Star-Crossed Letters (Falling for Famous #1)(20)

“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.”

I shake my head. “And you? Are you a fan?” The question just slips out. Damn, I sound as arrogant as Sebastian. But suddenly, I’m dying to hear what she thinks of Chase James, the actor. Maybe it’s weird to think of myself in the third person like that, but the Hollywood version of me is a persona I put on, another part I play. Remington is closer to the real me than the movie star partying on a yacht or walking a red carpet.

“I-I don’t know you or your movies well enough to say. And that’s a rather forward question for a first coffee.” Her smile softens her words. “But I’m sure 99.9 percent of all girls would faint if you smiled at them, so stop fishing for compliments.”

There’s the sassy attitude I know so well.

Relief sweeps through me. She’s still Typewriter Girl, even when I’m Chase James.

I look around the shop. Old photos crossing decades clutter the walls. Beyond the small, bright room of the café is an arched doorway that leads into the darkened interior of the bookshop itself. It’s just light enough to make out leather chairs and shelves of books from floor to ceiling. There’s a feeling of history, of permanence.