I also ignored the slightly sick feeling in my gut (blaming too much honeycomb) if he didn't.

chapter ten.

After six days, twelve hours, and forty minutes, I acknowledged Drew Lansford was a fully paid-up, participating member of Jerks United.

Not that I waited by the phone. Okay, I admit it, I checked my cell's voice mail and messages rather frequently. Sad but true.

Between job interviews-and there'd been many-I'd turned into a partial recluse, heading out for essentials only: pints of Ben & Jerry's, Doritos, and Moonlight Mojito Mix, a weird premixed concoction that tasted like 7UP with zip. Gorging on comfort food wouldn't help my mood, but I needed something familiar in my topsy-turvy world.

Adding a top coat to my nails, I wiggled my toes, facing facts. Despite pawning almost everything and dipping into my nest egg-the size of a sparrow's-I'd nearly blown it all on living expenses. I needed a job pronto before my funds ran out.

Twelve interviews and two call-backs in the last week, not terribly inspiring considering I'd broadened my job search criteria. Along with the usual executive assistant applications, I'd taken the plunge and applied for a few publishing positions. Copyeditors mostly, but considering the publishers' lack of enthusiasm, Subway sandwich artist was starting to look good. I'd pinned my hopes on the call-backs. If they didn't work out, better get out my knife and loaf and start toasting.

The buzzer rang and my heart did a weird flip-flop, wishing Drew would drop by, before reality set in. If a guy didn't call for almost a week, the possibility of him visiting unannounced was as likely as Bergdorf's throwing out their Hermes bags at cost.

It pealed out again and I waddled to the intercom, not wanting to smudge my nails.

Rabidly antisocial, I stabbed at the intercom button. "Yeah?"

"Let me in, the wind out here would freeze the cojones off a brass monkey." Rita added a chimp imitation for good measure, earning a reluctant smile.

"Come on up."

I pressed the button to let Rita in, though my grouchiness hadn't improved at the sound of her voice. As much as I loved her I wasn't in the mood to hear about her budding relationship with Romeo Rama. She'd been trying to get me out all week, inviting me to join them for dinner at Nobu, drinks at Michu, skating at Central Park.

Politely declining, I'd cited a tummy bug, a migraine, and a twisted ankle. Guess she hadn't bought the last excuse when I'd used kickboxing with Jackie Chan as the reason. After I'd OD'd on rom-coms, action flicks were my change of pace. Besides, if I saw a hint of Hugh on the screen, I might throw the remote.

Zipping up my pink hoodie to hide a chocolate stain on the front of my grey T-shirt underneath, I opened the door.

"Hey. What brings you by?"

Rita's contemptuous glance flicked from the top of my lank hair to the bottoms of my frayed yoga pants before settling on my face, devoid of M.A.C. or Bobbi Brown all week.

"You look like shit," she said, breezing past me, leaving a cloud of Chanel No. 5 in her wake.

"Wish I could say the same." I tried not to turn Kermit-green as I noted a new ebony Prada suit with a cherry silk shell underneath, four-inch black Jimmy Choo pumps, and matching handbag. She looked incredible, glowing from the inside out, while I resembled washed-out slop.

Note to self: Rule number one in acting like all is right with the world: get dressed, wash hair, wear makeup. And no lies about kickboxing Jackie Chan.

Rita swept a pile of Inside Styles off the couch and wrinkled her nose at the two empty ice cream containers on the coffee table before perching precariously on the edge of the cushions as if she'd pick up couch cooties by getting comfy.

"What's going on with you?" She pinned me with a determined stare and before I could open my mouth to lie, she continued, "And save the bullshit. The truth, this time."

I wandered around the room, swiping at not-so-imaginary dust and tidying a stack of DVDs on the TV.

Rule number two: don't blow off best friend with lousy excuses. She only gets madder and swears at you.

"And sit down. That fiddling's driving me nuts."

Taking a deep breath, I plopped into a chair. "Nothing's wrong. I'm exhausted, what with the breakup-"

"That was four months ago."

I continued like she'd hadn't spoken, "-and flying halfway across the world to save your butt, then job-hunting like a maniac. It's caught up with me. I'm taking a break, having a little 'me' time."

