Catch a Rising Star (15 page)

“Brian…”

I’m about to tell him to take a hike when Mom places her hand on my arm. I turn to her, and her eyes glow with warning. I
know, I know. There’s never any excuse for rudeness. But gee whiz. I’d like to push this guy off a bridge. Of course, knowing
him, he’d swim to shore and thank me for the cooling off.

I figure I can put up with him for a little while longer, but as soon as we’re alone, I’m definitely ending it once and for
all.

“Brian and I were just talking about the New Year’s Eve party,” Shelly says, giving me a pointed glare. “But I guess you haven’t
gotten around to telling the guy you’re dating about it.”

Uh, maybe there’s a reason for that, the little brat. She hasn’t changed one bit since childhood. I mean… except for
being pregnant.

“Don’t worry,” Brian says, and I can hear a little bit of hesitance in his voice. My heart lifts. Maybe… just maybe this
is finally the moment he gets the picture that I do not want to go out with him.

But then Mom pipes in. “Of course it must have slipped Tabitha’s mind. She’s been so busy lately with that soap opera of hers.”
Without another word she starts down the hall toward the cafeteria.

Shelly waddles forward to follow Mom as I stand helplessly by with Brian’s arm weighing a ton on my shoulders. My sister gives
him her million-dollar smile. “Great. I’ll see you there, Brian.”

I stare slack-jawed at Shelly because I cannot believe she’s just invited Brian to
my
New Year’s Eve party.

Brian’s beaming in my direction. “Sounds like a blast, hon.”

Okay, enough with the “hon” already. And why aren’t you looking at my sister? She’s the one that invited you, dipstick.

And then I get it. As I take in Shelly’s expression, I realize the girl has a crush on Brian. And I’m thinking this might
actually be a good thing. I just need to shift Brian’s attention from me to Shelly. I mean, he’s an okay guy—just not for
me. And Shelly’s never been all that picky where guys are concerned anyway. Maybe this is God’s solution to my problem.

Well, I doubt he’d give my pregnant sister a crush just to bail me out of a case of unwanted attention. But all things work
together… right?

E
ight o’clock on New Year’s Eve rolls around much faster than I’m prepared for, considering I just got back from helping Mom
get Dad settled into his bed at home. To top it off, I just heard from Brian. His assistant manager called in sick with a
102-degree fever, and Brian has to work tonight. My little plan to make him look twice at Shelly will have to wait. And after
I snagged a great little black “maternity” dress from the wardrobe room at work for her to wear.

I can tell Shelly’s disappointed, but she’s covering it well and is being sweet and charming to my roommates, who both think
she’s a lot of fun. I deck out in my own new little black dress, which I’m still calling “little,” even though so far I can’t
force my body below a six. Could be the late-night fridge raids, but I’m not admitting to anything until I hit a size eight
and need an intervention. Freddie is certain I’m cheating on the food program he’s put me on anyway. And really, I’m not sure
the amount of calories I’m on can be considered a “food” program at all. More like a deprivation program. I think the terrorists
actually use his program when they’re trying to get military secrets out of their prisoners.

And okay, I do cheat. I don’t wimp out on the exercise, but come on—I need to eat. Especially with all those workouts. What
am I supposed to eat? Four calories a day after working out for two hours? That’s just wrong. Mean, really. And Freddie can
just lump it. My fans loved me at size six three years ago, and they’ll love me again at the same size. I’ve just decided
it’s not worth the ache in the pit of my stomach to lose another ten pounds that by all the charts I don’t even need to lose.
Hollywood can go suck an egg. (Only of course they won’t do that because there are too many calories and five whole grams
of fat per serving.)

By eight fifteen, the place is buzzing with our guests, but David Gray hasn’t shown up. I figure he won’t. But then, why do
I care? I am
not
planning to make sure I’m near David at midnight. I wouldn’t kiss him if my life depended on it.

Okay, that’s not exactly true. I might be tempted to give David the mildest of pecks on the cheek. But even if it were on
the lips, it would be brief. Well, unless he grabs me and deepens the kiss while I’m too surprised to resist. By then it will
be too late. Thank goodness for the distraction of needing more Ritz crackers and canned cheese from the kitchen.

