Star-Crossed Letters (Falling for Famous #1)
Sarah Deeham
CHAPTER 1
Chase
To the new owner of my fabulous writing machine, If you’re reading this, it means you bought my grandmother’s typewriter. This old Remington may be worn, but it’s wonderful, as most worn things are. The A key sticks. Be gentle with the hard return. I’ll miss the soft K and the sound of those keys. Because I’m sentimental, I’m also giving you the first story I wrote on this. I wrote it twelve years ago, at the ancient age of eight. Save it as it may be worth money when I become a famous novelist. If you aren’t too busy, perhaps you could tell me how you and this Remington get along. You can write to me at the consignment shop where I sold my typewriter.
Sincerely,
Typewriter Girl
C/O Antiques Around the Corner
49 Cherry Blossom Lane
Noe Valley, San Francisco
It all started with a typewriter.
A vintage Remington, to be exact.
The therapist in my first and only session said to think of something that brings me peace in moments like this.
So as I sit in the back of the limo, trying not to freak the fuck out, I close my eyes, focus on my breath, and think of something good. I think of the typewriter. I think of that first letter. I think of her.
I’m not sure how long it takes. Seconds? Minutes? Time is marked only by the rhythm of my deep inhales and slow exhales. Eventually, my balled-up fists loosen, and the nausea begins to subside. I can’t put this off any longer, so I steel my jaw, swing open the door of the limo, and step out into the sticky New York City air.
A thundering wave of sound slams into me as three thousand people shout my name. A velvet rope holds the crowd back, barely. There are autograph peddlers and paparazzi, reporters and fans. All looking to take away some part of me to keep for themselves.
I blink against the flashes. Over the last several years of unfathomable fame, I’ve learned that the crowd has its own all-consuming energy.
A girl hurtles past the rope and grabs my coat.
“My God. It’s really you.” Tears stream down her face. Her words are a prayer, a benediction to the gods of celebrity.
My main bodyguard, Duncan, is there in half a second, prying the fan away. He’s always patient and ever watchful, a soldier in a suit with a buffed-up body and close-shaved head.
“He’s so hot. My ovaries are gonna explode!” a girl cries.
Duncan barks out a laugh. “Not the ovaries again. What is it with the ovaries?”
My lips quirk as humor wars with nerves.
“You ready?” Duncan asks, his face rearranging into its usual sternness, any expression of levity tucked away.
Four more oversize men surround me.
I nod. Over time, Duncan and I learned to communicate through looks and gestures, forming a secret language between us. He’s been my constant shadow since this insanity began. A wall of stoic muscle and steady confidence who comes between me and the world.
Up ahead, I see my costars already working the crowd for the premiere of the third movie in The Wanderers’ franchise. The small indie movie that launched my career was never meant to be a blockbuster. It was a time-traveler adventure that somehow struck celluloid gold, and I became an A-list movie star overnight.
I force myself forward, ignoring the sweat that crawls down my neck. I remind myself that most guys would kill to have thousands of girls screaming their names.
Making my way toward the red carpet, I stop to sign autographs and pose for selfies. I hate this part, but fans have been waiting for hours, some even days, camping out just to meet me. So I sign, and I smile.
Once my duty is done, I stride toward the protected space that separates me from them.
The star versus the crowd.
After all this time, I still can’t reconcile that this is my life. None of it makes sense because, in reality, I’m the opposite of special. Before, I was nothing but a statistic. A foster kid and runaway with shit luck—until that luck finally turned.
My phone buzzes, and I pull it out of my pocket.
It’s a text from her.
The crowd chants, “Chase, Chase, Chase.”
But the girl on my phone is the only one I’ll answer.
The only girl I want.
The only girl who really knows me.
And she doesn’t even know my name.
CHAPTER 2
Olivia
Dear Typewriter Girl,
I’m the new owner of your typewriter. After I read your letter, I wrote all night, thanks to the magic of the Remington—soft K and all. It unlocked words in me I didn’t even know were there. I liked your story, but I hope your spelling has improved in the last twelve years since you wrote it, and that you now use far fewer exclamation points. Since you sent me your first story typed on this machine, I’m sending you mine. Maybe you can write back and tell me more about yourself. But not too much. Sometimes a little mystery is good.
Sincerely yours,
Remington
PO Box 143
Malibu, California
It all started with a typewriter.
My grandmother’s typewriter, to be exact, when I sold it at my neighborhood antique store.
I typed that first letter on a whim and left it in the typewriter for the new owner to find. Then, the unexpected happened.
The new owner wrote back, which somehow sparked a five-year friendship I could never have imagined. For the first year, my mysterious pen pal sent me letters to Mr. Jensen’s antique store. I hoarded every one, rereading them over and over. And I wrote him, as well. Our words filled my lonely days.
Back then, I only had to walk into this antique store and hear the jingle of the bell to make my heart full of anticipation and hope, as if it were tethered to a helium balloon, wondering if there would be another letter from him waiting. The rising thrill when there was. The deflating disappointment when there wasn’t.
But today, five years later, there’s no buoyant rush when I walk into the shop. There are no letters anymore, at least not the typewritten kind. We’d switched to texts long ago.
So much has changed since that first letter. Yet the shop remains the same. The familiar cluttered surfaces of antiques and artifacts passed down through time. The fine layer of dust in the air that never quite dissipates, giving the afternoon light filtering through smudged windows an otherworldly character. As a child visiting the store with my grandmother, I’d twirl in that light-filled mist on our frequent visits, making up stories about the past lives of the furniture and jewelry, tchotchkes and treasures.
Now, Mr. Jensen sits at his long mahogany desk in the front of the shop as he always does, a welcoming smile on his weathered face.
“Olivia! I’ve missed you, my girl.”
“I was just here three weeks ago,” I remind him with a grin. I set a cardboard box on his desk with a loud thump and brush the bangs back from my eyes.
“Exactly. It’s been almost a month. You used to visit every day. But that was so you could collect correspondence from your beau, not chat with an old man.”
I shake my head, smiling at his grumping and choice of words. Beau. Correspondence. I’ve had this conversation with Mr. Jensen countless times. At almost eighty, his mind is like a record player stuck in a groove. But I play my part in our dialogue, as frayed and familiar as the items in his shop.
“He’s not my beau.” I wish. “He’s just a pen pal.” And I don’t even know his name.
“You two still writing?”
I blush. “We text now.”
He shakes his head in disapproval. “Texts. Bah. They don’t last. Now, letters are forever.” He turns his attention to the large box. His frown deepens the lines of his brow.
“More from home?”