I used to work at Giorgio Armani in Beverly Hills as a “VIP Entertainment PR intern,” a glorified title for an unpaid assistant where we pushed around and folded clothes worth more than our life savings. Celebrities came in everyday for fittings and while I understood fashion, I did not follow Hollywood and its trappings. One day someone named “Ian Somerhalder” was in the book and I spent two minutes searching him up on IMDB before he came in. It was my job to offer him bottled water on a silver Armani Casa platter when he arrived and tell him my supervisor would be right out to greet him. Most of the time celebrities accepted the water or simply declined. Ian asked me for coffee. I started to panic in the break room and tried to cobble up a cup of coffee with the non-Armani Casa mugs we used in the office. There was no cream or milk, which made sense (who the hell drinks office coffee when you’re in within 20 yards of a coffee shop and skinny fashion queens just don’t do lactose). I brought the hideous mug and packets of sugar with the silver platter over to Ian where my supervisor was already talking to him. “Sorry, we don’t have milk or cream,” I said. They stopped chatting and Ian looked me dead in the eyes. “That’s okay. I like my coffee black - just like my deep, dark soul.” Was that an inside joke? He must have thought I was fangirling over him prior to his arrival, but I had never seen an episode of Vampire Diaries in my life. Nevertheless he completely lost me in his soul crushing, crystal blue eyes. I was never into the vampire thing, but I couldn’t deny he was hot as hell. All I could muster was, “Thank you.” I was immediately mortified and the side eye from my supervisor made me wish I could forget about the day’s event as soon as it happened. I laughed cheesily, awkwardly handed him the coffee, and backed the hell out of there. That moment still makes me cringe.