Written in the Stars: A Contemporary Hollywood Romance Read online

  He turned to face me and caught me staring at him. "What is that look for?"

  Which one of the thousands of thoughts running through my mind had he picked up on? I wasn't always the best at hiding what I was thinking. "Which one?"

  "You were giving me multiple looks at the same time?"

  Trying not to snigger, I countered his retort, "I'm a pretty complex gal. You see, I have this superpower that makes me capable of more than one emotion at a time, so I'm not sure which one you're seeing." I hoped my flirty grin would entice further banter from him.

  "Cheeky one, I see." His smile faded as he fidgeted, clearly uncomfortable, but his eyes never left mine. "There…" He pointed. "that look."

  "Oh, this look. This is my 'why on Earth would this man give up his seat in first-class to become a human pretzel, in not only a coach seat, but the smallest, shittiest coach seat ever, and a moist one at that' look. Is that what you mean?"

  He chuckled. "Yes, precisely. It seems I'm able to read you better than I thought because that's exactly what I saw. I just had to confirm." He squirmed some more.

  I inquired behind a pensive expression, "So?" I suspected his motivations, but I needed to hear him say it.

  "So what?" He pressed down on the armrest, his brow furrowing.

  "Why are you here gracing seat 6B with the pleasure of your posterior?"

  "Perhaps the fragrance of freshly spilled coffee called to me like a siren?"

  I handed him his cup, not so subtly reminding him he already had coffee.

  "Fine." He leaned down for only me to hear. "Well, if you must know, that man was horribly rude to you. I could hear him all the way from my seat. You were kind to me earlier, so I thought I'd return the favor. Unless, of course, I'm mistaken, and you'd rather weather six hours next to that ignorant sod."

  "No...present...company is most appreciated. You have my undying gratitude." I had to look away from him, his gaze too intense to maintain. "It's very, very sweet of you, but we're going to need to cut you out of that seat at the end of the flight. Here…" I moved my bag and wedged it against the side of the plane. "You can stretch your leg over here." I tapped his knee and raised the armrest between us, giving him some room to stretch. He didn't fight me. His arm relaxed next to mine, and one of his long legs fell open to rest against my knee. "Better?"

  "Much. Thank you." He flashed that brilliant smile at me again, not that tight-lipped, rehearsed expression he reserved for the others.

  I glanced over his shoulder to find the woman on his other side gawking at him without shame. As I scanned the passengers around us, they were all focused on him. Several tried to hold their cell phones up inconspicuously, but I could tell they were recording him. "I think the rest of the plane appreciated your generosity, too. With the way they are all staring at you, your good deed may go viral."

  He cocked his head to the side and scratched his scalp just above the hairline. "Interesting...You really have no idea who I am, do you? I wondered at the coffee stand. Your reaction was so…normal. So casual. Do you really not know?"

  "Am I supposed to?" I flipped through my mental catalog of the socially relevant people I knew but couldn't place him. He did seem somehow familiar, though.

  "Do you live under a rock?"

  "Not a big one. But I mean…big is truly a relative word, right? They say size doesn't matter."

  He laughed. "Well then, let me introduce myself…" He held out his hand to shake mine. "Lachlan Sinclair."

  I took his hand and marveled at the size difference, so masculine with long fingers—the envy of pianists everywhere. "Nice to meet you, Lachlan. I'm Katherine Acosta."

  "A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Katherine." He paused and stared into my eyes, a curious grin tugging his lips. "You still don't recognize me?"

  Whispers from the seat behind us were hard to hear, but every so often, the name Sinclair was easy to pick out. "Your name sounds familiar." I tried to hide the blush in my cheeks, fueled by embarrassment. Was I really supposed to know who he was? "I'm sorry."

  "Bastian's Alley, Seventy Years, Martin's View…"

  "TV shows? You're an actor?" No wonder he looked familiar, and everyone around him acted as though they had lost their mind.

  "Yes."

  The woman in the end seat interrupted, "Oh, and a fabulous actor. I love his movies. My favorite is "The Purple Mask." Her almost cheesy grin made me want to laugh.

