Chasing the Dream: Dream Series, Book 3 (12 page)

“What did you do?” I turned and glared at Chase.

He turned to me and grinned. “What?” he said in a childlike voice.

“Do you realize that my Twitter account has gone from a hundred followers to over a hundred and fifty
thousand
followers?”

“Really?” he exclaimed and grabbed my phone from my hands. He tapped and tapped. “That’s epic!”

“Look, Chase. This is a job. I know you find this to be a game, but I have to survive this internship then make it through three more years of school.”

“You think this is a game to me?” he asked, slapping his hand on his perfect chest with a
thud
and falling back on the seat. “Wounded. Phoebe, I thought we were friends. You’re my babysitter. If the paparazzi got it wrong…” he shrugged.

I grabbed my phone from him and plugged through the photos on Twitter and found the one of him kissing the side of my head. I flashed it at him. He nodded and winked at me. Then I found the Vine video clip and showed him saying he has a new girlfriend.

“Okay. Well, again. I never named you. If the gossip-mongers want to put those together, then…” he said, pulling his shades over his eyes and sat back into his seat with a smirk.

“Chase!” I nearly screeched, pulling his glasses off of his face. “This is my job! Not to mention I’m sick of arrogant men who feel the need to use me!”

“Is that what you think I’m doing?” he asked. The look on his face was one of hurt. I couldn’t tell if it was genuine or acted. And instantly my heart broke. I’d jumped all over him and he didn’t really deserve it.

“I’m sorry. It’s been a very…unusual past couple of days,” I started. Then the floodgates opened. “And it’s not just meeting you but then working for you and the filming sets and your fans and the paparazzi and Jimmy Fallon and waking up to my face all over the TwitterVerse and my friends’ texts and voicemails and emails and … And my ex, Danny, really hurt me, and I guess I’m still kind of pissed at the whole male population lately—”

“Whoa, hey, whoa. Calm down, babe. You don’t want to pass out,” he said, taking his sunglasses out of my hands and sliding them on top of his head again before leaning forward and taking hold of my hands. And there it was again. The electricity that had been building up in the car came together in ball of energy where our hands were joined. That electromagnetic pulse—the EMP—was all right there encasing our hands, and grew as his thumb brushed over the back of my hand. If I were about to pass out from talking, his hands clutching mine would certainly finish the job. I glanced up at his face and his violet-blue eyes bore into my cornflower blue ones. “Breathe.” He took a breath in through his nose to demonstrate to my frazzled brain, and I copied him. He held the breath a moment then he released it through his perfect mouth. I followed suit. The little breathing exercise didn’t alleviate the charged atmosphere between us, but it did keep me from passing out. I felt every bit the nineteen year old girl that I was—not the sophisticated young woman working in Manhattan for a major network.

His eyes continued to search mine. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything by… I’m sorry.” He shook his head. “You’re a different kind of girl.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked, somewhat offended. I pulled my hands from his and tried to rub away the buzzing that was still coursing over my skin. “Because I’m not falling all over you?”

“Well, for starters, yeah,” he said quietly. The corner of his mouth came up in an apologetic smile and he continued to search my face.
What an ego!

The driver cleared his throat, and I noticed that the car had stopped. I grabbed the clipboard and reached for the door. Chase placed a hand on my shoulder, and I turned to look at him.

“Truce?” he said.

“You do your job, and I’ll do mine. Let’s keep it professional. Okay?”

“Deal. And hey, I really
am
sorry.”

I smiled, accepting his apology and I opened the car door, and stepped out looking for the film crew. I spotted them just as Chase was stepping out of the car, and then the paparazzi spotted us. In no time at all, we were swarmed and they were no longer shouting only for Chase, now they were shouting out
my
name!

Thankfully, a producer came over and pushed through the crowd of photogs and escorted us to the safety of a production trailer.

“Thank you and I’m sorry,” I apologized to the producer who had rescued us.

“No problem. You might as well get used to it. Just learn to keep your head down and push through,” he said.

“Head down. Push through. Got it. Thanks.”

Fortunately the next six hours went smoothly, and the location was wrapped. There were a handful of extras on set that day and Chase chose to hang with them when the set up crew messed with the lights, mics, and cameras. I admired how easily he handled the girls who were swooning before his very eyes. He chatted, signed autographs and took selfies with them. Chase was really comfortable with the attention. And today he actually had a better time with his lines.
Did he study this morning?

As we walked to the car to head to dinner, I noticed the change in temperature. The sun had gone down and the warm May day had given way to a slight chill in the night. My skirt and thin shirt did little to provide warmth. On top of that, I wasn’t really used to heels. As a college student, I’d spent my time in sneakers and dance shoes, not heels. I reminded myself that we’d be out shooting somewhere in Central Park, by water, until one in the morning and this get up wouldn’t suffice.

As we headed to the car, I thought I’d test our truce. “Chase, mind if we stop by my apartment before we eat so I can change clothes? I’m not really dressed for night shoots,” I said, indicating my skirt and heels.

“Your wish is my command,” he replied with a wink.

I hoped that the wink was just a reflex.

A
s we headed to Phoebe’s apartment, I thought about her in a new way. She needed space. And I wanted to give her that. She was concerned with doing a good job. There was an odd connection that even I didn’t know what to do with. I started to think it wasn’t just that she was a challenge. She was genuinely a nice girl.

