But she could do a smoky eye better than anyone I knew and I needed to look amazing tonight.

“You’ll have to tell me all the details,” she said. “I bet he’s a total freak in bed. Celebrities always are. I heard one story about that former child actor, Don What’s-his-name, who has his bodyguard pick up women at clubs and take them back to a hotel suite. When they get there, they have to sign an NDA, then they have to shave off all their body hair before they can even go into the bedroom, where he’s lying on the bed wearing headphones. They can’t say anything, they just have to hop on and fuck him while facing away. When he’s done, they leave. No talking at all.”

I would have dismissed that story as another one of Jo’s bullshit “secrets of Hollywood” except I’d heard exactly the same thing from someone who didn’t even know Jo.

“I don’t think there will be any story to tell,” I said. “I’m not his type.”

She rolled her eyes. “Guys like that aren’t having sex with you because they’re attracted to you,” she said. “They do it because they can. Because they know you want it. And that’s what gets them off. Their type is anyone who can stroke their ego. And they care way more about that getting stroked than their dick.”

I knew that if I said “Gabe’s not like that,” she would have laughed me out of the apartment. Because though I did believe it, I also knew it was ridiculous. Even after spending several hours together, I didn’t know Gabe. He was an assignment. And a performer. There was no way I could truly trust anything he said to me.

“Is he picking you up?” Jo asked.

“Someone is picking me up,” I said.

When I’d texted Gabe last night, I’d tried to be cool and casual about it.

If the offer stands, I’d love to see Oliver’s new movie, I’d written.

He’d texted me back almost immediately saying he’d make it happen. Then I was put in contact with someone named Debbie at his agent’s office, who had told me that a car would be coming to my house to get me at six.

“Hmm,” Jo said, her face contorted into an exaggerated frown.

“What?”

“Maybe this is just for the interview,” she said. “Maybe it’s not a date.”

I hadn’t thought it was a date—he was Gabe Parker, after all—but I also hadn’t thought of it as a continuation of the interview.

“Or, you might not even see him,” Jo said. “Maybe he thought you’d write something nice if he got you tickets to the premiere.”