  I didn't care who he was or what he had been in. He'd never get that response from me. I wasn't one to fangirl over anything, and it was clear to see in his tense posture how uncomfortable it made him.

  "That's exciting," I said a little too flatly. I focused back on Lachlan, trying to remove the woman from our conversation. "I'm sorry, I haven't watched television or been to the movies in years. I only recognize the titles and your name from the news."

  "Gracious, woman. What do you do with all your time?"

  "Um...I'm a writer. Well... I might be a writer. I mean, I write. I have books. But I'm on my way to LA to meet with an agent." Why did he make me so nervous?

  His brows raised. Piqued interest brightened his eyes. "So, have you written anything I might know?"

  "I highly doubt it. You aren't exactly my target audience."

  "Try me." There was seduction in his smile.

  I fought back the flutters in my stomach. I gave him the easy answer, but not an entirely accurate one. Everyone tended to think bodice-ripper, and it usually closed the conversation quickly, even though it was a far cry from my actual work. "I write romance, of sorts—"

  He cut me off. "I'm offended. You don't think I can be romantic?"

  Heat filled my cheeks, but I wasn't sure if it was embarrassment or something else. "No, I'm sure you can be."

  He looked at me as though he were issuing a challenge. "I really can, Katherine. Something I pride myself on."

  Unsure of what to say, I paused, contemplating the best approach. "That's good to know... I guess. When's the last time you read a romance book?"

  It was his turn to blush, and it was adorable. "Ahh…I'm…not sure."

  "See. I wasn't saying you can't be romantic. I was simply saying, you're not my demographic. Unless, of course, you're a woman between eighteen to sixty-five?"

  "I'm afraid I'm going to have to disappoint you this time. I promise not to make a habit of it, though." One corner of his mouth tilted up, creating a deep dimple on his right cheek. The man's smile could melt panties.

  I took a deep breath, faking disappointment. "I'll have to find a way to deal with that unfortunate news, but before I wound your delicate sensibilities," I shot him a flirty grin, "I was going to clarify, my stories are really more love stories. Romance requires a happily ever. I...I'm more of a realist."

  "What? Never wanted to be the princess whisked away by prince charming?"

  "No. For me, it's more like the princess doesn't exist because life isn't a fairytale. She's flawed—equal parts strength and weakness. Life is a series of waves of happiness that ebb and flow, not a thundering path to bliss. Sometimes things just end badly. Other times they just are what they are."

  "Don't your characters fall in love?"

  "Spectacularly so, yes."

  He turned toward me as much as the small seat would allow his long, lean body and completely blocked our nosey seatmate with his back. "You know, when I'm preparing for parts, I find that love and hope are two closely intertwined concepts. One fuels the other."

  I nodded my head, acknowledging his keen observation. "But one could argue that hope without love eventually dies with nothing to feast on."

  He looked down at his pants, seeming to toss the comment around in his head. "Very true."

  "I feel passionate about telling stories with a realistic bent, and well, we are a society in love with happy endings, so it's been a bit of an uphill battle. Luckily, I finally found an agent I think gets me."

  "I'm sure you're a wonderful author. Your passion for it
shines through." He winked at me, then asked, "So, you spend all your time writing?"

  "Well, if I'm not writing, I'm usually thinking about what I'm going to write. It's a never-ending cycle."

  "So always the busy bee? No time to indulge in frivolous entertainment like TV and movies?" He took a sip of coffee. "Oh, how rude of me. Would you like some?" A drop of brown liquid gathered next to the small opening in his lid, and he quickly swiped his tongue over it.

  Heat spread through my belly, and I wondered if he offered all strangers the chance to drink from his cup. "No, I'm good, but thank you." I licked my lips, trying to recall all those small talk questions that once flowed with conversational ease but now were harder to muster. "Do you live in LA?"

  "I have a place there, but my real home is in London."

  I peered out the window for a moment, watching the plane back away from the jetway. "What were you doing in Pittsburgh of all places?"

  "Shooting on location for a new medical drama. How about you? Where are you from?"

  "Pittsburgh. Been here most of my life."