By her doubtful expression, she didn't buy my excuses for a second. We'd been best friends too long. "It's got nothing to do with Drew?"

"'Course not." I thanked God for my olive complexion. A blush at this point would incriminate.

A triumphant glint lit her eyes. "Good. In that case, you're coming with me to Central Park."

Rule number three: be wary of clever accountant friends who are way smarter than stupid ex legal secretaries who consistently make wrong choices, especially concerning guys in their lives.

"Central Park?" I acted dumb-maybe the acting part wasn't so hard-knowing the park would be the last place I'd want to be if Drew was there.

"They're filming a few scenes. Should be a blast."

I shrugged, trying not to look triumphant. Getting out of this would be too easy. "Thanks, but I've already seen the real thing, remember? I saw them shooting in Bollywood and as interesting as it is I'm all 'filmed' out. But you go, you'll have a ball."

That should get rid of Miss Goody-Two-Choos.

"It wasn't an invitation, it's an order. You're coming. Be ready by two. I'll swing by and pick you up then."

Rule number four: smugness is not a good thing, particularly if victory isn't assured.

"But-"

"Talk to this," she said, holding up her hand as she waltzed out the door, spouting another of her talk-show sayings she knew I hated. At least this one sounded like an Ellen, marginally better than a Dr. Phil.

Cursing under my breath, I checked the time: 12:51. Great, I had just over an hour to do a major grease and overhaul. Who did Rita think I was, a Kardashian?

I didn't have a hair stylist, makeup artist, and clothes consultant on staff. I had a Remington ceramic straightener, an eclectic mix of Lancome, Lauder, M.A.C., L'Oreal, and Maybelline cosmetics, and a half-decent designer wardrobe, most residing in plastic suit bags because I'd been too lazy to get off my ass and unpack them.

As I bolted for the shower, I glanced at my watch. 12:52 Rule number five in acting like all is right with the world: when in doubt, improvise. They'll never know the difference.

By my skanky reflection in the bathroom mirror as I peeled off my day-old clothes-yeah, I'd slept in them, gross-I was about to pull off one hell of an improvisation.

"Have you ever seen anything like this?" Rita grabbed my arm, her face lighting with excitement as her head swiveled from the sixty-odd sari-clad dancers twirling in rhythm to the mock fistfight taking place a few paces away.

"Yeah, in Mumbai. Remember?"

As much as I pretended Rita bringing me here was a drag, I couldn't help but join in her enthusiasm. The minute I'd seen the dancers and inhaled the fragrant mix of greasepaint, sweat, and curry powder, I'd been instantly transported back to India and an unexpected wave of nostalgia swept over me.

Rita ignored my pithy tone. "It's so colorful. I watch these movies all the time but they run way too long and skip the sex. Bor-ing."

She'd said the same as we'd watched them almost nightly when I'd crashed at her place for three months. Raiding her stack of old Bollywood DVDs had been fun and a good distraction from my relationship woes. She would've rather grabbed the latest films from Netflix but I'd pulled the 'recently brokenhearted' excuse and she'd capitulated. Her cynical commentary had been annoying but I'd tuned out, captured by the glamour and performance. Nothing had diminished my enjoyment. I'd been virtually glued to the screen, hooked on the drama and tension and spectacle.

"Wait for the simulated rain. That gets the guys going."

She rolled her eyes. "Don't you think it's time Bollywood moved into the twenty-first century? No kissing, no bonking, just lots of fierce hugging and bees flying into flowers and spurting waterfalls. Real symbolic. Not."

I chuckled. "You obviously haven't seen some of the latest flicks-they're hot. Personally, I think there's nothing wrong with a bit of mystery. It's cute they're not so explicit. Hails back to the good old days of Hollywood."

"You're sounding more Indian than my mom. Mumbai made quite an impression on you."

Trust Rita to home in on my feelings. What was she, the New York version of Kapil?

I shrugged. "I guess."

She didn't buy my nonchalance for a second. "I'm your best friend, not some bimbo you can give the runaround to. You've changed."

I blinked back the sting of tears, knowing this wasn't the time or place to try and explain something I could hardly put into words myself.

Even though I'd taken steps to erase the past and secure my future, I couldn't help but feel a tad lost. I lived in a low-rent apartment, I job-searched. I should be happy. Why the persistent nagging I was missing out on something?

