The woman gazes at me with utter astonishment.
I talk on because my mouth won’t stop. “Duh, of course you’re not. Otherwise you wouldn’t be driving around in that fancy car. Hold on. How do you know who I am?” The surprise of seeing someone who so resembles me knocked that first and very pertinent question clear out of my head. I take another step back.
“You are Grace Reed?” says the woman again.
“Gracie,” I correct before my voice trails off. I know that face because—it suddenly clicks—this is Wei Fangli.
Wei Fangli, Chinese A-list movie star, is in my neighborhood. I should have recognized her except it’s so shocking she would be here, talking to me on my street, that I didn’t connect this woman with the celebrity at all.
Wait, Wei Fangli is here and knows my name?
She glances up and down the street. “Will you get in the car?” she asks. “I want to speak with you.”
“No, I don’t think so.” I take a last step back until the branches of a pine tree brush my head. Why would Wei Fangli be in a residential Toronto neighborhood? I look around and confirm it’s not a reality show and there are no cameras filming this interaction.
“Please.”
“How about you come out here?” A compromise, because I’m a little curious.
She’s considering this when a hand shoots out to touch her elbow. The hand is attached to a black-blazered arm connected to a man leaning forward.
Even in sunglasses, he is so incandescently beautiful that he shorts out my brain. He’s Asian, with jet-black hair falling over his forehead, a narrow nose, and a jawline with an angle sharp enough to measure with a protractor. Although he’s sitting, I can tell he’s lean with broad shoulders. His handsomeness renders me literally unable to speak, and I get a bit panicked before resentment sets in. How dare he look so good? Someone that attractive should have a little horn they toot to prepare normals like me for their arrival. Despite the shades, he’s also unnervingly familiar, but where would I have met a man like this? Nowhere but dreams.
He ducks back into the car before I can place him, and the two talk in low voices. Fangli finally stretches one leg to the ground, foot shod in a delicate high-heeled sandal that might snap under her weight. That shoe probably cost a month in rent.
How could I ever think she was my doppelg?nger? Wei Fangli is flawless. She moves like a dancer and her posture is so perfect I feel my own chin lift in response as I try to straighten my back.
“As I said, I have a proposal for you,” she says, hovering in the car door. “I’d prefer privacy. Please get into the car. This will only take a few minutes.”
Why do I follow her into the car? Do I have a death wish? I might, but right now I’m also very sick of being Gracie Reed and doing normal, safe Gracie Reed things. Whatever happens now will at least be different, and after today, I want that desperately.
When I climb in, the car’s interior blows my mind. Two sets of pale leather seats face each other, separated by a shelf with bottles of water and a minibar. A breath of Chanel No. 5 lingers but I can’t tell if it’s from Fangli or the car itself. Beside me is the man, and after I sit down, I take a good look at his face, trying to keep my composure as I do. He recedes back into the shadows of the car as if removing himself from the conversation.
Like, this man is unreal and his lips are…wow. Despite the improbability of this entire situation, I’m laser-focused on them. They’re the Platonic ideal of lips and match the high cheekbones and jet eyebrows that form perfect straight slashes. Then he takes off the sunglasses. Dark eyes taper to lines at the corners and those lips turn down in a frown as he glances at me. There’s a feeling akin to the moment when the roller coaster finally dips after teetering at the top of the hill as I tumble from familiarity to recognition.
Sam Yao, the Sexiest Man in the World (officially, as named by Celebrity magazine last year), is sitting dourly in the seat next to me.
I’m in a car with Wei Fangli and Sam Yao. Even I know—through Mom’s magazines but whatever—that this is Chinese cinema’s golden dyad. And they want something from me.
“Why am I here?” I ask. I should probably be scared at this point, but there’s something about sitting in a luxurious SUV that takes off some of the edge. If I’d been stuffed into a white van or something, I’d be way more stressed.
“You know who we are?” Fangli asks.
“I know who you look like,” I say.
“I really am Wei Fangli.” She has an unexpected North American accent. “Would you like to make some money?”
I scoot back against the car seat. “Oh, wow. Right, this was not what I expected. I’m flattered and I am very pro–sex work but that’s not really my bag.”
Sam snorts. “You think we want to have sex with you?”
He’s clearly mocking me, but hearing him say the words sex with you is enough to send my imagination into overdrive.
“No?” When I manage to speak, I don’t even know the right answer. My work angst has been replaced by a new and unusual torment—being stupidly tongue-tied in the presence of fame.
Why did Fangli want me to get into the car?
Then she flashes me a photo on her phone and I see the reason. “This is you,” she says. It’s not a question.
The phone screen shows me ducking behind a muffin. “Possibly,” I say cautiously. I don’t know where this is going.
“This, too.”
This time I’m peeking from around the muffin and under the brim of my hat like I’m checking for ghosts, and there’s no point denying it. “Some guy took a bunch of photos.”
She points to the photo credit. “I know. They thought you were me, and social media is now wondering about my new bran diet. At least your hair is covered by the hat so I don’t have to worry about explaining a pixie cut.”
“I’m sorry.” Why am I apologizing for my own hair? “I mean, I was getting coffee. I didn’t tell him I was you.” Hopefully this reassures her that it wasn’t my intention to impersonate her.
Fangli laughs. “Of course not. His name is Mikey and he specializes in trying to get candid but embarrassing photos. The other paparazzi don’t respect him, but he makes a lot of money doing what he does and it got me thinking.”
Sam interrupts. “This is confidential and if you sell this to the media, you will regret it.”
I stare at him, totally nonplussed. “Is this an improv scene? Are you playing the over-the-top villain?”
“Think of how quickly we found you.”
Hot or not, he’s being a dick and I don’t like it. Not-Starstruck Gracie roars back and hip checks Nice Gracie out of the way. I glare at him with the pent-up anger I haven’t been able to release all day. “Screw you, buddy. I’m not the one asking for favors here, in case you haven’t noticed.”
This sparks a spirited argument between Fangli and Sam. I don’t speak Mandarin so the fight is indecipherable to me, and I take a moment to get my bearings. I am in a luxury vehicle with two actors, one of whom looks enough like me to be a little freaky.
Here I admit my secret shame. You know how there’s always a celebrity that you’ll blushingly deny you look like, but you secretly think you do look like, at least after a couple drinks when you’re looking in the bathroom mirror in dim light with your hair a certain way?
Once in a while, someone who knows Chinese cinema will mention that I resemble Wei Fangli, and on my supergood days, my spectacular days, from specific angles, I think maybe I do. It’s nice to get some external validation.
Fangli delivers what must be a devastating verbal blow because Sam slams back in the seat and crosses his arms as he very melodramatically gazes out the window. She stares at him and then turns to me.
“Sam is protective,” she explains.