Suddenly the once-absurd possibility that something could actually happen between us didn’t feel so absurd, after all.

My phone buzzed.

You can bring your tape recorder if you want.

The text was followed by a winky face.

That winky face threw a dash of cold water on my flickering hope.

Because I had completely forgotten about the article. The whole reason Gabe was speaking to me in the first place. Obviously, he wanted me to come over so he could dazzle me with another element of his glamorous life. Which I would then put in the Broad Sheets piece.

They had said I would be getting unprecedented access.

If he had wanted to make a move, he would have made it last night. He wouldn’t have disappeared in a haze of smoke and Jell-O shots just when things were getting good.

Right?

I looked at my phone, weighing my options.

After last night, I had more than enough to use in my article. I couldn’t talk about Ollie—about how homophobia had blocked him from getting Bond—but I could talk about his friendship with Gabe. About how there were no hard feelings. I could make it believable, and that would help Gabe. Would help his image.

It probably would be unprofessional to go to the party tonight.

But it had definitely been unprofessional to invite myself to a premiere and then go to a gay club where I ended up a hairsbreadth away from being blackout drunk.

What time? I asked Gabe.

Instead of working on my article—which was due that week—I spent the next several hours trying to get over my hangover while preparing for Gabe’s party.

I didn’t ask Jo for help.

I didn’t know what to wear to a gathering at a Hollywood star’s house. I didn’t know what the vibe would be. I was pretty sure it was going to be intense—plenty of beautiful people, a bunch of famous actors, and, probably, lots of drugs.

Eventually, I settled on a pair of jeans that Jeremy had once said made my ass look incredible and a top that was maybe a touch tighter than I usually would have worn. I checked myself out in the mirror, while also practicing how to graciously turn down the cocaine I assumed I’d be offered.

“No thanks,” I said to my reflection with a toss of my hair. “I’m already totally high.”

Was that even the correct terminology?

“I’m good,” I tried again. “I’m high on life.”

I shook my head.

“You’re ridiculous,” I told myself. “No one is going to waste cocaine on you.”

I hoped that was true.