I stand in the doorway between the kitchen and living room watching my friends rally around my life-of-the-party sister and
celebrate the upcoming new year, and I feel an incredible emptiness. I think I’ll just go to my room and read a book. Or maybe
study my lines for next week when I go back to work.

I’m headed that way when the doorbell rings, stopping me in my tracks. Laini sends me a wink and opens the door. David’s eyes
fall on me. I see the slow rise and fall of his chest as he breathes in and out. What was I planning to do? Well, whatever
it was, seeing David standing in my doorway put a stop to that. I look at my watch. Not even nine yet. Three more hours before
the ball drops. And you can bet I’ll be standing right next to Dreamy David when the clock strikes twelve.

Okay, I have to get away from David right now! Someone get me out of here. After a really great couple of hours—laughing,
talking, playing
Scene It?
—we’re now to the part of the evening I’d forgotten all about. The unwrapping-of-Felicia part of the party. We’re going to
watch my episode where Felicia’s face is unwrapped and Rudy sees her again for the first time. This is horrible. Blythe told
me during editing that they decided to go with the original take—“That one’s more believable than the ones where you’re looking
at Trey.”

Oh, Lord, here it is.

“Wow, Tabs,” Shelly breathes. “That look on your face…”

“It’s acting,” I say quickly. “That’s what I get paid for.”

Dancy and Laini exchange glances and smirk. I’ll kill them later, thank you very much. I’ve always wanted my own apartment.
If I can dodge the authorities after I commit the murder, I’ll be on easy street.

“I don’t know,” Shelly is saying. “It’s almost like—oh, I know. Remember that scene in
Somewhere in Time
?”

Oh please, Lord. If you love me, don’t let her bring up
Somewhere in Time.

Too late. Laini jumps on the bandwagon. “You mean when Christopher Reeve falls in love with the photograph of Jane Seymour
in the past and then when he goes back to the future, that look of adoration on her face is because he walked by?”

“Yes!” Shelly says. “That’s it.” She grabs the remote and rewinds. “See, she’s not even looking at Rudolph. She’s looking
past him like she’s remembering their love.” She sighs and turns to me. I’d love to wring her scrawny little neck, but she’s
just being too sweet. “Tabs, you are truly a masterful actress. I completely forgot it was you in that scene.” Okay, I forgive
her.

“Thank you.” I smile. “How perceptive of you to pick up on the fact that I was looking past Rudy into a memory.”

And how convenient for me.

Dancy pops up from the couch. “Yeah, right,” she mutters.

David snickers. I turn my glare on him, and he has the audacity to smile. Really big.

“Jerk.” I start to get up, but he grabs my arm.

“Hey, don’t be mad,” he whispers against my ear, his breath fluffing up the loose strands of hair and tickling my neck. I
shiver. He tightens his grasp on my upper arm and I lean back against him. “I’m flattered to be your inspiration.”

“Okay, folks,” Laini announces. “It’s almost time. Get ready!”

“Ten…” David’s index finger touches my face, turning me toward him. “Nine.” He’s looking deep into my eyes. I can’t breathe.
“Eight.” Can I wait seven more seconds? “Seven.” His sensuous mouth softens. “Six.” I run my tongue across my lips. “Five.”
What did I eat? Surely no garlic or onion. “Four.” David’s head dips toward me. “Three.” I lean closer. “Two.”

“Hey, thanks for holding my spot, man.” Someone grabs my arm and hauls me up from the couch.

“One.” I’m standing, staring into Brian’s face. “Sorry I’m late, babe.” And just like that his cool lips are on mine. Brian,
still in his black pants and white shirt that he wears to work, smelling of grease and steak.

I feel like hitting someone—namely my sister for spilling the beans about the party in the first place. I don’t mean to be
a spoilsport or anything, but gee whiz, I was this close to kissing the man of my dreams. How come all of a sudden I’m kissing
Brian instead while all around us the room is starting to fill up with the sound of “Auld Lang Syne”? I mean, can an old acquaintance
really be forgotten and never brought to mind? Brian, for instance.

Is that such a bad thing to wish for?

P
arenting isn’t on my list of accomplishments, I’m afraid. And no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to get it right.

“Come on, Tabby, get into the scene. You’re seeing your children for the first time in three years.”

