IMAGINES: Celebrity Encounters Starring You (52 page)

Sexy it ain’t.

And he’s a car man.

He advertises Jaguars and probably drives one.

“Wow, this looks like my aunt’s car.” He laughs as he squeezes himself in next to you.

You sigh.

The fantasy bubble pops; reality slaps you in the face.

The car has a lot of legroom for someone who is five feet four inches, but Rani always looks like a fold-up ruler in the front seat, and Nic looks like a concertina or that one big sardine invariably packed into the tin next to its small friends.

It’s comical, and you both laugh as you try not to go over too many bumps and smack his head into the roof of your car.

The journey south is pleasant. You live half an hour down the road, far enough for the pair of you to chat about his life and growing up with two sisters who are actresses and his brother, the movies he’s made, and a little about you.

“Thank you,” he says as you chat.

You look at him, surprised.

He laughs. “This feels normal and ordinary and just what I needed.”

You shake your head in mock disappointment before smiling. You’re not used to being called “ordinary”—“that crazy woman” maybe, but “ordinary” is new. “If you think this is ordinary, then wait until we go grocery shopping.”

His laugh is loud, long, and heartening. Already the stress on his face is starting to dissipate, and you can’t help laughing with him—not your usual reaction to grocery shopping.

But his enthusiasm for “real life” is infectious, and by the time you park outside your small local shopping center, he is positively bubbling.

You wonder if it’s going to be like a kid in the candy store.

You don’t need much, a leg of lamb, pumpkin, potatoes, sweet potatoes, and something for dessert.

Okay, you need everything.

You text Rani to put the oven on and you leave the car, an invisible list writing itself in your head.

You’re no stranger to the center. You’re on first-name terms with most of the checkout chicks—some of them are Rani’s schoolmates. If they recognize your companion, it will be all over school tomorrow. Rani hates a fuss, and you know now you’re probably going to be in trouble.

Their mouths open and close like goldfish floundering outside their tanks.

Yeah, this can’t be good.

In fact people are staring as you and Nic shop. He insisted on coming in with you.

It’s absurd. Here you are with Tony from
Skins
, Nux from
Mad Max
, R from
Warm Bodies
, the Beast from
X-Men
.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, the Beast is wheeling a trolley for you through your local supermarket.

Nothing surreal about this day then.

No one approaches for an autograph, but everyone is doing a double take like “Isn’t that . . . ?” They’re just too polite to say anything.

So you shop in relative peace. No one comes to you with a “great story idea” or to tell you they didn’t like your last front page.

You’ve found the perfect way to silence them; who knew it just took a world-famous actor.

And his height comes in handy for the items on the top shelves—no jumping up and down trying to reach the top.

You laugh. “I might have to employ you to help me with the shopping more often.”

“Anytime—this is fun—I’ve been eating out for months or dealing with catering.”

Soon you have more things than you need and you’re ready to leave, but Nic insists on paying despite your objections, and he adds a couple of bunches of flowers as a thank-you and a box of chocolates, and you’re off to your house with your daughter’s heartthrob.

Oh, heck.

Maybe you should warn her?

But it’s too late.

The house is two blocks away, and you think Nic would notice if you pull up suddenly and whip out your phone.

Anyway, knowing Rani, she’ll be locked up in her room practicing homework avoidance.

You pull into your driveway and Nic says nice things about your house. It’s modern and yet with a retro style with ocean views for miles. It’s your sanctuary.

He breathes out.

Maybe it can be his sanctuary too for a few hours.

You open the garage, and immediately you’re greeted by a flash of fur as your dog lunges for his mother, excited to see you. But his attention diverts and suddenly thirty kilos of spaniel is hurtling headlong for Nic, who is bringing up the rear, carrying most of the groceries. You’re suddenly glad you didn’t buy eggs as two paws connect with your guest’s chest, knocking him onto his butt on the grass.

“I’m so sorry.” You try not to laugh, but it’s to no avail. It’s pretty funny. “Welcome to suburbia!” you giggle.

Nic laughs too. It’s a deep, rumbling laugh—not a normal sound around your female-dominated house, and it attracts attention.

