“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.”
She looks concerned. I said too much. I want to bare my soul to a girl I’ve liked for years. But for her, she’s having an oddly serious conversation with a stranger she’s just met.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to get too deep. I understand how lucky I am.” I throw her my devil-may-care smile, trying to lighten the mood.
The door jingles as it opens. I adjust my hood. She turns to the new customers, and her expression brightens.
“Morning, Joe,” Olivia says with a broad smile that causes my breath to catch. She hops up from her chair and makes her way back behind the counter. “What are you in the mood for today?”
“One large coffee, and do you have any blueberry muffins?”
“We always have blueberry muffins for you.”
Olivia’s warm reply does something to my heart. The man is homeless. I saw him on my run over here earlier, huddled in the corner of a stoop with his dog. But Olivia treats him as a valued customer. People like her are rare, I know firsthand. But they make all the difference.
She pours a large, steaming cup of coffee and shoots me a look from under her lashes. She seems nervous to find me watching.