IMAGINES: Celebrity Encounters Starring You (16 page)

“That was good, wasn’t it?”

A laugh bubbles up your throat. “That was so, so good!” you squeal before throwing your arms around him and being enveloped by his scent. You could never find out what his signature scent was, but you’re bottling it up inside of you now, committing it to memory.

As long as you live, you’ll never wash this shirt of yours again.

“It was.” He smiles against your hair, his breath tickling your ear. “Just like I imagined.”

You pull back slightly. “That must have been some video you saw, huh?”

His arms are wrapped around your waist, and you didn’t even notice them getting there. “I watched it on replay for a week before we found you. Is that creepy?”

“I’ve seen each of your movies more than twenty-five times—is
that
creepy?”

His laugh rumbles through his toned chest, and he lowers his
forehead to yours. “You must think I’m really forward, but I don’t usually do this. I don’t stalk people and I definitely don’t have my hands all over a girl the first time I meet her, but with you it’s like . . .”

“I’ve known you my entire life?” you suggest.

He bites his lip and nods.

“I have, in a way,” you tell him. “I did grow up with you, and I’ve had people tell me that it was insane—having these feelings for someone famous. But you were real to me. I know you’re a Libra; we’re totally compatible, by the way. I know you’re superprotective of your signed-baseball collection. I believed and trusted that you’d come back after everything that happened in 2013. . . .” You break off when you see the look in his eyes. “Too much?”

“No, I . . . just . . . wow. Thank you for caring about me for so long and through . . . everything. Maybe now you could give me the opportunity to get to know the real you and for you to get to know me as I am now.”

He lets go, and you take a few steps away just to feel a little less disoriented. “You mean you’re not going back to Salt Lake City, where you’re still single, and having a relaxed summer from all your tough NBA training?”

He looks at you, and for the first time you see a slight hint of panic in his eyes, like you might actually be crazy.

“I’m kidding,” you tell him, deadpan.

He pretends to wipe sweat off his forehead. “Thank God, or this situation would’ve been freakily like the last time I ever met a fan.”

You’re the one breaking into a cold sweat this time around, but you see the humor in his eyes and grin instead.

He closes the distance between the two of you again. “Hi, I’m Zac Efron.”

You quirk an eyebrow at him but let him continue.

“I’m from San Luis Obispo, California.”

“I know.”

“My favorite color is blue.”

“I know.”

“I’m scared of and absolutely believe in the existence of zombies. There’s going to be a zombie apocalypse soon, and I have a contingency plan.”

“I’m well aware of that.”

“I suck at team sports.”

“Yes, I wondered how you managed all that coordination in the movies.”

“But if nothing about me surprises you, then—”

You stop him there. “I’d love to know
you
. You the person, and not the actor, and certainly not Troy Bolton,” you whisper, feeling that if you speak too loudly, it’ll shatter the dream this certainly is.

“And I’d love to know you, the girl in the video, the girl in real life. Maybe we could help each other. I’ll stay here and help with your show, because I want to, desperately so. Maybe this could be the start of something new.” He winks and I groan at the pun. “And maybe you could remind me”—he pauses—“of why it is that I loved doing what I do so much before.”

“You need my help getting back in the game?”

The music is still playing in the background, and as a teenage Troy sings about how hard it is for him to balance his love for the game with his love for the song, you realize that if someone were to come up with a playlist for your life, you would pick the same sound track.

“Yes,” Zac tells you. “Yes.”

Y
ou knew the house would be empty when you got back, but you still can’t help a pang of disappointment as you walk through the front door and know for sure that you’re alone.

It’s been sixteen months since an impromptu wander around New York and a chance visit to Caffe Roma led you to bump into a man you’d previously only admired on the TV screen. Fourteen months since you realized you were hopelessly, helplessly in love with him. And exactly one year ago today that a fairy-tale wedding turned a dream into reality.

But Norman, in making you Mrs. Norman Reedus, never made any secret of the fact that he wouldn’t be home for your first anniversary. It’s not by choice—filming one of TV’s most successful and popular shows requires a lot of dedication.
The Walking Dead
can’t stop just because a cast member’s new wife is feeling lonely. And Daryl is important to the show.

