“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.
“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.”