The curtain in the window above you flickers.

It’s Rani’s room.

Oh, God, she’ll never come out now.

But the face you see is younger, and although the eyes are wide with amazement, Hazel is cracking up—let’s face it, it’s not every day you see someone from the movies sprawled out on the front lawn.

There is a snigger and you see mischief in her eyes—hazel like her name.

This is never good.

You offer Nic your hand, and together you retrieve the now-scattered groceries and bring the wayward culprit to heel—well, as much as you can—and start again for the house.

Leading the way, you walk up the stairs to the kitchen, but you’re stopped in your tracks.

Rani is making herself an afternoon snack, stirring what looks like pasta. “Oh, finally!” she says casually, not turning to face you. “I wondered when you’d make it back. So did you bring me home my future husband?”

She finally turns round, just as Nic walks up the stairs behind you.

Hazel saunters in from the lounge room, cheeky grin on her face. “Hey, Rani, would you like to say that again a little louder this time. I don’t think our plus-one could quite hear what you said!”

Red is the color of beetroot, roses, raspberries, and blood, and at that moment it was the color of Rani’s face.

Her eyes were huge and her mouth opened wide like a tunnel.

You don’t blame her. Standing in the middle of her kitchen is the man she has on her walls, the man she writes fanfiction about—live and in person.

She can’t move. She doesn’t say anything, but then she doesn’t have to—that’s what she has a younger sister for.

As quick as a sly fox, Hazel introduces herself and hands Nic a Sharpie and a poster hastily ripped off Rani’s wall. “Hi, welcome to our house. Could you sign this for my sister while Mum picks her up off the floor and wipes the drool off her face!?”

To her credit Rani starts to recover her senses quickly. You notice her pinch herself and try not to smile. You’ve dumped her in it, well and truly. She shoots Hazel a glare that could melt paint, but turns and smiles elegantly at your guest. She is all poise and grace, unless you look at her closely. Her legs are shaking and her eyes narrow on you. Realization dawns: both you and Hazel are in for a tongue-lashing later. One you both richly deserve.

“Hi, I’m Rani, but perhaps my mother has already told you that.” You’re proud of her. Her hand shakes a little as she holds it out to her crush, but Nic doesn’t seem to notice or he’s choosing to ignore it. He smiles at her widely and her green eyes sparkle.

“I’m sorry to land on you like this. I haven’t had a home-cooked meal in a while and your mother offered.” He hands her one of the bunches of roses he bought at the grocery store.

She looks out shyly through her fringe and thanks him. She’s never received flowers from a boy before; despite being unconventionally beautiful with green eyes, high cheekbones, and dark brown hair, she tends to be shy around people. If you’d thought about this, you probably wouldn’t have done it, brought a man she obviously idolized into her world.

But she surprises you. “Don’t worry, I’m used to my mother.” She sighs. You can tell she wants to escape and fangirl, but instead she shows maturity beyond her years and sticks it out, treating it like it’s a normal occurrence to have Nicholas Hoult in the kitchen when she comes home from school. You wonder when she started to grow up, and suddenly you feel better about her finishing school and moving away to university, but it also feels closer and you bite your lip.

She offers him a drink, and together the three of you show him around—careful to make sure that Hazel doesn’t give either Nic or Rani too much crap.

Your intention is to leave him with the girls in the lounge room while you prepare dinner, but instead he offers to help, and suddenly your usually housework-shy teens are there with bells on, and the three of them are peeling potatoes like demons, racing each other to see who can finish first and laughing. So as well as being useful for shopping, Nic is obviously the answer to getting your kids to do the housework—who knew.

The girls have relaxed and so has Nic, and they are bantering like siblings. You wonder if this is what it would have been like to have the three kids you’d wanted. You are technically old enough to be Nic’s mum, though you don’t really want to think about that.

Eight hands make quick work of dinner preparations, and by the time your husband comes home, the roast is on, the table is set, and you’re all making gravy and joking around like Nic is one of the family.