Eye in the Dark, the round ball of black fur that Norman rescued as a kitten, scampers across the wooden floor and winds between your legs. Norman once told you that if he didn’t like a person, his cat wouldn’t either. But Eye has been nothing but a big softy with you from the get-go, giving the kitty seal of approval to your relationship.

Stooping, you stroke Eye and are rewarded by a satisfied purr. At least you have a furry friend to keep you company.

“Just you and me, cat,” you murmur.

It’s only been a few weeks since you and Norman moved from his apartment in New York to a wooden lodge out in the backwoods of Senoia, Georgia, and sometimes you still can’t believe you’re actually living here. New York is wonderful, but you both agreed that a quiet country life was more your sort of thing. The three-bedroom, three-bathroom log cabin is situated practically in the middle of nowhere. It looks rustic from the outside, but inside it’s furnished with all the appliances and amenities a newly married couple could possibly ask for. Still, it feels empty without Norman, quiet and sort of sad, as if the whole building knows he’s not here. But that’s how it always is when he goes away. He has so much life and spirit and energy that everything feels duller and grayer without him.

But you knew exactly what you were getting into when you married him. You don’t say “I do” to the world’s most famous zombie hunter and not expect that he won’t be away from home a lot, immersed in his gory fictional life.

Even now, though the sun is setting on the horizon, he’s probably running around in the Georgia woods with his crossbow, pursued by hungry walkers, cannibalistic humans, or whatever else the show’s writers have conjured up this season. Norman could tell you what’s happening in each episode, but you prefer not to know. It means you can still watch the show like a regular fan, rather than the one Daryl Dixon comes home to after he’s done in the woods.

You walk through to the living room and slump onto the couch. Eye promptly jumps in your lap, paws kneading your jeans. Absently you pet the cat, your eyes fixed on the framed picture that hangs over the fireplace. Your wedding to Norman wasn’t one of those celebrity affairs that fill several pages of gossip magazines. The world might finally know his name, thanks to his success on
The Walking Dead
, but he’s no glory hound. He’s
one of the humblest men you’ve ever met, and your wedding to him was just that—
yours.
Not the property of paparazzi and nosy fans. The photo is simple, just the two of you standing beneath a tree with your arms around each other, you in a modest gown with white lace sleeves, while Norman rocks a basic black tuxedo. Neither of you felt the need for fuss and frills. You still don’t, which is why it wasn’t a big decision to move from the bustling streets of New York City to the quiet seclusion of Standing Rock Road, Senoia.

You sigh and it echoes through the empty house, causing Eye in the Dark’s ears to prick up. The only downside with living rurally is that it can get lonely when it’s just you in the house.

You reach for your phone. Earlier in the day, Norman sent a picture of himself blowing you a kiss from his trailer, but there are no new texts or pictures. Not that you’re surprised. It’s not as if he can carry his phone around on set—it might ruin the postapocalyptic image if an eagle-eyed fan spotted the latest smartphone in Daryl’s pocket. For something to do, you idly browse Facebook and then Twitter. A smile breaks out on your face. Shortly after sending you the picture from the trailer, Norman tweeted a wedding photo, captioned as the anniversary of the happiest day of his life. It’s not the professional picture that hangs on the wall opposite, but one Norman had taken himself on his phone. Your faces take up almost the whole shot, with only a hint of lace at your shoulder, peeking out from under Norman’s arm as he hugs you. Both of you are beaming, grins of true happiness, and it makes you smile the same way now. The Twitter feed is jammed with messages of congratulations from people all over the world. It’s a little unnerving to know that people you’ll never meet seem to care so much about your wedding, but that’s another thing that any celebrity spouse has to get used to.
It’s not always easy knowing that so many other women see your husband as a sex symbol, but those are also the fans who have supported him from the beginning. And you suppose you can’t necessarily blame them for undressing Norman with their eyes; you did exactly the same thing when you met him.

