscure indie rock bands and books by indie authors, handmade vintage clothing from market stalls. I hated blockbuster movies with the same actor in every one, and a mediocre script. I loved quality over quantity. I loved expensive wine, good food and luxury cars (not that I could afford the latter.) but you get the picture.

  But speaking of quality, I could appreciate the finer things. I had an eye for detail.

  And Jack Dea
n was like a fine wine, or a well-made designer suit, or a luxury vehicle.

  You get it. Blah, blah, blah.

  Jack Dean was quality. I suddenly felt something I hadn’t felt in a long, long time. A feeling I thought would never return after being dumped by the last guy I dated. Something stirred in my gut, a warm twisty feeling. It also stirred down there, making my lady parts come to life. My cheeks heated.

  Lust.

  Oh, my God. I was pretty sure I was in lust with Jack Dean.

  And now he stood directly in front of me with eager eyes awaiting my first question. And here I was ogling him like a nymphomaniac.

  I wanted to die.

  4

  He was smiling at me. And my God, his smile was glorious! It made my insides melt and my knickers wet. My cheeks heated again as I thought about Jack Dean making my knickers wet. I quickly looked down at my phone. I couldn’t think about that when he was standing in front of me. I had to ask him something. That’s why I was here after all. I was working. I looked up at Jack again, and he was smirking. That sneaky, evil bastard was smirking at me. He apparently felt pleasure seeing me in pain and knowing he was the cause of it.

  Speak, Chloe. Speak! Say something!

  “Um… hi, Jack.” Not that. Anything but that. Chloe, you idiot!

  “Hi,” was all he said. And then he smiled again. And it was a twisty half-smile that showed off his dimples. They were my favourite kind of smile. Once again, as I stared at the dimple on his right cheek, that twisty, warm tingly feeling swept over me. My vagina throbbed, and another little squirt of liquid escaped into my knickers. Great. At this rate, my undies were going to be completely soaked through by the time I finished.

  Oh, sweet ground, please swallow me up right now!

  “Are you okay?” a deep but playful voice asked. I looked up and realised it was Jack Dean. The Jack Dean had just asked if I was okay!

  “Oh, yeah. I’m fine. I’m just… This is my first big assignment, and I don’t want to mess it up,” I told him. It was the truth.

  “Hey, you shouldn’t put so much pressure on yourself. What’s your name, and where are you from?”

  I smiled. “Chloe Vanderbilt, originally from the Central Coast of New South Wales. Now from Sydney.”

  I didn’t know what it was, but Jack Dean had a way of making me feel at ease. All the stress and anxiety instantly melted away, and at that moment, it was just him and me.

  He laughed. “A small-town girl, huh? I was raised in a small town too, but that’s not what I meant.”

  I wished the ground would swallow me up right about now. Yep, anytime now, ground. I looked down at my phone, flipped it over in my hands, and began polishing the logo on the back with my thumb. It was something I often did when I was nervous. That or chew my fingernails. But I’d stopped the latter when I’d started working for Susan.

  “I meant, what publication or media company are you from?”

  “Oh. Sydney Showbiz News. I’m a gossip columnist. I report on the latest celebrity news, review movies, etcetera.”

  “Awesome. So I’m assuming you have some questions for me?” Something captured his attention further down the red carpet toward the road. I heard screams and assumed another big name star had arrived. He then turned back to me and stepped closer.

  “Yeah. I’ll try and keep it brief.”

  “Jack!”

  His attention was stolen from me once again by some other reporter calling for him. I hated when they did that. It made them sound desperate. But time was of the essence, and Jack had to talk to many more people before making his way inside the theatre. I glanced down at my phone again, flipped it back over and quickly found my notes. However, as I read the first question, I realised it was lame. It was the most generic, unoriginal question and something many other journos would ask. As if sensing my dilemma, Jack leaned over the red velvet rope and placed his hand on top of mine. Time froze, and my heart skipped a beat as I met his gaze.

  “Don’t worry about the questions. Ask me anything. Anything that comes to mind. The first thing that comes to you.”

  Are you single?

  Can I have your babies?

  Wanna run away with me?

  Naturally, I couldn’t say what was really on my mind. So I just said this:

  “What was it like to work with Jemma Veritas?” Jemma was his leading lady in this film and one of the sexiest women alive right now. I wasn’t ashamed to admit I would turn gay for her. She was hot.

  Jack did that dimply smile again.