Your man is wary at first, but as the two of them bond over beer, red wine, and cars, you realize Nic has worked his magic on your husband too. By the time you’re carving the roast, they are both making bad dad jokes, and Rani is no longer staring at your guest when she thinks no one is looking. Well, not as much.

It must be hard to have your favorite actor suddenly sitting at your dining-room table joking with your dad and being teased by your kid sister. Rani looks at you from time to time shaking her head, and you don’t know if it’s because she can’t believe you did this or she can’t believe he’s here—maybe a little from column A, a little from column B. And you can’t believe it either if you’re honest.

Hazel has printed out several pictures of Nic. Over a dinner
that he is obviously savoring, she asks him to sign them. You have no doubt she has a mind to sell them later, the little entrepreneur that she is.

Luckily your guest smiles good-naturedly, cottoning on to her scheme. “I’ll sign them, and your mum can give them to you when you finish the maths assignment you told me about.” He winks at Rani, who laughs behind her hand.

Hazel groans, “So not worth it!”

“Sounds like a good deal to me.” Her dad laughs.

Hazel’s eyes roll. “Well, you would side with him! Boys!” she huffs.

Dessert, a game of Cards Against Humanity, and suddenly it’s time for his car to come and pick him up.

He’s been at your place since 4:00 p.m. and it’s 10:00 p.m. now—six hours and he feels like he belongs here.

But the car horn sounds and he hugs you all, thanking you for “taking pity on a homesick Brit.” He kisses Rani chastely on the cheek and she blushes.

Then he’s gone.

Though he was only there for an evening, you know you’ll miss him.

Your husband puts an arm around you and hugs you close as Rani and Hazel stand in front of you watching the car disappear up the road.

“No, you can’t adopt him!” your man jokes.

“Maybe Rani . . .”

He shakes his head. “You, my love, are incorrigible.” He kisses your forehead.

But you know he too liked the boy.

Rani is still standing there long after the car disappears.

You put a gentle arm around her. “You picked a nice boy to have a crush on!”

“Yes, and you may be an embarrassment, but I wouldn’t swap you for the world. Though next time you bring home my favorite actor, just give me a bit more warning.” She sighs, shaking her head at you—your family did that to you a lot.

You didn’t hear from Nic again during filming. But then you didn’t expect to.

It became a nice memory, the night Nic Hoult came to dinner.

Cynically, as journos are wont to be, you figured he’d forgotten about your family; after all, he’d meet fans every day, every week. And he was just a nice polite boy; he made you all feel special, but that was the way he was.

However, it’s funny how karma comes back, and out of the blue eighteen months later an official and fancy-looking envelope arrived at your home addressed to Hazel and Rani (who was now in Brisbane at university). A little personal note was tucked inside:

To my Aussie family—thank you for opening your doors and your hearts to a lonely Brit. Your hospitality was just what I needed, just when I needed it—please be my personal guests at the Australian premiere.

You smiled.

It seemed you’d had an impact on him too.

T
he Oval Office is bubbling with tense energy, like a cappuccino machine about to explode. Chiefs of Staff and other insanely important people cower in the corners as the vice president meekly says, “Mr. President . . . we’re all out of ideas. We’re sorry.”

You grimace, knowing that the commander in chief doesn’t lose his shit often, but when he does, it’s like a thermonuclear detonation.

The president spins slowly on his heels and faces the VP. “You’re sorry?” he says softly, dark eyes glittering. “This situation is of dire national importance, and you’re
sorry
?”

The secretary of defense crosses her long, elegant legs and waves an unconcerned hand. “I’m afraid I don’t see how this is a national issue, Mr. President.”

The entire room draws a gulp of air. You know the defense secretary was appointed because of her fearless nature and calm demeanor under fire, but still . . .

POTUS leans forward on his desk, knuckles pressing into the mahogany. His suit is edgier than anything worn by the forty-five men who have served before him, but the long black jacket and crisp white shirt are his trademark. The sharp lines of the suit give him an almost mythic appearance as he says, “It’s a national
issue, all right. I’m gonna prove that to you, right now.” He looks at you. “Righty?”