“Daughter of David Briggs, only the most powerful producer in Hollywood. Won the Golden Globe last year for playing the plucky paraplegic Olympian? Dated George Clooney, Leo DiCaprio, and Orlando Bloom? Katie Briggs.”

“Oh. That Katie Briggs,” he said. Only this time it was his turn to be sarcastic.

“You really never heard of her?”

“I don’t go to the movies much.”

“And apparently you don’t read my column either.”

“Not until now,” he said, gesturing to the screen. “So, you think Katie could be your mystery caller?”

“Anything’s possible. Any one of them could. Though, I gotta say, the whole macho threat thing feels more like Blain’s style.” I paused. “Please tell me you know who Blain Hall is.”

Cal nodded. “I listen to the radio. Okay, so any one of them could have done it. Let’s start at the top and work our way down. This Katie chick, how can we get hold of her?”

“Well, most people,” I started, opening up my address book, “would have to call her publicist and either wait for a comment or promise their firstborn for an interview between shoots.”

“I have a feeling you’re not most people.”

“You’re not as dumb as you look, Cal.”

“Ouch.”

Instantly, I regretted the comment. Okay, so it was awkward, annoying, and painfully limiting having a brawny babysitter following my every move. But he was just doing his job. To be fair, the situation wasn’t Cal’s fault any more than it was mine.

“I didn’t mean it that way,” I quickly said. “Sorry.”

“Wow,” he answered.

“ ‘Wow’?”

“‘Sorry.’ I have a hunch that’s not a word you utter very often. I’m feeling kinda special right now.” He grinned. And his eyes were definitely laughing again.

I cleared my throat. “Anyway, back to Katie. It just so happens that I have a close, personal friend at her hairdresser’s.”

Cal raised an eyebrow. “Close personal friend?”

“Not that kind of personal. He’s gay.”

“Ah.”

“And chatty.”

“Let me guess, that’s where you got all this dirt on Katie’s love life?”

“Hey, people will tell their hairdressers just about anything. It’s crazy.”

He glanced at my own purple locks.

“Some people,” I quickly added.

He nodded. “Uh huh. So, this hairdresser guy, he can get us access to Katie?”

I nodded. “No sweat. Her new movie comes out next month, and she’s in the salon daily for touch-ups during promo. All I have to do is find out what time her appointment today is and—” I paused, narrowing my eyes at the hulk of man sitting on the edge of my desk. “Wait, what do you mean ‘us’?”

“Us. From the German Gothic uns. Plural form of I. I’m sure you’re familiar with the word.”

“There is no plural ‘I.’”

“There is now.”