“Wait! We’re open!”
I whip back, and there she is in the doorway, out of breath and blushing. My Typewriter Girl. My best friend for years. The girl I know better than anyone and whose name I only just learned last week. Olivia.
Would I have noticed her if we met by chance? With her black fall of hair and her pale, serious face, she’s the opposite of the LA girls who usually surround me. Her body is more lush than thin. She’s pretty, but in a librarian-next-door way. Shier than I imagined.
In our letters and texts, Typewriter Girl has a bold confidence and a wicked sense of humor that can eviscerate me with a few sentences. She is wise and knows exactly who she is, with no apology. In contrast, the girl standing before me seems uncertain and has trouble meeting my eyes.
She holds the door open, flips the sign from Closed to Open, and gifts me a timid smile.
“Are you here for coffee?” she asks. Today, she’s wearing a gray shirt that brings out the color of her eyes and a pair of black jeans that skim over her curves. I’m thankful she hasn’t put on the jaunty yellow apron she wore yesterday that hides her body.
I stand there like an idiot. Her presence does that. She shifts under my intense scrutiny, adjusting her midnight bangs. She tilts her head, opening the door a little farther in silent question, and bites her bottom lip, which makes me want to take a nip at it as well.
Is she bashful because I’m famous, or has she, like me, hidden more of herself than she let on in the letters? The girl I always considered to be an open book is turning out to be more mysterious. It’s wrong, but at this moment, the need to find out if she’s the same person I thought I knew is a compulsion.
She stops when she gets to the counter. “Up early for a morning run?” she asks, taking in my athletic pants, my damp hair, and the trickle of sweat that runs down my neck.
I shrug. “I like the streets when they’re quiet.” This is the truth, at least. Otherwise, I’m running, not just to keep in shape, but to get away from a crowd of fans.
She nods. “A large brewed coffee again?” She holds up the pot. Her hand shakes, the coffee sloshing from side to side.
She sets down the pot when she sees I notice the shaking, and I avert my eyes so as not to embarrass her. I hate that she’s nervous. Typewriter Girl was always comfortable with me, to the point of glibness. I spend my life surrounded by varying levels of deferential and fawning. Our relationship had been free of those constraints.
I want that connection I had with the girl behind the screen. I long to peel away the layers of us to get a glimpse of the real her before I walk away for good.
“Can I have a mug for here?” I ask, with a nod to the large cup of coffee on the counter, which I assume is hers.
Her eyes widen in surprise, but she grabs a turquoise mug from a shelf behind her. She pours the coffee and pauses to look up as it nears the top. I nod, and she keeps pouring until the coffee reaches the brim.
She pushes the cup toward me. “Anything else?”
I shake my head.
When I pay, she takes my money and gives me back my change, and just like yesterday, our fingers brush, igniting a spark. She yanks her hand back as if burned. I put the money in the tip jar and consider her.
“Actually, I would like something else.”
I’m already breaking the rules. I might as well go all in.
“I knew you couldn’t resist the buns. No one can.”
My mouth quirks. “I’m tempted,” I murmur. “But not today.”
I’m as nervous as a teenager asking a girl out for the first time. “Sit with me if you have a few minutes.” I incline my head toward the empty tables in the restaurant and hold up my cup. “I hate drinking alone.”
Her hand freezes on the register. Startled eyes meet mine. Again, slight pink tints the cream of her skin. I want to make her blush daily. Hourly. Always.
Her eyes widen as she stares at my face, and I can see the fangirl glaze to her eyes. It isn’t fair for me to judge her. My fame freaks everyone out. But I don’t want her to be everyone. I want her to be my sweet, snarky best friend who makes me feel like a real person, not some caricature of a celebrity.
“You want to have coffee? With me?” she squeaks. “Aren’t you busy? Are you making a movie in San Francisco?” she asks, looking down into her coffee as she says the word movie, like a dirty secret.
The one girl who liked me for me, and not my fame, is now asking about my movie schedule with a starstruck look in her eyes.
It’s a thousand times fucked up that I’m jealous of Chase James. When Chase James is…me. This is getting complicated. This is why I should never have come.
I run my hand through my hair in frustration and clasp the back of my neck, massaging the tight muscles bunching there.
I must have waited a beat too long to answer because Olivia frowns.
“Never mind. I shouldn’t have asked. It’s your business.”
“No, it’s fine. I’m here for some meetings.” I evade, guilty now. None of this is her fault. I’m to blame for making a mess of everything. “I’m staying at the Heights.”
She shifts her feet and tilts her head with a hesitant smile of her own. It’s small, but it gives me hope that maybe—just maybe—we can have a normal conversation.
“The Heights, huh? Pretty fancy. Don’t they have coffee?”
I’m sure they do. The small boutique hotel is world-famous for its history, discreet service, and wealthy guests. But I chose it not for those attributes, but because it’s one of the few hotels near here.
I meet her eyes. “Not like yours.” And there’s her blush again. I want to explore how far it goes down her body.
I walk to the nearest table. “Will you sit with me?” I ask again.
She looks around the empty café. “I’m supposed to be prepping for the morning rush, but…”
“Please,” I say. It would be ironic if the one time I want to get to know a woman, she blows me off. What good is the dubious title of Sexiest Man Alive if I can’t gain the attention of the only girl I want?
Olivia’s confused gaze meets my hopeful one, and my heart flips over. Her beauty isn’t flashy, but she has a fresh-faced loveliness that’s riveting to me. A long black braid falls over one shoulder, her straight bangs framing the deep gray of her eyes. If she’s wearing makeup, I can’t tell.
She nods and comes out from behind the counter, mug in hand, and pulls out the chair opposite me. I don’t even realize I’ve been holding my breath until it whooshes out of me at her assent.
“So,” I say when she’s seated.
Since becoming famous, I’ve rarely needed to work at conversation with women. They throw themselves at me with no effort on my part. As a result, I find I have no game. As Remington, I have a thousand things to say to her. But as Chase James, it’s all blank.
“Sooo,” she says, drumming her fingers against her coffee cup. She makes a slow show of taking a sip.
“How long have you worked here?” I ask a little desperately. I already have the answer, but at least it fills the silence.
“Melody, the former owner, hired me when I was fifteen, and I’ve been working here ever since,” she says, warming to her subject as I hoped she would. “I live in the neighborhood and worked my way through high school and college here. When Melody passed away a few years ago, Audrey, her niece, inherited the bookshop.”
Her eyes shine with mischief. “Melody was a big fan of the first Wanderers. She would’ve freaked out that you’re here.”