So Pretty It Hurts

Details, wearing a three-thousand-dollar Gucci leather jacket.

We’d met almost two years ago, when he was bartending at a wedding I’d attended, something he’d done back then to supplement his income as a model and struggling actor. We had a flirtation over a number of months, and then finally fell into bed together this past September when he was shooting his show in New York. Our attraction had been intensified then because we’d shared a passion—finding the person who had killed his friend Tom Fain. But when Beau arrived back from Turkey, I’d been forced to make a torturous choice. In the end I’d picked Beau over Chris—not only because of my fierce attraction to Beau but also because of the inherent drawbacks of a relationship with Chris. For starters, he was ten years younger than me. And he was the new “It” boy, the kind of guy women everywhere would be trying to poach—right out from under my nose. I didn’t feel up to dealing with that on a daily basis.

I wondered if Chris would return my call if I left a message for him now—he had been pretty miffed when I’d told him about Beau. I wondered, in fact, if he even had the same cell phone number. The way his career was going, he’d probably already had to change it two or three times to keep the riffraff at bay.

So I was kind of shocked when, after I punched in the number I had for him, his voice announced, “It’s Chris, leave a message.”

“Hi, this is Bailey,” I said. “You’re probably less than thrilled to hear from me, but there’s something you could help me with, and I’m hoping you’ll return my call. Thanks.”

I left my number, too, just in case he’d angrily purged it from his phone.

Another shocker: he called back just fifteen minutes later, while I was brewing a cup of coffee in the kitchen.

“You’re probably the last person I was expecting to hear from today,” he said. “What’s up?”

“Thanks for calling back. I wasn’t sure if you would—you know, considering everything that happened.”

“Come on, Bailey. I can’t begin to repay you for what you did after Tom died. I wasn’t happy when I last saw you—but I still owe you.”

“I love your show, by the way. And you’re really terrific in it.”

“The hours are generally brutal, but needless to say, we’re stoked it’s a hit. So what exactly do you need my help on?”

He was being perfectly pleasant, but he was also making it clear he wasn’t interested in chitchatting with me.

“I’m working on the Devon Barr story—I’m sure you heard about her death. I desperately need information about the modeling business. I wouldn’t have bothered you but I’m in some serious hot water at work, and it could get worse.”

“If you don’t get the story, you mean?” he said. There was a trace of cynicism in his tone. Chris had never loved the fact that I worked for Buzz.

“I wish. But that’s not it at all. Devon Barr’s mother has accused me of trying to extort money from her. I’m trying to figure out why she’s saying that.”

There was a pause. Was he weighing my words? I wondered.

“I’m in the middle of something this afternoon, but I have to be uptown later for dinner with a producer,” he said. “It’s about a movie I could end up doing during our hiatus. I’ll have about thirty minutes before then; I could meet you somewhere. Are you at your office?”

“No, I’m at home. I’m persona non grata at Buzz for the moment. Can you meet me at the coffee shop in my building?” It didn’t seem smart to ask him to come to my apartment. He might take it the wrong way.

“Sure,” he said. He promised to be there at seven fifteen. That would give me time to reach Beau’s place by eight.

I felt even more keyed up when I disconnected. On top of everything else that was going on, the idea of seeing Chris again tightened the big fat knot in my tummy. He was funny and caring and absolutely gorgeous, and despite how crazy I was about Beau, I still felt a weird connection to Chris. When I watched his show, particularly the episode in which he’d kissed a murder victim’s grieving sister, it had been hard not to reminisce. I’d thought about his amazing body. And what it had been like to have that body next to me in bed.

Deep down, I wondered, did I have some ulterior motive for wanting to see him? I immediately chased that thought away. Chris was more familiar with the modeling business than anyone I knew.

At around five, as the sky was darkening, I phoned Nash, figuring it would be a good time to find him in his office. His assistant Lee, probably the oldest person at Buzz by about fifteen years, answered and asked me to hold. Though she was polite when I announced myself, I detected a trace of pity in her voice. There was no pity in Nash’s voice, however, when he finally came on.

“What’s up?” he asked, almost curtly. Not a good sign.

“I was just checking in, seeing if you’d learned anything.”

“About?”

“About why Devon’s mother made up that story about me.”

“It’s still being investigated,” he said.

“But how? Wouldn’t you want to see my cell phone records to prove I never called her? I can provide them.”

“I can’t go into specifics, Bailey. You must know that.”

As I hung up, I realized the cold, hard truth. He didn’t have faith in me. I’d busted my butt for him for over six months, breaking stories, generating buzz about Buzz, but he didn’t feel he really knew me or was sure he could trust me. My whole body suddenly felt like a big tub of Jell-O.

I tried to distract myself by jotting down a few questions to ask Chris. While I scribbled, trying to fight off a new groundswell of anxiety, Scott finally returned my call.

He started with the same curt “What’s up?” that Nash had snapped at me. Obviously a call from me these days was about as welcome as a rat sandwich.

“I’d love to grab a few minutes of your time,” I said. “Some details have emerged regarding the weekend that I think you ought to know about.”

“Such as?”

“Can we do it in person?” I said. “I could swing by and see you tomorrow?”

“Oh, I guess you Buzz reporters have to be concerned that your phones might be hacked by other tabloids,” he said sarcastically. Then a sigh. “All right. But I don’t want to meet at my office.” He suggested a place called Cafe Euro on Fifty-seventh and Seventh at eight the next morning.

I still had an hour to kill before Chris arrived, so I poured a glass of wine and took a steaming hot bath. Rather than helping, the mix of heat and alcohol only made me lightheaded and kick-started a headache that had been threatening all day. It also churned my thoughts up even more. What a big fat ugly awful mess I was in, I realized as I lay with my head back, staring at the flickering flame of the candle I’d lit. I began to wonder if Landon was right, that for the professional part of my problems, I needed a lawyer. But hiring a high-priced Manhattan attorney would seriously leach my savings.

No, I was going to have to clear my name with detective work, and that meant heading out to Pine Grove on Saturday. Certainly I wasn’t going to learn anything by confronting Sherrie Barr. She’d clam up fast, and if Nash found out I’d approached her, my ass would really be grass. Instead I’d have to play the spy and hopefully discover who Sherrie seemed closest to.

Of course, even when I proved I wasn’t guilty—and I would prove it—the revelation wouldn’t erase the fact that Nash had failed to trust me or lend me his support.

Though I’d promised myself I wouldn’t make any special effort for Chris’s visit, once I’d heaved myself out of the bath, it only made sense to change for the night—I’d be heading over to Beau’s place after Chris left, anyway. I threw on clean jeans, a navy blue V-neck cashmere sweater, and my riding boots. Nothing special, nothing that suggested I was harboring impure thoughts. Though I felt a twinge of guilt as I headed down to the coffee shop on the ground floor of my building.

Chris arrived right on time, and after a moment’s hesitation, I stood up halfway and we kissed each other on the cheek. His appearance caught me by surprise. On one level he looked the same: green eyes, thick brown hair, that beguiling cleft in his chin, great body. But there was a difference. He exuded a whole new level of confidence than when I’d last seen him. Not that Chris had ever been tentative, but he held the space around him now as if