Star-Crossed Letters (Falling for Famous #1)(21)

“This shop is great.”

She looks around, as if she’s enjoying seeing the store through my eyes. “I love it here. I love imagining all the people who have come through its doors over the years. All their stories, the lives they’ve lived, and all the stories that live within the pages of the books we sell.” She shrugs and gives a self-deprecating laugh. “Sorry, I don’t mean to get carried away. I guess you could say I’m a bookworm.”

“I am too,” I admit with a grin, our eyes meeting, holding.

“I’m not sure I believe you.”

“Actors can read too,” I tease.

“Sorry. I don’t mean to sound like a jerk. It’s just that you must be so busy. I can’t imagine you have spare time.”

“There’s a surprising amount of downtime on set and between projects. Being on location can get boring and a little lonely. Reading helps.”

“You?” She arches an eyebrow. “Lonely?”

“Sometimes.” I shift in my seat. “I’ve always loved books. Believe it or not, I was at a library when I was first scouted. I was hanging out on the steps reading when an agent walked by, saw me, and handed me his card. At first, I thought it was bullshit, but a modeling gig led to a TV commercial, which led to a part in a small movie, which led to The Wanderers. But it all started at a library.”

I don’t tell her that libraries were a haven for me when I was a homeless teen. They’re warm in the winter, cool in the summer, dry in the rain, and a free way to escape to other worlds.

“What’s your favorite book?” she asks, taking a sip of coffee.

I’m focused on her lips, so it takes a few seconds to break my gaze enough to concentrate on her question. “I have too many to name just one. But when I was young, it was The Catcher in the Rye. The only teacher who ever believed in me gave me a copy. I read it so many times, it eventually fell apart.”

“I have a friend who loves that book.”

Shit. I forgot to be on my guard. Of course, she knows that’s one of Remington’s favorite books, which is why this was such a bad idea.

“I can imagine. It’s a bit of a cliché for a guy to like that book,” I say, playing it casual. “What’s your favorite?” I deflect.

She laughs. “Guess.”

I run my hand along my chin. Another moral dilemma. I already know her favorite. Or at least, I know Typewriter Girl’s favorite.

“Is it by Jane Austen? Or maybe you’re a Hemingway girl. Or Edith Wharton?” I ask, knowing they’re all wrong.

“I do love Edith Wharton, but no.”

“I give up,” I say with a grin.

“It’s not really one book. It’s a series. Encyclopedia Brown,” she says with a laugh. “I was obsessed. Do you remember them?” she asks.

My lips curve into a smile. “Boy detective. I loved trying to solve the mysteries.”

“Right?” she says. “I fell in love with mysteries. Then, I got into Nancy Drew, The Hardy Boys, Sherlock Holmes, Agatha Christie, but it all started with Encyclopedia Brown.”

I watch, fascinated, as her face loses any speck of self-consciousness while she discusses her favorite books.

She blushes when she realizes how closely I’m observing her.

A honking horn and a yell sound from the street, and I jerk back, pushing up my hoodie. It’s getting busier outside our little oasis.

My eyes meet Olivia’s concerned gaze. A wrinkle forms between her brows. “It must be weird to always be worried about being recognized.”

It’s a classic Typewriter Girl observation. This is her, seeking, curious, looking under the surface of things to what’s below. This is my one chance to get a little closer to the truth with her, as I never could before. But I’m not used to sharing my feelings, especially on this. It’s hard to explain the effects of my celebrity without sounding like an ungrateful, entitled jerk.

“I’m sorry. That’s another intrusive question,” she says, misinterpreting my silence. “You can ignore me. I’m way more awkward than I need to be.”

“No. It’s fine.” I look up, trying to come up with words that ring true.

I lean toward her, speaking with a soft intensity that belies the fact that we’ve only just met, at least for her. There’s so little time left to explore this connection between us.

“My life is ridiculous. A dichotomy of privilege and constraint. I live on the edges of things. I enter through back doors and sneak out the same way. I dress to keep people from seeing me.” I gesture to my hood. “I get whisked to places in a dark car with tinted windows and then swept away again.”

Another car horn honks. Sunlight filters in brighter now. The day has awakened. At any moment, someone will walk through the door and break the peace.

“But you’re here, sipping coffee in a café.”

I want to inhale her sweet sincerity.

“Yes, just after dawn in an empty café. I can’t do this in half an hour. Hell, in five minutes, it will probably be too late. Three months ago, I tried to go to a bar in New York City. Someone tweeted that I was there, and thirty minutes later, a stampede of people was trying to get in. They had to call the police.” I shake my head. “That was the last time I tried to do something normal like that, to be someone normal.”