"I'm doing the best I can, okay? Lay off."

Rita's eyes widened in horror as she registered my tears. "Sorry, hun, didn't mean to-"

"You!"

Rita's words were cut off by a guy in a white salwar kameez bustling between us, his hands outstretched toward me, joined at the tips of his thumbs with fingers spread as he framed my face.

"You're perfect."

At last. A guy who recognized my true worth.

"Butt out, bozo," Rita said, her scathing glare capable of withering any guy, let alone one with corny opening lines.

He ignored her, his hands moving around my face while his head tilted from side to side, assessing all angles. "You'll do nicely."

His hand shot out and he grabbed my arm. "You'll be in my movie, yes? Come, get into costume. Stand in back row. Smile. Look perfect."

I should've shaken off his hand and given his skinny ass a swift kick, but he sounded serious. Plus he kept saying I was perfect.

"Where are my manners?" He released my arm to smack himself in the head in true dramatic Bollywood fashion. I wouldn't need to take part in his film if he kept up these theatrics-he could do it himself. "Let me introduce myself. I'm Pravin, the producer."

Rita snorted. "Of what? Phony lines to get women to notice you?"

Once again, he ignored Rita, who made stirring the pot signs behind his back. She may be trying to bait Pravin but he wasn't biting. Instead, he kept staring at me like he'd discovered the Indian equivalent of Jennifer Aniston, and I found it unnerving. Very unnerving, considering his head tilted every which way to get a look at my jawline, cheekbones, and side profile.

"I'm the biggest producer of Bollywood films in India. My credentials are impeccable. You want proof, yes?"

"That won't be necessary," I said, as Rita simultaneously blurted, "Yes."

He waved Rita away as if shooing a pesky fly. "What's your name?"

"Shari Jones."

The longer Pravin continued staring, the easier it was for me to imagine my name up in lights, twice as large as the Hollywood sign in California, and just as impressive. Chalk up another one to Kapil. Maybe his fame prediction wasn't far off?

Pravin nodded. "You'll be in my movie, Shari Jones. I speak to the boss man, he vouch for me, you sign contract, everything B-OK, as they say in New York?"

"I think he means A-OK," Rita said, a hint of a smile playing about her mouth. "And I think you've just been discovered."

"This is crazy," I muttered, torn between wanting to send Pravin packing and flattered he thought me movie material. As if my life wasn't strange enough.

Pravin took my hesitation as a sign of approval as he clapped his hands twice. "Good, good, all settled. You leave number, boss man contact you, everything A-OK."

He strode away, the white cotton hanging loosely on his lanky frame and pooling around his ankles, doing little to enhance his image as India's number one producer. Indian clothes tended to flatter but in Pravin's case he needed to eat a few more parathas or his tailor needed a new measuring tape.

Shaking my head, I glanced at Rita, whose smile could've been a shining ad for Colgate. "Aren't you going to say something?"

Chuckling, she slipped an arm around my shoulders and hugged me tight. "Welcome to show biz."

I expected Pravin's boss man to be some high-falooting executive producer who had the final say on newly discovered Bollywood stars and I assumed I'd never hear from him. I had that effect on guys, the standard "I'll call you" that never eventuated. Besides, how many people get discovered? Claudia Schiffer, maybe. Me? Like hell.

After a quick stop at the corner store where I bought fruit, veggies, and dairy to balance out the Moonlight Mix and ice cream, I headed home. Rakesh had waylaid Rita in Central Park and I'd been happy to leave the lovebirds alone, though I had to promise to have dinner with them tomorrow night before they let me go.

I'd put the groceries away when the buzzer sounded.

I pressed the intercom button. "Who is it?"

"Drew. Can I come up?"

I released the button as if it'd stung. What did he want? To waltz in here like not calling me had been an oversight?

I pressed the button again. "This isn't a good time."

"I know it's rude to drop around without calling first, but I really need to see you."

I nibbled on my bottom lip, torn between wanting to let him in and hear what he had to say and busting Bollywood Boy's balls.

The moment he'd showed up, the decision had been a no-brainer. Not that I'd make it easy for him.

"Shari, it's important."