Breathe. Breathe. Damn, she couldn’t breathe. She blamed it on the industrial-strength shaping undergarment under the gauzy, floor-length, jade-colored gown she wore. How about those drinks, Mason had asked when he called the week before. But not drinks at a bar or restaurant. Mason Cooke was taking her to the Golden Globes. “There’s a bar there,” he said. Like she needed some motivation to attend with him besides the fact that it would be the most exciting event of her life. Mason’s publicist called, and then Miri’s agent, and then Mason’s studio’s stylist was knocking at her door with a truck full of designer gowns. There had been a week of fittings, consultations, hurried calls from Mason checking that everything was going okay. She had dreamed of him every night, drawing heavily on her memories from the set. She didn’t dream about Mason’s character raping her though. She dreamed about Mason kissing her hard, pressing against her and holding her down. Not in violence, but in passion.
