"Get off me!" she says.

"C'mon," I say, kissing her cheek again, and then her forehead, basking in joking moments like these as the only chance I have to kiss Suzanne. Like our father, she is uncomfortable with most physical affection whereas I inherited my mother's cuddly gene. "You adore your little sister. That's why you're here! Admit it!"

"Nope," she says. "I came here for two reasons…"

"Oh yeah?" I say. "For Drake and what else?"

"To baby-sit your cheatin' ass," she says, chucking a pillow at my head. "That's what else."

She is clearly joking, but it is still the last bit of incentive I need to change into my nightgown, select a club sandwich from the room-service menu, and call my husband.

"Hey, honey," Andy says. "You guys having a good time?"

"Very," I say, thinking how nice-and somehow cozy-his voice is.

He asks me what I'm doing and I tell him that we're just staying in and talking.

"So you're not picking up any guys?" he says.

"C'mon," I say, feeling a pang of guilt as I recall the smell of liquor on Leo's breath and the lingering look he gave me before he left the bar. I picture him now, sipping a margarita somewhere nearby.

"That's my girl," Andy says, yawning. "Love you."

I smile and tell Andy I love him, too.

"Enough to get me that autograph?"

"Not that much," I say. And then think-But definitely enough to forgo that guacamole and the man who will later fall asleep in Room 612.

fifteen

Sometime in the middle of the night I am awakened by the sound of my own voice and a dream of Leo so graphic that I feel flustered-nearly embarrassed-a tough feat when you're lying alone in the dark. As I listen to Suzanne softly snoring in her bed, I catch my breath and slowly play back all the vivid details-the silhouette of his broad shoulders flexing over me; his hands between my legs; his mouth on my neck; and that first slow stroke inside me.

I bite down hard on my lip, alert and tingling with the knowledge that he is just one floor above me in a bed just like this one, perhaps dreaming of the very same thing, maybe even wide awake and wishing it were happening. Just as I am.

It would be so easy, I think. All I would have to do is reach over for the phone, call Room 612 and whisper: Can I come see you?

And he would say, Yes, baby. Come now.

I know he would tell me to come. I know because of this assignment tomorrow-the very fact that we are both here in L.A. staying at the same hotel. I know because of that unmistakable look he gave me in the bar, a look that even Suzanne couldn't miss. But most of all, I know because of how good we once felt together. Despite how much I try to deny it and ignore it or focus only on the way things ended, I know what was there. He must remember it, too.

I close my eyes, my heart racing with something close to fear, as I picture getting out of bed, silently stealing through the halls, finding Leo's door and knocking once, just as he knocked on my hotel door during our jury duty so long ago. I can clearly see Leo waiting for me on the other side, unshaven and sleepy-eyed, leading me to his bed, slowly undressing me.

Once under the covers, there would be no discussion of why we broke up or the past eight years or anything or anyone else. There would be no words at all. Just the sounds of us breathing, kissing, fucking.

I tell myself that it wouldn't really count. Not when I'm this far from home. Not in the very middle of the night. I tell myself that it would only be the blurry continuation of a dream too satisfying and too real to resist.

When I wake up again several hours later, sun is streaming through the window, and Suzanne is already shuffling around the room, tidying her belongings and mine as she watches the muted television.

"Holy eastern exposure," I groan.

"I know," she says, looking up from her bag of toiletries. "We forgot to shut the blinds."

"We forgot to take Advil, too," I say, squinting from the throbbing sensation in my left temple and a dose of guilt and regret that is evocative of the walk of shame in college-the morning after alcohol and loud music and the veil of nighttime induced you to kiss someone you might not have otherwise even talked to. I reassure myself that this is not the same thing at all. Nothing happened last night. I had a dream. That is all. Dreams sometimes-often-mean absolutely nothing. Once, when I was in the adolescent throes of braces-tightening torture, I had an appallingly provocative dream about my orthodontist, a balding, nondescript soccer dad of a guy, who was the father of a classmate to boot. And I can guarantee that I didn't want Dr. Popovich on any, even subconscious, level.

Yet, deep down, I know that this dream didn't come from nowhere. And more significantly, I know that the problem isn't the dream per se. It was the way I felt afterward, once awake. It is the way I still feel now.