Of course some people will always take it too far. You were outraged to learn that an overeager fan actually bit your husband at a convention, but fortunately such occurrences are few and far between.

Dropping your phone onto the couch beside you, you start scratching Eye in the Dark’s ears. You’re not one of those girls who spent years dreaming of the perfect wedding, but this isn’t how you imagined you’d spend your first anniversary.

But it can’t be helped. Norman warned you about his hectic work schedule, and with a teenage son still living with his mother back in New York, Norman’s free time can’t always be spent with you. You’re happy for every second you’re with him. The demands of being Mrs. Reedus can be challenging, and maybe other people couldn’t handle that, but it’s worth it to be with him.

“I don’t suppose
you
have anything romantic planned,” you say, scratching Eye under the chin.

The cat just looks solemnly back at you.

“I didn’t think so.”

You sigh. As hard as it is for you to be away from Norman today, it’s got to be hard for him too. After a long day’s filming, he’ll go back to a trailer where there’s nothing waiting for him but a fridge filled with out-of-date noodles, and possibly Andrew Lincoln’s beard in a bag. If only you could be there to surprise him, but it’s not really appropriate to hang around the set when they’re already worried about their tight shooting schedule.

Eye in the Dark meows, demanding attention, and you resume ear scratching. Maybe you should cheer yourself up by
pouring a glass of wine and watching a mushy romcom. Or maybe you should just stay where you are, warm and weighed down by a bundle of cat. Resting your head on the back of the couch, you close your eyes and drift away.

A LOUD RUMBLE OUTSIDE
jerks you awake. Eye in the Dark flies off your lap, eyes wide, ears pricked. You didn’t even realize you’d fallen asleep. But it was light when you sat down, and now the world outside the windows is pitch-dark, a black sky scattered with silver stars. The rumbling continues outside, a growl that’s suddenly all too familiar. It’s the sound of a Triumph Scrambler headed up the wooded driveway.

But it can’t be.

You leap to your feet, your heart thudding in your chest. This must be a dream. You must still be asleep. The front door is only a few feet away, but you’re rooted to the spot, waiting to wake up to the silence and the company of a single cat.

The growl of the engine cuts out, and footfalls crunch on the ground outside. The front door opens.

It’s not a dream. There he is, standing in the doorway, your wonderful Norman. Still dressed in his
Walking Dead
clothes, the tattered trousers and leather vest emblazoned with a grubby pair of angel wings, he stands there like a vision, his bare arms streaked with dirt and fake blood, and a bruise-darkened eye thanks to the makeup team. He often doesn’t clean up before leaving work and riding home on the motorcycle, which can lead to some strange looks from people who see him.

Your lips twitch. In one hand he holds a bunch of red roses. He must have bought them before heading home as they’re looking a little worse for wear, the satin-soft petals bashed and wind battered after zipping along on the Triumph.

Norman looks ruefully at them. “Maybe I didn’t think that through.”

You run to him, flinging your arms around him and burying your face in his neck. “They’re perfect,” you whisper.

Like Norman himself, the roses are disheveled but beautiful, perfect in their imperfection.

“I don’t understand. What are you doing here?” you say.

His arms tighten around you, crushing you against his broad chest. He’s probably smearing fake blood all over your T-shirt, but you don’t care. Clothes can be replaced. Moments like this are one of a kind.

“I couldn’t leave you alone today. I had to be here.”

Releasing him, you stand back to look at him. Despite modeling for Prada in his younger years, your husband has come to be considered a sex symbol only since appearing on
The Walking Dead
. He’s not handsome in that pretty, polished way that Hollywood leading men tend to be. He has something rougher and more rugged about him, an intriguing quality to his face, an intensity in his blue eyes that makes him stand out from the crowd and landed him those modeling gigs long before he took up the crossbow. He looks like the kind of man who really could survive the zombie apocalypse. Something about him captivated you from the first moment he appeared on-screen as Wesley Snipes’s sidekick in
Blade II
, but you never expected to actually fall in love with him. You never even expected to
meet
him.