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Tori was quiet for a second. "Shirley said you need to pull a rabbit out of a hat. Right?"
"I know, I was here."
Tori hopped up, meeting her threshold of sitting time. I peered around my pillow and watched as she tore through the jeans in my closet. She appeared to be organizing them by wash.
"I think it means you need to do something drastic to distract the press and the public," she said, her brow furrowed as she inspected my denim. "It has to be something bigger than how drunk you were last night. And everything you said."
"That's a pretty tall order. It would have to be some huge news—like I'm pregnant or getting married."
Tori looked at me and smiled enthusiastically. "The press loves marriage and/or a baby bump! Let's do that!"
I scrunched up my face at her. At this rate, I was going to need another Advil. "I can't be pregnant or get married! Because I'm not pregnant, and I don't even have a boyfriend to marry!"
"So how about a hot new boyfriend?" she asked. "That you might eventually marry? And get pregnant with? That'd keep the press happy."
"That would be great. For all sorts of reasons." I winced as I thought of how long it had been since I'd been with a guy. "But there's one problem: I don't have a hot boyfriend. Or a new boyfriend. Or any boyfriend. Or any prospect of a boyfriend, for that matter."
"Well, we could get you one," Tori said. "What about Troy?"
"Troy?" I practically spit out his name. "He dumped me, remember? Right after I told him I was serious about him and brought him to all those premieres? Troy is out."
Tori nodded. "Sorry, that's right. In all the excitement, I forgot he was such a douche." She scrunched up her face in thought. "How about Kevin? That hot agent?"
"Engaged. Recently."
"Bummer."
I rolled over and sighed. "Besides, it couldn't just be any guy. I'd need someone who seemed crazy about me, someone so totally hot that the press would go nuts over him. I need Charlie Hunnam. Or Joe Mangiello. Or Channing Tatum. And I need them to fawn all over me."
"Yes!" Tori squealed, clapping and jumping up and down with excitement. "Yes, yes, and yes! This is awesome! Let's do it! Oh my God, I'm finally gonna meet Channing Tatum!"
"You're crazy, you know that?" I asked, sitting up and staring at her in disbelief. "That's not gonna happen. Charlie's taken. Joe's engaged. Channing's married—and plus, I don't know any of them!" I snorted and sank back down on the bed. "Even if I did… I need someone to commit to me. To be in love with me and flaunt it. Today. That's not gonna happen. No one owes me a favor that big."
My situation was dire. I was imagining how many hits the video was getting on XYZ as I sat there, spinning my wheels. The enormity of the trouble I'd gotten myself into was sinking in. The press, my director, the producers, and the people putting together the new film I was up for would want n
othing to do with me from here on out. I had the premiere and press junket coming up for Hearts Wide Open, and I was sure everyone associated with that movie wanted to kill me. Even with the impending arrival of Shirley's PR team, I was toxic for the near future. They wouldn't be able to save me. The paparazzi would be ruthless, following me everywhere, taunting me. I knew myself too well—I would snap under that sort of scrutiny.
Then it would all be over. Everything I'd worked for. Everything I wanted so badly.
I wish I did have a new boyfriend to throw at them. Then I sat up again. "Hey. Huh. I just thought of something."
"What?"
"Something my mom always says. Whenever she has a problem, she says she just throws some money at it. Like it'll magically make the problem disappear."
"That's because she's throwing your money. Or one of her ex-husbands'."
"But what if I did that? What if I threw some money at this?" I paced again. "What if I threw enough money at this that I could make it go away? Or at least obfuscate it?"
"Huh?" Tori looked at me as if I was crazy. And she had every right.
If I was attempting to apply my mother's "logic" to my problem, I was in deep, deep trouble. "What if I hired someone to act like my boyfriend and paid him enough so that he kept his mouth shut?"
"Who would you even ask? George Clooney? Chris Pratt?" She looked so excited, I was worried she was going to hyperventilate.
"I wish. But they're both married. I don't know… I don't know anybody I could ask." My mind racing a hundred miles a minute, I stared out the window at the tiny, pretty backyard of the house I'd saved and planned for.
What I needed was a body. A hot, handsome, strapping male body. I needed a showstopper of a guy to redirect the press. A super-hot guy who would do exactly what I said. I was pretty sure that didn't exist in real life, but this was Hollywood, and sometimes illusions seemed real here.