  "Living under a rock of indeterminable size?"

  I chuckled. "Yes, I suppose so. What brought you to the States?"

  "Acting. I was lucky. My father is an actor, so he made all the connections, and I benefited. Now, I can't leave my house without…" He turned to see if his other seatmate was still staring at him. He gave her a weak smile. Before he could continue, the girl, in front of us, shot up out of her seat and snapped a picture of him. "Without that happening."

  I narrowed my eyes at the paparazzi girl as she sunk back in her seat, squealing. Trying to contain my irritation, I said, "One would think they'd get you special travel arrangements. On a private plane, maybe?"

  "Sometimes they do, but this time I have an emergency court appearance I have to attend. So I didn't have the luxury."

  I wanted to ask why he had to go to court, but it seemed too personal. I was still trying to wrap my head around who he was and why he seemed so chatty with me. Maybe the lack of starry-eyed excitement was refreshing. My contemplation caused a stagnant pause in our conversation. Suddenly, I was aware of how long six hours were going to be.

  Shaking my head, I brought myself back to reality. "I'm sorry you have to deal with all this nonsense."

  He sighed. "It's one of those situations where if I complain about it, I'm ungrateful, but really it eats me alive. I have no personal life. If it's not my agent's or my manager's business, it's the public's business. I love the acting part. I really do. The celebrity part has almost caused me to quit a few times. Of course, quitting doesn't put an end to it. It's not a situation I can get out of now. This is no business for a broody, introverted Brit, and unfortunately, I found that out too late. Sometimes success can be most inconvenient. But I feel like a bloody sod even whining about it."

  I twisted toward him in my seat and ducked down to catch his eye. He looked up at me. The same sincerity which laced his words beamed back at me.

  "What?" He nudged me with his arm.

  "Nothing really, just you really mean it. It is a burden."

  "Yes, of course." A tense and awkward moment passed between us. There seemed to be something else lurking behind his expression. Curiosity, maybe? He probably thought I was crazy, so perhaps it was amusement I detected.

  "Broody, introverted Brit, huh?"

  He took a big swig of coffee then offered me a sexy, one-sided grin. "Come on, love. You hadn't noticed? I don't exactly try to hide it."

  I cleared my throat, fighting the heat flooding my cheeks. "I can certainly see where it's possible, but I'm not quick to judge."

  Suddenly, the lady beside him blew out a loud, forlorn breath. I glanced over his shoulder to see her running her hungry gaze up and down his back like she might jump him at any moment. "I believe the lady beside you is looking for your attention."

  He bent toward me, his lips inches from my ear, and whispered so the woman beside him couldn't hear, "Yes, of course, she is. The Purple Mask is her favorite."

  I suppressed the shiver that tried to betray me and stretched my neck and shoulders. "You're going to have to give me more than that. Remember, Lachlan Sinclair virgin here—absolutely no point of reference. Tell me more."

  "First, I discover your orgasms are woefully subpar if they compare to coffee, and now, you're a virgin. You have been neglected, my dear."

  "Seems with you, I'm finding myself in uncharted waters today, Mr. Sinclair."

  "Mmm...Mr. Sinclair? I could get used to hearing you say that. Go ahead, ask away. Anything you'd like to know. I'll answer anything, love." He trailed one finger along the outside of my knee. "Oh, since it's your first time, I'll be gentle."

  I had to fight the shiver that raced through me with his innuendo. "Now, let's not get too carried away. You don't have to take it easy on me. I like a challenge." I winked. "Let's see… Well… Why don't you tell me what this movie you keep mentioning is about?"

  A sly smirk pulled at his lips. "Well, Katherine…" His body heat distracted me as he leaned against me, his breath hot against my ear. "The Purple Mask is an erotic thriller I was in a few years ago. The subtext of the film is brilliant, but instead of it becoming the niche film we all thought, it's now a staple of horny housewives everywhere, mostly because I'm naked. A lot."

  I swallowed hard and managed a slight giggle. "Well, I certainly can't say I know what it's like to be revered for my ass… assets, but I do get where you're coming from when you say people don't get the message. Erotic stories are often seen as nothing more than pornography when in actuality, there is much revealed about someone's character in how they have sex."

