I didn't need it. I wasn't even hungry. But there I was anyway, peering into a box of hot, handmade delicacies from Earl's, a bakery so close to the Sexy Hair offices that the donuts were still warm.

"You are totally making my three mile run this morning worthless, Jennifer."

"Not worthless," she mumbled around a mouthful of sweet pastry. "You created a calorie deficit. Now you can fill it."

"With a donut." I'd have to run three miles a day and subsist on nothing but apples and celery to even come close to the body Jen maintained on a steady diet of carbs and sugar. "You are a freak of nature," I told her, as I pointed to some weird concoction in the corner. It was golden and glazed and calling my name. "What is that thing?"

"It's a Cronut. A cross between a croissant and a donut. They're all the rage on the east coast. You've never heard of them?"

"I try not to tempt myself with things I shouldn't eat. Did I mention you're evil?"

Jen reached into the box with a napkin, plucked the Cronut from the corner and set it on a paper plate. "It's Friday. Have something delicious. Are you ready for our 9AM?"

"Mmmhm... mmmm!"  I moaned as the buttery, sweet pastry practically melted in my mouth. "I just need to drop by my desk to pick up my notes. My God this is sinful!"

I crammed the rest of the Cronut into my mouth and walked out of the break room, away from that box of donuts, to my desk. I picked up my notes and my file on my current project, Sexy LA, and headed to the conference room. I fell into step with my boss, Ian, Marketing Director for Sexy Hair. The newest line was gaining a lot of momentum. It was my job to keep that ball rolling.

"Hey, how was the show last night?" I knew he would ask. My emotional breakdown on the day that Prince died was office legend by now and everyone was trying to make me feel better, either by bringing me purple things, or objects with Prince's likeness on them or gifting me tickets to see a cover band do a sad rendition of Raspberry Beret when I would have rather been home with my dog listening to it on Dolby Surround Sound.

"It wasn't bad," I lied. "It was nice to hear his music live. Thanks again for the ticket."

"And The XPerience got their product?"

I nodded, slipping into the seat next to Ian. "Yep. I crossed everything off with Ross. They'll start using the lines, posting pictures to Instagram, Twitter and Facebook, tagging our account, really talking it up. I have regular chats scheduled and they've agreed to do some video testimonials."

Ian swiveled his chair back and forth, the tip of his pen between his teeth. This was his thinking pose. "Are you sure we don't want to look at them first? Do some editing? They're not using professional stylists, so I'm worried about what their hair is actually going to look like."

"We picked them because they already have great hair. And the point of Sexy LA is that you don't have to be a stylist to use our lines. I met a guy last night that-" I stopped myself. Cold, mid-sentence, already knowing I didn't want to get into my brief conversation with JC last night. Already knowing I was too far in to backtrack.

"You met a guy last night?" Jen walked in, a fresh donut on a paper plate sitting right in front of her.   

I rolled my chair back far enough to grab a few bottles of water from the stocked cooler. I rolled back to the table and slid one to Ian and Jen, and then to our website copy editor, who'd just walked in as well.

"You were saying?" Jen prodded. I cut my eyes at her and gave her two stern shakes of my head. I would have been willing to talk about JC with just her, but I had an audience and I felt... awkward.

But then it felt like the whole room was watching, waiting for my answer. The sooner I got it over with, the sooner we could move on. "I met a guy last night that uses the product. His hair looked great and he's not a stylist. That's... all I meant."

"How great?" Asked Jen, before biting into the donut. "Maybe we can use him."

"Really great. He has thick, wavy, dark... just really nice hair-"

"Did you get his number? I'm serious, maybe we can use him."

"Well, he's... actually he was graying a little around the temple..."

"Ooh, like a distinguished graying?" Asked Ian. "Or like a really needs a dye job graying?"

"Doesn't matter," said Jen. "We can edit a little, right? He sounds cute. Did you get his number?"

"He's... not exactly a regular person."

"Not exactly a regular person. What does that mean?"

"He's...well..." I propped an elbow up onto the table and set my chin in my palm. "He's kind of a celebrity."

"Everyone in LA is kind of a celebrity. If he's not in the tabloids every day, I can use him. Does he do his own hair?"

"I guess... he said he used to use the Curly Sexy line." I twirled a pen between my fingers and chewed the heck out of my bottom lip. It was my nervous pose.

"Do we know this guy? Is he recognizable?"

"Highly.  It was JC Chasez."

Ian did more swiveling and pen chewing. "He might be obscure enough. He hasn't done anything lately."

"He's in a movie that was just at the LA Film Festival."

Ian rolled his eyes. "I mean anything that people might recognize him in."

"Topher Grace is in it. It opens this fall."

Jen stared, a single, perfectly arched eyebrow raised in curiosity. Ian stopped swiveling long enough to gaze quizzically in my direction.

"I... googled him. Last night. It's the first thing that pops up."

"Well..." Jen wiped her fingers on a napkin and tossed it toward the wastebasket near her. "I haven't seen him in a while, but if I remember right, he does have great hair.  He'd be a nice anchor endorsement for Sexy LA."

"But Sexy LA is supposed to be local, non-professionals using the product."

"If he doesn't stand behind a salon chair, he's not a professional."

"Well, I didn't get his number. Ross threw a fit about product for The XPerience and by the time I got that cleared up, he was gone."

"Oh, don't worry about that." Ian grinned, opening his MacBook, bringing up his contact database. "I know how to find him."

 >>||<<

"So. You want it?" Ian sauntered into my office and dropped into the chair across from my desk.

"Want what?"  I adjusted my glasses, pushing them up the bridge of my nose as my eyes flicked up to Ian and back to my computer screen. I was nearly finished with the update to my publicity plan for the Sexy LA campaign and our first endorsements. Unfortunately, Prince's sudden death meant The XPerience was a hot ticket. A hot ticket meant exposure and as sick as it was, that exposure was going to be our best friend.

"His number."

My fingers stopped moving. Slowly, my eyes crawled back up to Ian's face, which now bore a smug grin.  Between two fingers, he gripped a folded piece of paper.

"Who's number?"

"I hate when you play dumb. A certain pop star with great hair that you know too much about." Ian waived the slip of paper in the air. "I've got his number right here. Address, too if you're the stalking type."

I laughed, albeit nervously, and reached for the bottle of water I'd been trying to drink since our meeting an hour earlier. "I'm not the stalking type. But thanks. Isn't it against policy to hand out addresses and phone numbers for celebrities?"

Ian shrugged. "Special favors. I won't tell if you don't. So do you want it?"

I thought about it. I really did. I almost reached for it.

And then didn't.  "Thanks. It was nice meeting him, but..." I shrugged, shyly returning my attention to nearly finished brief. "You know how I feel about... people like him."'

"Celebrities? You said yourself he's only kind of a celebrity. You obviously liked him if you talked to him."

"We talked about hair, Ian. And Prince concerts. And yeah, I liked him enough, but he's a musician and-"

"He is hardly a musician."

"Pardon? Multi-platinum boy band. He writes and produces music, he plays piano and guitar and God knows what else. Musician."

"So your embargo on musicians and anyone related to the industry continues."

"Indefinitely."

"Lena..." Ian started, then I suppose he knew better than to even start. He pushed himself up from the chair. "So you're saying that if I leave this piece of paper on your desk that you'll set it on fire and probably chant his name while you utter some kind of career ending curse?"

"I'm fresh out of career ending curses. At the very least, I'll throw it away."

"Suit yourself," he chirped. Then dropped the small, folded slip of paper at the edge of my desk.

Where it sat. All day.

Until four o'clock, when I slipped it into my purse before I left my office for the day.