Having Phoebe’s eyes on me during the shoot, and while I hung with the extras on set, I found myself wanting to impress her. I’d been phoning it in lately, and I’d been hearing it from my manager and agents. They didn’t seem to matter like Phoebe did. I wanted her to see me as a serious actor. I felt like she was going to be a tough nut to crack, and I wanted to open her wide. Okay, yes, in bed, but also I wanted into her heart. There was just something about her.

The problem was, I didn’t want a girl. I didn’t want to be attached. My parents were—and then they weren’t. Twice. Twelve years ago I promised myself I wouldn’t go there. I would be a bachelor forever. Not ever break a girl’s heart, not really. This twenty-four year old guy was single…forever.

But it felt like my heart was in command right now. My head…my plotting and acting… on hiatus. Last night when I pulled a typical “shock and awe” Chase moment on Jimmy’s show—when I was about to drop my pants and give the audience a boxer-covered-view of my ass—I caught a glimpse of Phoebe giggling on the stool in the wings. And suddenly, I wanted her. I didn’t want to be untethered. I’d initially congratulated myself on denting Phoebe’s armor, and beating her challenge of being ‘single,’ but as I lay in bed last night, staring at the ceiling, I was almost scared of how that thought comforted me, to be tethered to Phoebe.

As we drove to Phoebe’s apartment, I settled into the Town Car’s leather seat next to her. She already looked a little like she was sleepwalking at this point, and I pulled her onto my shoulder to give her a little pillow. I knew how tiring a film set could be. She snuggled in and she slightly sighed. My heart flipped. Actually, it was more like a tightening, the swelling taking all the space in my chest and making it difficult to breathe.

This is what it’s all about
, I said to myself.

My mother told me I’d find the one that would own my heart. I didn’t expect it to be like this. This was how it happened in the movies. Movie structure was formulaic. In the movies, you had the set up, which was how I was feeling now… the who, what, where, when of the movie. Then we’d get to the end of Act I, and there would be a shift of story. A little later we would be “mid-point” the story would be all clear, or so the audience would be led to believe. Then the start of the third act, then a third act twist and then, and
only
then, we’d get to ride off into the sunset. Typical screenplay rhythm. Start at a down, up by first act, down by mid-point, up by third act, down at twist and up at the end. But I didn’t want the ups and downs. I needed to
avoid
the ups and downs. I only wanted the ups.

I
looked myself over in the bedroom mirror feeling comfy in a long-sleeved, fuchsia t-shirt, with a black short-sleeved shirt over that and white denim jacket on top, with a nice pair of dark wash jeans on bottom. I loved the white, pink and black color combination. I left my hair up afraid of how it would look if I let it down after the day of being wrapped up in a bun. I could either get soft waves, or big, kinked hair. I generally preferred to flat iron my frizzy hair, but there wasn’t any time for that. I also felt like I could have totally used a shower at this point. Again, no time so I opted for a good spritz of my
Vanilla Flower
perfume by Henri Bendel. I touched up my makeup and took a deep breath before heading back into the living room where I’d left Chase with a water bottle.

Chase Smythe is in my living room!!!!
I screamed in my head. I had my head on his shoulder on the drive to my apartment. He was in my apartment. I started to get a little light headed again. I had half a mind to walk out to the living room and pour myself a rum and Coke with the booze my mom had left behind in the apartment, but with Chase in my midst, I needed all my wits about me. He was clearly a player, and I was clearly his next target. I looked at the clock and noticed that we had just over an hour to eat and get to the boathouse for his second shoot today. The one that would keep us out until one in the morning. I took a steadying breath, and opened the bedroom door.

And there he was. Reclined on the sofa, spread out, taking up all the space… not just on the sofa but in the whole room. He really was a sight to behold. His casual hair, framing his stunning eyes. His perfect stubble surrounding his delectable mouth. His presence charged the very air around him. I was actually afraid to step into the room and get electrocuted. Again.

“Mmmm, you look good enough to eat,” he said, sitting up.

I shot him a glare and walked over to the kitchen, grabbing a cold bottle of water out of the fridge. I cracked the bottle and drank down about half of it in one gulp. And there he was. I felt him standing behind me. This was a mistake. An absolutely, horrible mistake. He was thinking I led him here, to my apartment, because I wanted alone time! What did I do? I couldn’t let this happen? But if I used a self-defense move on him, like I’d learned before I left for college, I could really hurt the guy and he had to work.

“Your tag is hanging out,” he said. And before I could register what he said, his fingers, cool from clutching his own water bottle were at the base of my neck. But as cool as his fingers were, they left a burning sensation on my skin. He tucked in the tag of my shirt slowly and smoothed the fabric back down.

“There. All better,” he said. But it wasn’t just what he said. It was
how
he said it. It was breathy. It was quiet. It was loaded.

I turned to look at him, holding my water bottle in front of me like some eccentric self-defense device. “Thanks.” I looked at his face only inches from mine. He smelled so good standing so close to me. My ears were practically ringing with the vibrations ricocheting back and forth between Chase and me. It was an electrical storm brewing between the few inches between us.

He leaned to the side, resting his hip on the counter looking as cool as a cucumber, and took another swig from his water bottle.
Great,
I thought.
He’s nowhere near as affected as I am. And now I’m making shit up in my head.
His eyes were studying my face.