  “Working with Jemma was great, but you don’t want to ask me that, do you? Not really.”

  Cheeks heated and undies dampened once more.

  “No. But my boss would love an answer.” That was the truth.

  “Well, we’d better give you something worth writing about to appease your boss. I don’t want you getting fired, now.” He gave me a wink, took his hand from mine (it had been resting on mine the entire time this was going on), and then he walked away.

  As Jack finished his press duties further down the red carpet, I suddenly remembered the entire reason I was here. How this premiere and me being here was planned publicity. Did he know about this? If not, I had to warn him. But it was too late. Jack was gone.

  5

  After Jack left, I felt displaced. My mind was everywhere. Everywhere but where it should be. Mainly on Jack. It should be in my notes. I should have recorded his answers. I should have warned him about the photo and the plan.

  You’re a fool, Chloe.

  For once, my inner monologue, that demon on my shoulder, was right. I was a fool—a great big, fat, drooling, desperate fool. I’d let myself get distracted by him.

  I made my way to a quiet corner of the theatre foyer and quickly typed a few things into my notes. As scrambled as my brain was, I could remember every single word of what Jack had said. It would stay in my mind forever. That was how my mind worked. I appeared frazzled and confused on the outside—I was a nervous, awkward individual—but on the inside, I had a brain that could remember infinite details about experiences that were important. I liked to think of it as having a photographic memory. Experiences I didn’t care for or didn’t deem necessary, or things I wanted to forget, those I could easily dislodge from my mind to make way for more important things. There was only so much a brain could take.

  In the midst of note taking, Susan found me in my so-called safe haven. I thought I was safe there in my little corner.

  “Did you get it?” she asked straight up. No “How did it go? How are you feeling? How was your first big interview, Chloe?” Nope. This woman was all business and got straight into it.

  I smiled. “Yeah. I got it. Just writing it down now.” I typed and remembered the plan. I looked up at Susan. “But I didn’t get to ask him about the photo of him and Alexa and whether he knew about the plan.”

  Susan appeared to instantly de-stress and took a breath. “It doesn’t matter because you have a second chance. Here’s your ticket, which includes entry into the after party.” She handed me a lanyard, and I froze.

  “After party? I’m invited to the after party?”

  “Yes. Normally, media aren’t allowed because they have a strict no photography policy. But this request comes directly from Jack Dean himself.” She pats my arm, and now it’s my turn to breathe a sigh of relief. I slipped the lanyard over my neck and smiled.

  “You must have done something right, my dear.”

  As we entered the theatre, I tried to figure out what I’d done to gain entry into the exclusive after party, but I came up blank.

  The after party was held in the hotel next to the theatre, and as I followed the crowd, I tapped out my thoughts on the film into my phone. The film was incredibly awkward for me after my red carpet encounter. Every time Jack’s face appeared on screen, the same feelings of lust returned. My undies were now extra damp. Damn it! I should probably head back to my hotel to freshen up before the party.

 
I stopped walking, pivoted on my toes and ran back the way I had come. I ran the entire way to my hotel, which was just around the corner from the theatre. It should have taken five minutes, but instead, took ten due to the crowd, security, media and temporary fences blocking off the footpath. I finally reached the hotel lobby and dove for the elevator, making it just in time before the doors shut. A luggage porter was already inside, and his trolley took up most of the lift, so I had to squeeze beside it. Good thing I’m petite.

  “How was the movie?” he asked. I was immersed in my phone taking notes again and hadn’t realised he was talking to me. But I was the only other person in the elevator, so he must have been talking to me. I glanced over the top of the suitcases and met his gaze. He looked younger than I look, perhaps in his late teens, early twenties, but looked like he’d barely reached puberty. He was stick-thin, and his voice had barely broken.

  “Oh, it was good. I liked it.”

  “Do you recommend it, then?”

  “Yes. Sure,” I replied, not really wanting to speak. I wanted to get out of this super awkward situation and get to my room pronto so I could take some time to freshen up, change my soiled underpants, and make it back to the after party before some other girl swooped in on Jack Dean.

  I wanted to kick myself right then.

  You’re an idiot, Chloe. Stop thinking about your soiled undies in public! Soiled due to Jack Dean making you horny. And what makes you think you have a chance in hell with him, anyway?

  Thankfully, the doors opened on my level, and I practically dove for the opposite wall. I stumbled a little but caught myself before making an embarrassing face plant in the hallway. I quickly turned back to see if porter-boy had noticed.