Star-Crossed Letters (Falling for Famous #1)(19)

I punch in the amount, and the register opens. I count his change, doing an awkward exchange of money with him. Our hands brush again, and this time, I don’t think it’s my fault. His fingers trail over mine as he takes the change. His touch is electric.

He drops the bills I gave him into the tip jar.

“That’s too much. You don’t need to—”

The rest of my words die in my throat because he flashes me a smile that feels like a promise. It’s a smile in slow motion, beginning in his eyes and moving to his mouth. A tilt of his lips, a quarter smile, a half-smile, then the twinkle in his eyes. Next come the quirk of laugh lines, the slash of a manly dimple, and finally, a full grin.

And just like that, I’m his forever. Only as a fan, of course. Because he’s Chase James, movie star. There’s not any possibility of anything more.





CHAPTER 10





Chase



I change my mind with each step that slams into the pavement.

I should. I shouldn’t. I will. I won’t.

The right thing would be to run back to my hotel and stay the fuck away from Olivia. But I keep pushing myself in a rhythm as steady as my thoughts are chaotic, letting my legs carry me farther and farther from my hotel, until I find myself in front of her café once again.

Sweat drips down my back. Cold air rasps through my lungs. The light is just a promise in the foggy morning, weak as my faltering will. I swore that yesterday would be the first and only time I’d visit her. Yet here I am again.

I’m a shadow in the dark as I watch her, bright and glowing, through the café window. Inside, she shimmies as she fills a row of containers with sugar packets.

This is wrong. I shouldn’t be here, in front of her shop. I shouldn’t even be in San Francisco. I came to make sure she was okay, and she is. She isn’t lying in a hospital bed or a ditch somewhere. She ghosted me, not because she was hurt or in danger, but because she doesn’t want to talk to me anymore, and I don’t blame her after our last messages. Which means being here is all kinds of creepy.

Stepping away from the warm scene inside, I turn in the opposite direction, determined to leave her and head back to my empty hotel room. My feet are anchors now, but I have to walk away. For good. Forever.

“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.