As we move about the small diner, I can't help overhearing an occasional question from Leo, and a few inspiring snippets from Drake until finally, Justin and I are ready to go. I glance at my watch, discovering that we are ahead of schedule, and feel relaxed for the first time all day-maybe even all week.

Until I hear Leo say my name, that is, and I turn around to find him and Drake watching me expectantly.

"C'mere," Leo beckons as if we're the oldest of pals, and he has just run into the third friend in our once inseparable triumvirate.

My heart skips a beat-for so many reasons. Or at least two.

"Holy shit. He's looking right at you," Suzanne mumbles behind her milkshake. And then-"Whatever you do, don't trip over those cords."

I take a deep breath, give myself a final little pep talk and, feeling grateful that I don't work in heels, stroll over to the table where several of Drake's staffers are now hovering.

Leo looks past them, as if they're invisible, and says to me, "Hey, Ellen."

"Hi, Leo," I say.

"Have a seat," he says, as I think deja vu. Although upon further thought, the exchange actually is the same as yesterday's-which means it's not deja vu. Enough mental rambling, I think as I take Leo's side of the booth. He moves over, but only barely, so that we are close enough to hold hands if we were so inclined.

"Ellen, this is Drake Watters. Drake, meet my good friend Ellen," Leo says in what is another surreal moment. I simply can't believe that I'm being introduced to Drake-and that Leo is making the introduction.

I instinctively start to extend my hand, but then remember what Frank once told me about how germ phobic many A-listers are, so I give Drake a respectful nod instead.

"Hello, Drake," I say, my heart racing.

"Very nice to meet you, Ellen," he says in his lyrical South African accent. He looks every bit as cool as I thought he would, yet at the same time, there is something surprisingly unflashy, even understated, about him.

"Nice to meet you, too," I say, stopping with that, as I recall another bit of advice from Frank: that a death knell for a photographer is to bore a celebrity subject with obsequious chatter. Not that anything springs to mind anyway, except for: I was, like, totally deflowered to that one song of yours. Although true, I know I would never in a million years utter such a ridiculous thing, yet I still feel mildly concerned that I might-the verbal equivalent of fearing that you will, for no reason at all, hurl yourself off a balcony at the mall.

At this point, one handler type rubs his palms together indicating that there will be no further small talk. "You're Ellen Dempsey?" he says, also in a South African accent, but a clunkier one than Drake's.

"Yes," I say, fleetingly wishing that I changed my professional name when Andy and I married.

"You have fifteen minutes to shoot," another handler instructs me, somewhat condescendingly.

"No problem," I say, then turn my gaze back to Drake. "Shall we get started?"

"Sure," he says, nodding just as a rock star should-all loosey-goosey, cool. "Where do you want me?"

I point to a booth behind ours, switching into auto-pilot. There is no time left for jitters. "Right over there," I instruct him. "Just slide in toward the window, please. And could you take your cup of tea with you? I'd like it in the foreground."

"Great," Drake says, winking. "I wasn't done with it, anyway."

As he slides out of the booth, I catch Leo giving me a look that can only be described as fond. I flash him a small, sincere-nearly fond-smile in return.

"Break a leg," he whispers, looking up at me.

I pause, getting sucked into his eyes. Then, against my better judgment, I say, "Wait for me?"

Leo smiles. "Was planning on it. You can't shake me that easily."

I smile again as it suddenly occurs to me that I will not be able to hide Leo's connection to the story forever. Andy and Margot will see his byline. Everyone will. Our names will be printed together, along with Drake's, all on the very same page. But as I pick up my camera, I tell myself that this day might just be worth a little bit of trouble.

The next fifteen minutes are a high-adrenaline blur of snapping ninety-four photos while giving Drake a steady stream of monotone instruction: Sit here, stand there, a little to the left, chin up a bit, small smile, no smile, half-smile, hand on your mug, hand on the table, hands on your lap, look out the window, look over my shoulder, look right at me. Then: Okay. That's it. Thank you, Drake.