“I don’t remember them, Blythe,” I remind the pushy director. “How can I be emotionally connected to children I don’t recognize?”

“Your heart. Remember? Your heart always remembers. So there is going to be a place in Felicia’s soul that reaches out to
her poor motherless children. She longs to embrace them, to hear them call her mommy.”

Good grief. Is she crying?

“You’re an actress,” she snaps. “Act like it. Everyone take five.”

Oh good. A few minutes to center myself. Okay. I close my eyes and try hard to focus. Somehow I have to get into this scene.

“You don’t have kids, do you?” I know it’s Jennifer, one of the twins. I recognize the voice.

Centering, here. I keep my eyes closed and try to ignore my little three-and-a-half-foot intruder.

She tugs on my sleeve. “Miss Brockman?”

My eyes pop open. “What, Jenn?”

“You don’t have any kids, do you?”

Okay, let’s twist the knife a couple of times. I give a fake smile. “No. I don’t.”

“My mommy died, so I don’t have a mom either.”

Something squeezes my heart as I look into innocent blue eyes. I kneel down until I’m eye-to-eye with her. “I know. I’m really
sorry about that.”

“Only she’s not going to come back like you did.”

“That’s very true.”

“Know what I do, since I don’t really remember having a mom?”

“What?” How cute is she?

“I imagine you’re my real mommy. Jeffy does too. And that way we can pretend we really are yours.”

A lump tightens my throat, and I swallow hard to relieve the ache. “That’s so smart of you and Jeffy.”

“Do you think you could pretend you have kids? Then maybe you could get the scene right.” She gives me a frank stare. “Daddy
said if we got done early we could go ice skating.”

Okay, talk about your ruined moments. Here I was feeling all sorry for her. Humiliation burns through me. I’m being coached
by a five-year-old. “Sure, Jenn. I’ll work on it so you kids can get out of here.”

She nods. “Good. Let’s try to get it right this time.”

My jaw is hanging open as I watch her sashay across the set like she owns the place and grab a donut from the table.

“Smart little thing, isn’t she?”

I turn to find Sharon Blankenship watching the little girl with an amused expression on her normally harsh features. Smart
wasn’t the word I was rolling around, but yeah, I guess she is.

Sharon is one of those women who always have just a bit of an edge to them. Intimidating as heck—not the type you’d associate
with the warm fuzzies. Next to Sharon, my mom is mother of the year.

“Yeah,” I say. “She’s—something—all right.”

“You’re scared to death of those two.” She’s not asking. My defenses go up.

“Scared? Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Listen,” she says, commanding my focus. I turn and look her square in her pinched face. “I’m going to give you some advice
because you’ve been nice to my daughter.”

“I like Tonya. She does a good job with my makeup.” But that doesn’t mean I need coaching from not only the youngest member
of the cast, but now the oldest as well.

I see just a flicker of softening. Ah, the way to her heart is through her daughter. Information that might come in handy
if I had any desire to get to her heart—which I wasn’t positive she possessed until this moment.

“So what’s your advice to handle these scenes with the kids?”

“All right. It’s obvious you’re not a motherly woman.”

I open my mouth to protest, but she raises her hand and I zip it.

“That wasn’t an insult. I’m not known as the motherly type either. You have no personal experiences to draw from where children
are concerned. So you’ll have to work twice as hard in the beginning to convince your fans that you are a mother to these
two children.”

I feel all the fight go out of me, and I slump down on the green print sofa. “Tell me what to do.”

“Isn’t it obvious? You’ll have to act, my dear.”

How sage. “That’s your advice?”

She chuckles. “Did you think there was a magic formula? How do you think writers sit in a corner and write about romantic
places and undying love?”

I give a pathetic shrug. “How should I know?”

“Don’t be surly or I won’t help. I can’t abide ingrates.”

“Sorry.”

“All right. Writers draw from their imagination and become their characters. You have to do the same thing.”

Isn’t this the same advice little Cindy Lou Who just gave me?

“You are also going to have to do some research. Spend a few days with a family. Watch all the old reruns of
7th Heaven
. Do something to get your head in the game. You’re going to blow this otherwise. And Jerry won’t hesitate to kill you off
again if the fans express too much discontent.”

“What do they want to see?”