At the time, though, I only said, "She's out of everyone's league.  She's a perfect fucking angel, but a girl's still gotta date." 

Anton just curled his lip.  "I bet he doesn't even need to wear those glasses.  And the douchebag called me his fucking bruh."  He snorted.  "Bruh.  I bet he uses the word hella." 

That made me laugh, because I'm a little bit evil (on a good day), but I quickly stifled it.  "Just be nice.  Jesus.  If I can pull myself together and be pleasant for a day, so can you."    

"I don't even think they're dating," Farrah added helpfully from the front seat.  "They're just friends.  She likes to hang out with him.  Kind of like you two." 

That seemed to improve Anton's mood dramatically, but again, I still didn't catch the significance.  

"And us," Mitch added. 

Farrah gave him one of those looks you can only give to a lover who has just said something that offended you.  "Not like us.  We have sex.  Sometimes." 

I saw Mitch's baffled expression in the rearview and it almost made me laugh. 

"You guys aren't sleeping together?" he asked either Anton or me or I guess both of us. 

At that I did laugh.  Maybe I should have been offended at such a personal question, but I knew he wasn't trying to be rude.  He was genuinely shocked.  

Anton was smiling and shaking his head as he answered, "Not at all."

"Like ever?" Mitch seemed unconvinced. 

"Never," I added.  "We're literally just friends.  So un-L.A. it hurts." 

"Dude," Mitch said, and it was definitely directed at Anton. 

"Dude, I know," Anton shot back, still grinning. 

Farrah and I looked at each other and rolled our eyes.  "Relax, bruhs," I said, mocking them.  "You don't need to feel sorry for Anton.  He gets around plenty.  Just not with me." 

"Dude," Mitch commiserated again.

Whatever.  I gave up.  Men were from Mars, and Mars was stupid.   

The reason for our beach day wasn't just to get my depressed ass out of the house on our time off.  It was also an ongoing PR project for Anton, whose publicist insisted that he be seen more at all of the 'spots.'  His show was building a steady and loyal following, and every time he showed the world how hot he was off the set, it invariably got them a boost of viewers.  And on a beach day, where he could show off the killer body he worked his ass off to perfect, the rewards would undoubtedly be tenfold.   

We were only too happy to help him.  It was, after all, exposure for each one of us.  We'd all gotten roles, albeit small ones, from opportune TMZ moments. 

These little outings used to be fun for me.  The attention.  The potential exposure.  The hope of being discovered.   

Not anymore.  I played the game, acted the part, but the crushing weight of reality was too oppressive for me now.  Growing up, when fame had been my dream and I'd envisioned a future in Hollywood, it'd been all about doors opening and directors fawning over my incomparable talent and beauty. 

The reality was nothing like that, and it felt as though the magic was gone.  I was broke, nowhere near famous, and I sure as hell wasn't having a good time.  

Still, for whatever reason, I hadn't yet given up.  Likely because I was too cursed stubborn.

I spotted a few paparazzi camped out at the entrance to the beach as we were still parking.  "Did your publicist call them, or is this a coincidence?" I asked Anton. 

He looked annoyed even with his sponsored shades covering his eyes.  "I told her what I was doing, so I'm sure she called." 

He seemed salty about it.  "It's all part of the job," I reminded him.  Small price to pay for the world to know your name, as far as I was concerned. 

"I know, I know," he said, already shrugging out of his shirt.  "You mind playing it up with me?  The photographers always love it when we're affectionate."

I grinned wickedly, all too ready to play that role for anyone that cared to watch, in particular my oldest stalker.  "It will be my pleasure."  I was glad I'd worn makeup, dressed scantily, and had brought a spare pair of killer heels for the short walk from the car to the sand.  I was decked out in metallic hues, head to toe, and it brought out the new gold ombré color in my hair. 

I was ready for my close-up.

I waited for Anton to come around and open my door because it made for better pictures.  I let him pull me from the car and up into a brief press of our bodies. 

I giggled gamely when he kissed me on the neck, my hands stroking intimately over his hair, playing with his little man-bun like it was foreplay, then let him lead me with a familiar arm wrapped cozily around my waist, his big hand on my stomach. 

I gave the paparazzi my warmest smile when they called out for Anton.  Hell, they even called my name.  That's how long and how much we hung out together. 

"When will you finally make an honest woman of her?" one of them called, all good humor.  We'd been encouraging on again off again rumors for years. 

We laughed on cue.  "Who says she'll have me?" Anton called back, flashing his perfect white teeth. 

"Who says he's up to the challenge?" I said. 

They got a kick out of the banter, laughing with us as one of them got it all on video, another snapping pictures of us and our entire entourage.