I sit up and stretch, feeling better just getting out of a horizontal position. Then, once out of bed altogether, I shift into professional, efficient mode, even adopting a crisp, businesslike tone with Suzanne. I cannot afford to indulge in ridiculous, misguided fantasies when I have a huge, career-defining shoot in front of me. In my great mentor Frank's words, It's show time.

But hours later, after I've completed a thorough battery check and equipment inventory, reviewed my notes, phoned my freelance assistant to confirm our schedule, and triple-checked with the manager of the diner that she is indeed closing for two hours as per Drake's camp's request, I am in the shower, under very hot water, still brooding over Leo. Wishing I had packed cuter clothes for the shoot. Contemplating just how awful I would feel if I had called him last night. Wondering whether it just might have been worth it-and then berating myself for even thinking such a terrible thing.

At some point, Suzanne interrupts my thoughts, shouting through a thick cloud of steam, "Are you alive in there?"

"Yeah," I say tersely, remembering how, as a teenager, she'd often pick the lock with a bobby pin and barge right into the bathroom during my only alone time in our cramped ranch.

"Are you nervous or just really dirty?" she asks me now, as she wipes down the mirror with a towel and sets about brushing her teeth.

I turn the water off and wring out my hair, as I admit that, yes, I am nervous. But I do not confess that the real reason for my nerves has very little to do with photographing Drake.

It is surreal, the sight of them together, talking earnestly over a burger (Leo's) and a Greek salad (Drake's). For a moment, I lose myself, taking in all the details. I observe that their hair is the same dark brown hue, but while Drake is sporting a five o'clock shadow and longish, slightly greasy hair, Leo is clean-shaven, nearly conservative in comparison. Both are wearing plain black T-shirts, but Leo's appears to be a Gap staple, and Drake's is more trendy and form fitting (and likely five times more expensive). He has also heavily accessorized the look with a silver hoop earring, several rings, and his trademark amber-colored glasses.

More than their dress or appearance, though, I am riveted by the placid, relaxed mood of their table. To Leo's credit, Drake looks unguarded, even engrossed by questions he's undoubtedly answered a thousand times, and Leo looks to be at complete, sexy ease. I note that he has ditched what used to be his standard yellow pad in favor of a small silver tape recorder which he has set up discretely beside the salt-and-pepper kiosk. In fact, but for the recorder and the sheer knowledge that Drake is Drake, there would be no way to discern that an interview is in the works. Even the grungy-but-still-ultra-fashionable posse whom I presume to be Drake's entourage is keeping a respectful distance near the counter, further kudos to Leo; I've seen public relations types swarm around celebrities far less famous with interviewers far more accredited, playing watchdog against inane or inappropriate questions. Clearly the pack has determined that Leo is a solid guy-or at least a solid journalist.

"Damn," Suzanne whispers as she stares. "What a strong face he has."

I nod, even though I know we are not looking at the same man, basking for one final second in Leo.

Then I say, "Okay. Let's get to work," and begin unloading my equipment, surveying various backgrounds, and searching for the source of the best natural light. "Try to act like an assistant, would ya?"

"Right-o," she says, as the manager of the diner, a squat woman named Rosa whose current giddiness belies her deep frown lines, asks if she can get us anything for at least the third time since ushering us into her diner. I have the sense that today is a highlight of her career, something we have in common-although only one of us has an 8 ? 10 glossy shot of Drake and black Sharpie ready to go.

I tell Rosa no thank you, and she presses with, "Not even a water or coffee?"

I am too jittery for caffeine, so accept her offer of water while Suzanne pipes up with an unabashed request for a strawberry milkshake.

"Super. We're famous for our milkshakes," Rosa says proudly and scurries to put in the order.

I give my sister a disapproving, but mildly amused, look.

She shrugs. "What can I tell ya? I work best with a sugar buzz. Don't you want to get the best out of your people?"

I roll my eyes, relieved to discover that my real assistant, a fresh-faced youth named Justin, has arrived with some larger lights and other rental equipment too cumbersome to fly with. After introducing ourselves and briefly chatting, I point out the shots that I think are best, then ask for his input, which seems to please him. His delight, in turn, makes me feel like the old pro and gives me a needed boost of confidence. Justin agrees with my assessment on background and lighting, adds one idea of his own, and the two of us get down to the nitty-gritty of setting up, taking light-meter reads, and snapping a couple of test sets. Meanwhile, Suzanne makes a feeble showing of helpfulness while doing her best to eavesdrop on the interview.