Star-Crossed Letters (Falling for Famous #1)(32)

He breaks the spell by stepping away and wanders over to three typewriters sitting in an orderly row on one of the floor-to-ceiling shelves that line the wall. He presses a key, then shoots me a glance. “Typewriters?”

“My mom was a writer, and she always wrote on a typewriter. She hated computers.” I don’t mention that she was a famous writer, a name most Americans would recognize immediately, even if they hadn’t actually read a word she’d written.

“At one time, we had about ten typewriters. These are the last of them.” I think about Remington. What would he say if I told him about Chase James being in my house? About the unexpected kiss?

I look down and spread my hands. “I don’t know why I told you all that. I babble when I get nervous.”

He frowns. “I wanted to know. I asked you about them, didn’t I? Why are you nervous around me?”

“Are you kidding?” I laugh self-consciously. “I have a movie star in my living room, and we’re talking about typewriters. It’s been a weird night. And maybe an even weirder morning.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “Could you ever see me as a regular guy, not a movie star?” he asks tightly, as if he’s not really sure he wants to know the answer.

“Let’s face it, you’ll never be just a regular guy, even if you weren’t famous. You’re ridiculously beautiful.” I slap a hand over my mouth. “Oh shit. Did I just say that out loud?” There’s a five-alarm fire of a blush happening on my face.

He leans down so close that I can see golden flecks in his eyes. “You can’t call a guy beautiful.” His low rasp sends tingles down my spine. “And I’m glad you told me a little about your family. I wanted to know.”

I try to ignore the feel of his breath against my cheek. I want to touch him. I want him to touch me. To kiss me. Everything about him draws me in, so I step away on shaky legs before I’m nothing but a pile of want at his feet.

I still don’t understand why he’s here. Why he’s interested. “It’s just… You ask a lot of questions. That’s not a critique. But you can’t possibly be that intrigued by my life.”

“Why do you say that?”

I wave at him. “Because you’re—”

“Don’t say it again. Don’t say ‘Chase James’ like that.”

I shrug. “But you are.”

“And you’re a beautiful girl who I was damn lucky to kiss one morning.”

Holy shit. “I thought you’d forgotten that.”

“Did you forget it?”

“No! Of course not.”

“Then why would I?”

“Because you’re yo—”

“I know, I know. Back to that again. Because I’m Chase James.” He sighs and looks out the window. “Can you pretend that I’m just some guy named Chase with a normal job?”

“Like a pizza maker? Or an orthodontist?”

One corner of his mouth turns up. “Or a hat salesman.”

I think for a moment. “Maybe an elevator repairman.”

“A basket weaver,” he suggests.

I pretend to consider it. Then shake my head. “Nah. Can’t do it. You’re a star. Even if you never make another movie, it’s embedded in your DNA and very hard to ignore.”

“Stubborn girl.” But the way he says it is like an endearment.

“Coffee!” I exclaim in desperation before I throw myself into his arms. With my heartbeat on accelerate, I wander into the kitchen in a daze. I say some calming mantras in my head, but that doesn’t work either, so I pull out the tin with coffee in it and fill the well of the coffeemaker with water. The familiar action settles me a bit.

The normally bright and cheery kitchen is still a little dim, so I turn on a light. We never had the money to update the wood counters or the ancient appliances, but I’m glad. Everything is familiar, worn with years of love, from the blue-and-yellow curtains that Nanna said reminded her of a summer in Provence to the sunshine yellow walls I painted myself.

Chase is standing tall, again taking in every inch of the room with an odd intensity. My house couldn’t be more opposite from glamorous Hollywood. But then again, I never did believe all that glitters is gold. Tarnish adds character.

We don’t talk as the coffee brews, but it’s not awkward now. There’s ease in this quiet. When the coffee is ready, I pour him a cup.

“This is the way you like it, right? Black?”

He smiles. “You remember.”

“You can take the girl out of the barista, but not the barista out of the girl, or something like that.”

We take our coffee to the living room and sit on the couch together, watching as the morning sun moves a little higher and the streets begin to fill. I try not stare at him too awkwardly as we make idle chitchat. Mostly, he asks me questions and I answer the best I can, while trying to think of questions for him that don’t feel too intrusive to his well-guarded privacy. But under our words there’s an intensity, a weight, the silent refrain that this is goodbye.

I savor every glance he gives me, every smile, every gesture, storing them up so I can take them out when I’m old and gray and need something romantic to remember, when I want to think of the day I had a superstar’s eyes lingering on me as if I was someone special.