“It made my day.”
When I passed him on the street, he asked for change with polite cheer, a sweet lab mix sitting by his side. Though the man wore an incongruous bow tie, his clothes were threadbare. But his dog was clean, with a makeshift coat draped over her. When you’re homeless, rain and cold are your nemeses. June in San Francisco is surprisingly cool, with a fierce wind. He needed my coat more than I did. I try to donate to as many charities as I can, usually focusing on at-risk youth and the homeless. I might not be able to save all those kids I met years ago in foster homes and the streets, but I can do some small part to help now. But even with my huge movie paychecks, it never seems to be enough.
The smile Olivia bestows on me is a gift.
I tip my head to Joe in greeting. Olivia adds two large muffins bursting with blueberries in a carrier bag.
“I also threw in some treats for Lady and some water,” she says as she hands the bag to the homeless man. “We missed you last week. We worry when you don’t come in for a while.”
“Lady thanks you, and so do I.” The man gives a courtly bow before leaving the shop, the door jingling behind him.
“That was nice of you,” Olivia comments as she wanders back toward the table. “Joe and Lady have been fixtures on this block for as long as I can remember. We try to watch out for him, and he watches out for us. I wish I could help him more. I’ve tried over the years to get him into shelters, but he says he prefers the streets, and I think he fears they’ll separate him from his dog. She’s his only family now.”
Olivia stands next to her recently vacated seat, as if she can’t decide whether to sit back down with me.
I want nothing more than to drink coffee all morning, watching her kind, expressive face as she tells me all the things I already know about her, and all the things left to learn. But the light is glowing in the windows. It’s only a matter of minutes before customers fill the shop.
Besides, there’s the whole stalker thing—and me not wanting to be more of one than I already am. It’s ironic how the tables have turned since I’m usually the one being stalked.
I stand, pulling a pair of shades out of my pocket.
“Your disguise?”
I flash my smile that breaks hearts. I don’t want her to remember me as the star who complained about being famous. I’d rather leave her thinking I’m a cocky asshole than some whiny, overprivileged celebrity.
“I’m a ninja. A ghost. I could be a spy.”
“You’re a real badass, superstar,” she says dryly.
“Thanks for the coffee and the, um, conversation.” I shift my weight from one leg to the other. Real smooth, James.
“So, this is goodbye.” It’s neither a question nor a statement; it just is. She offers her hand.
I wrap my large one around hers, engulfing her warm fingers. I don’t shake her hand. Instead, I just hold it, reveling in her soft skin and the electricity that flows between us. I lightly brush the inside of her palm with my fingers and take in the heat of her, the hitch of her breath.
It makes it that much harder to walk away, but I need to do it. It’s the right thing. This is goodbye.
Laughter sounds outside the café, breaking the connection between us.
I lean into her and tell myself I’m doing this for her, for this unexpectedly shy girl to understand beyond any doubt that she’s desirable. Remington may have rejected her, but Chase James is going to give her the kiss she deserves. At least, that’s what I tell myself.
But the truth is, it’s selfish. I’ve dreamed about this moment for years of sleepless nights. I want her lips on mine more than my last breath. She’s my best friend. My everything.
Her mouth opens in surprise as I move toward her. I touch her cheek and let my fingers follow a path down her face to her chin. When I reach that soft curve, I tilt her head up. Our eyes meet. Hers are confused. I pause for a moment, asking silently.
She leans closer, as if magnetized, and I let that be my yes.
Lips brush lips in a touch that’s as electric as it is gentle. It’s meant to be soft and swift, but she stands on her tiptoes and melts into me. Her full breasts against my chest make me ache. I trace her face with my hands, then I smooth her hair back, following the line down to her braid, which I tug on, as I’ve wanted to do all morning.
At that light tug, she makes a small sound, something between a squeak of surprise and a groan of longing. The kiss deepens into something frantic, our mouths seeking each other with quiet desperation. It’s hot and wild, and it leaves me breathless. The door jingles again. That damn door. We break apart, panting, in the middle of the cheerful café.
Voices filter to us. Being discovered by fans or the paparazzi in a coffee shop would be bad enough. Being discovered in a lip-lock with Olivia would be a disaster. I try to get my body under control.
She touches her lips, looking shell-shocked. “Why did you…” She shakes her head. “Why me?”
“Because you’re perfect, and you don’t even know it,” I say. I don’t tell her the whole truth. She’s perfect for me. I want her to understand before I leave, but there isn’t enough time.
“Goodbye.” It’s all there is to say, my voice rough with unexpected emotion.
“Goodbye,” she whispers back, her finger still on her lips.
Not see you later, like last time.
This time, it’s goodbye.
CHAPTER 11
Olivia
It’s been two days since The Kiss, and my mind is still a mess.
When I should’ve been getting ready for work this morning, I snuggled under the covers, replaying The Kiss. And earlier when I was working in the café, I should’ve been concentrating on taking people’s coffee orders, but my mind was one-tenth on remembering their skinny caramel macchiato and nine-tenths on The Kiss.
Even now, sitting at the bookshop’s customer service desk, I keep replaying it over and over in my brain.
Let’s be real; nothing can compete with The Kiss. I’m worried that I’ll be stuck forever in this daydream of lust and pointless longing. This is just a fantasy. It’s not as if I’ll ever see Chase James again. An international movie star coming into my empty café two mornings in a row is just a weird and wacky coincidence. His kiss meant nothing. The guy probably kisses girls all the time.
I don’t follow the tabloids carefully, but I’ve seen enough covers at the checkout line to know that this heartthrob isn’t a stranger to women. I remember reading that he even dated Avery Woods. The Avery Woods! And there’s his costar, who everyone believes is his secret love. Perhaps, in between those ridiculously beautiful ladies, he goes around making random, average women swoon by kissing them stupid. That’s the only explanation I can muster.
There’s no way he likes me. I’m not saying I’m a troll or anything. I’m kind. I’m smart. My hair, my best feature, is sort of nice—long and black and shiny. I have a truly kick-ass collection of records featuring everything from classical to blues to ’80s pop. And I’m a loyal friend, even if I don’t have many of them.
I’m just not the kind of girl who inspires movie-star kisses. That’s reserved for magical unicorn girls who sing in sold-out stadiums and star in blockbuster movies, who are waif-thin and classically beautiful, who skip the bread, go to the gym daily, and are no strangers to the red carpet.
I’m not that girl.
Just saying.
I’m entirely ordinary. But maybe he kisses ordinary girls as a matter of course to keep his fan base happy. It’s fan outreach, similar to posting on social media.
Speaking of social media…
I drum my fingers on the desk, debating. It’s a slow time at the store, so I’m editing Audrey’s blog post on great beach reads. Instead of wrapping up the article, I let my fingers wander, pulling up a search engine and typing the words Chase James.