  "Why do I think I should've asked more questions about those books you write? They aren't Hallmark Channel romances are they?"

  I shrugged a shoulder. "Because you're good at connecting the dots, I guess?"

  He leaned even closer, our faces almost touching. "So, you write erotic works? Is that what's kept you from writing professionally? Is that why you're traveling to LA instead of New York to look for an agent?"

  I had to look away out the window. "Well, maybe. It's more that I don't write happily-ever-afters. My characters fall in love. They experience love. They enjoy each other, but in the end, there's no promise of happiness. Without the happily ever after, they aren't considered romance, since I don't shy away from sex, they are labeled erotic, and the industry looks at erotica as nothing more than cheap pornography. It's the easy way out."

  His demeanor changed from his soft, playful tone to a more serious nature. "Erotic literature most certainly is not. Sex is complicated, perplexing, beautiful, and thought-provoking—a true exploration of human nature. When I was researching the role for The Purple Mask, I underestimated what I'd need to bring to the performance. So much more than bodies coming together. Each touch, each facial expression, each movement told a story about my character. Good erotica is anything but easy. That production was exhausting."

  I smiled and playfully patted his knee, taking a moment to thank God he didn't shrink away from my touch as he did the other woman beside him. "Well, it's nice to know there's someone else out there in the world that sees things from a similar lens."

  "Can I get you something to drink?" the flight attendant asked, tugging her cart to the end of our aisle. She handed me a small square napkin and eyed me expectantly.

  "Water, please."

  Lachlan added, "Me too," and took his patch of paper from her.

  I ran my fingers over the embossed surface of the napkin. "So, Lachlan… real or stage name?"

  He studied my expression for longer than was comfortable without replying.

  I looked down at the floor, where our legs rested against one another. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry. Forget I asked."

  "No. Please. I didn't mean…You weren't…" He grabbed my hand and squeezed. "Lachlan is my real name. I'm just not used to being asked. It's kind of…I mean…" He sighed. "Never mind."


  Something still wasn't right. I rubbed my other hand along the seam in my pants. Had I upset him somehow?

  He handed me the water the flight attendant brought. "What about you? I know you say you haven't met with your agent yet, but have you published any of your works? A nom de plume, perhaps?"

  "Yes, I've published a few things, none with any of the big publishing houses, however. Thus, the agent meeting."

  "Sometimes the establishment gets in the way. Some of my favorite films are indie. Anyway, you were saying you write as…"

  I laughed. "Ahh...I don't believe I offered that information."

  "Oh, come on, love, what's the worst that could happen?"

  In the back of my mind, I thought, "You could read them," but then considered who he was and decided it wasn't likely. "Iris Covington."

  "See, that was easy. What about Katherine Acosta?"

  "What about me?"

  "Acosta, is that a family name? A married name?"

  I pulled my hand from his and backed into the plane's rounded wall behind me, feeling uneasy. I had avoided social situations so I wouldn't have to talk about Daniel's death. His one simple question made seven years of pain I was trying to leave behind settle back onto my shoulders. "Acosta was my married name."

  "Divorced then?"

  Daniel was dead. It was a fact. That's how I'd had to treat it. "No, he passed away."

  He grabbed my hand again and rubbed his thumb over the surface of my palm. His eyebrows pinched together. "Was it recent?"

  I'd learned in my journey with grief most people who didn't respond with "I'm sorry" were still grieving a loss themselves. I wondered who he had lost for a moment before he disrupted my thought.

  "No, wait. It was when you started writing. Am I right?"

  I tried to hold back all of my emotions, and my astonishment over his guess. "Yes, but…" I eyed him suspiciously. "How did you know?"

  "When my mum died, I was fourteen. I didn't think I'd survive. I did the only thing that helped. I poured my heart into acting. It helped to feel someone else's emotions for a change. The fake sympathy from everyone was suffocating, so I withdrew and only emerged when necessary. I would imagine writing provides the same cathartic outlet acting does. You get to feel like someone else for a while."