And I'm done. Blissfully done. And the best, most euphoric part is that I know I have my one, great shot. I always know when I have my shot-and today I am even more certain than usual. Drake, with just the right amount of natural light behind him, creating almost a soft halo effect; red booth contrasting with black shirt and white mug; strong lines of the table, window, and Drake's own bone structure. Perfection.

"Thank you, Ellen Dempsey," Drake says, smiling. "That was painless."

I smile-no, beam-back at him, memorizing the way he makes my most ordinary name sound like a line of a poem, one of his songs. I am on an absolute physical, emotional high.

Then, after Drake is whisked off by his people, and Justin has packed up our equipment, and Rosa has prominently displayed her signed headshot next to the cash register, and Suzanne has hunkered down at the counter to sample a chocolate malt, I am finally alone with Leo in the back of the diner, leaning against a wall, looking into his eyes, once again.

sixteen

So? How do you feel?" Leo asks me, holding my gaze like a magnetic field.

His open-ended question makes me feel lightheaded, and I can't help wondering if he's being intentionally vague.

"About the shoot?" I say.

"Sure," he says attentively. "About the shoot. About anything."

I look up at him, feeling tempted to confess that I'm positively exhilarated. That I've never had such a thrilling hour of work-and rarely felt the sort of pure chemical attraction that I am experiencing now. That I know I told him that I didn't want to be friends, but can't stand the thought of shutting down that possibility completely. That although I'm happily married, I feel a strange bond to him and don't want this to be it between us, forever.

But of course I say none of this, for more reasons than one. Instead, I give him a blase smile and say that I'm pretty sure I got some decent shots. "So don't worry… my photos won't water down your interview too much."

He laughs and says, "Good. 'Cause I've been really concerned about that. Ever since I called your agent I've been thinking, 'Shit. She's gonna ruin my piece.' "

I smile, a little too flirtatiously, and he smiles back in the same vein. After a highly charged ten seconds pass, I ask if he got some good stuff.

Leo nods, patting the tape recorder in his back pocket. "Yeah. I wasn't sure what to expect… I'd heard that he was a pretty nice guy-friendly, open, personable… but you just don't know what mood you'll walk into… I guess you know how that is, right?"

I nod. "Resistant subjects are never a good time… although surly and moody can sometimes photograph better than you'd think."

Leo takes one step toward me. "I guess it's all about chemistry," he says suggestively.

"Yeah," I say feeling a ridiculous smile spread across my face. "Chemistry is important."

Another bloated moment passes before Leo asks, so casually and breezily that it becomes pointed, what I'm doing later. It is a question I've considered a dozen times today, wishing that we had one more night at the Beverly Wilshire, while simultaneously feeling relieved that I have an e-ticket to save me from myself.

"I'm headed back to New York," I say.

"Oh," he says as something around his eyes falls just a bit. "What time's your flight?"

"I'm on the nine-thirty red-eye," I say.

"Oh. That's too bad," he says, glancing at his watch.

I make a noncommittal sound, calculating the time I have left in L.A. Searching for a plausible way to spend some of it with Leo, rather than my sister, who is still making herself scarce at the counter.

"So I can't convince you to stick around for another night?" Leo says.

I hesitate, casting about for a solution. A way to stay in town while keeping things above board. But then I conjure Andy's smile, his dimples, his clear blue eyes, and have no choice but to say, "No… I really need to get back."

There simply is no way to tread these dangerous waters.

"I understand," Leo says quickly, seeming to read between the lines. He glances down to adjust the strap on his kelly green messenger bag-a brighter color than I'd expect of Leo-as I find myself wondering whether it was a gift; how beautiful the woman who gave it to him is; whether they're still together.

He looks up and winks playfully. "That's cool," he says. "We'll just hang out the next time we're in L.A. doing a feature on Drake."

"Right," I say, struggling to outdo his sarcasm with a bold line of my own. "We'll hang out the next time you dump me, then run into me years later, then reel me back in with an assignment of a lifetime…"

Leo looks startled. "What are you talking about?"

"Which part is unclear?" I say, smiling to soften my somewhat confrontational question.

"I didn't dump you," he says.