IMAGINES: Celebrity Encounters Starring You (56 page)

“Would you excuse me for a minute?”

He nods, and you turn around and walk to the trailer as fast as you think you can without seeming weird. You feel his eyes on you the entire way.

In the safety of the bathroom, you stare at your reflection. “Stop. It.” You splash your face with cool water, which makes the redness go away, and you feel much better afterward. As you dry off with the green towel, your brain clicks that you’ve got a job to do. And you can’t afford another conversation like the one you just had.

“No more,” you tell your reflection, thinking that’ll help. “You are not allowed to blush in his presence.”

The image that stares back at you doesn’t object, so you take that as a hopeful sign. Gathering yourself, you let out a breathy sigh that can only mean that you’ve passed through the worst of it.

THREE DAYS CAN’T PASS
quickly enough, you think. Especially with your newly found crush on the man that you partially work for. The drive up there is like torture because you have to sit in the back with him. The conversation among the driver, Luke, Tom, and you never dies down, and so you’re forced to listen to that accent.
That delectable accent.

You and MacKensie share a room at the hotel, thankfully,
and Tom is a floor below, so you don’t pass him much. The only times you see him are when you’re supposed to be doing his makeup or riding with him to interviews.

Even so, those butterflies still remain while you’re alone in your room.

On the return drive, however, the pitch-black interior of the SUV encloses you in the tiny space with nowhere to go, nothing to do, nothing to distract you. Three and a half more hours on the road. Squinting your eyes, you try to make out shapes outside the window, but the only thing that greets you is your own dim reflection.

Luke has fallen asleep in the front seat, and Roger isn’t paying attention to anything but the road. Calculating the time difference in your head, you decide that it’s too late to text Cora, or anyone else back home.

Nonetheless, you begin to reach for your phone that you placed in the middle seat between you and Tom. The only light is from the radio up front, and even that isn’t bright enough to illuminate your black cell phone against the dark leather. Instead of grabbing the device, you grab a warm hand.

“Sorry,” you whisper quickly, and pull your hand away, “looking for my phone.”

There’s no reply, only a shift in his movement that you can’t see well, and then you feel his hand on your leg, the phone between his fingers. It makes you jump slightly, and you hear his breathy chuckle before he lets the phone drop into your lap and retracts his hand.

When you click the Home button, the lock screen tells you that it’s 1:04 a.m. It’s a good thing that you don’t have to be at work tomorrow. You yawn, feeling completely worn-out, but not daring to fall asleep like Luke. You slouch in your seat and prop yourself up on your elbow and stare at the dark mirror of the window.

A few minutes later the car comes to a tunnel. The yellow lights brighten the inside of the car, so you can see Tom reaching for his earphones and Luke drooling into the upholstery. Roger is just in his own world.

Tom had shed his jacket when he got into the car, deeming it too warm to wear one. Now it’s nothing but a T-shirt and jeans. You can’t help but think he’s much too skinny, not that he’s lacking in muscles.

You are not even. No. Stop it. Now.

Tom’s face is so serene. There’s no smile. Yet, no frown either. Just a set mask of indifference. It’s sickeningly simple to you. His long fingers grasp at his tangled headphone cord, fixing it quickly before the light is extinguished.

Quickly, the darkness settles back again, leaving you with the satisfaction of knowing that no one can see you blush now. Because even that smallest little thought about his biceps has set your face on fire. You take back your original position against the door and force yourself to calm down and to not fall asleep. You talk in your sleep.

That’s a very, very bad thing with Tom in the car.

That’s when you feel a tap on your shoulder, and you look up to see Tom’s face illuminated by the dimmed screen of his iPod. He’s not looking at you, but his hand is still extended toward your shoulder.

Then he pats the middle seat, looking up and giving a closed-mouth grin.

You steady your nerves before unbuckling your seat belt and hopping to the next seat and buckling the lap belt loosely. He takes your hand and puts an earbud into it, but before you put it in, he’s leaning over.

Leaning over. Leaning over for what?
Everything’s happening all at once, and you feel his hot breath on your ear and down your
neck. A delicious chill shoots up your spine, and he’s whispering something soft and low.
But what? What is he saying?

You don’t register a word that comes from his lips because you’re thinking about what he’s doing. When you think he’s going to straighten back up, he whispers something else that you barely catch: “. . . because you don’t want to make out . . .” There’s a low rumble of a chuckle that makes your heart race so fast you think it’ll beat out of your chest.

You swallow hard and he sits back up, scrolling through songs again. You force yourself to laugh a little, just so he doesn’t think you’ve lost your mind.

Your train of thought has taken a new track. It’d be so easy to kiss him right now. Too easy. And you’re not supposed to, but you start thinking about him kissing you back. This train explodes.

You press the earbud into your ear, still feeling the tingles of his breath. The song he’s chosen is slow, with beautiful violins filling the quiet background. Tom runs a hand through his hair before putting it on the back of your seat and looking out the window.

It’s a long song, and when you reach the end, you’ve yawned three times and put your feet up in the empty seat beside you. The next tune you recognize, “Moonlight Sonata,” and it’s all you can do to keep your eyes open. But soon enough, his arm falls on your shoulders and presses you into his side, and it’s so warm that you’d like nothing more than to fall asleep.

Trying to keep some composure, you hesitate in deciding where to place your hand. And as you’re making the decision, he slouches farther into the seat, taking you with him. You weren’t expecting it, and your fisted hand flies to his stomach, where it stays.

He lets out a breathy laugh again and reaches up to open your fingers. Your face is burning.

Then your senses give out, and fatigue sets in quickly. Like flipping off a light switch. All judgment goes out the window when you’re sleepy. Suddenly, the warmth his side is giving off is so comfortable. You’re not even aware you’re doing it, but you snuggle closer into his side, and he starts fiddling with your fingers. He looks down at you, although you don’t see, and smiles and starts to move you so you’re lying down, using his lap for a pillow.

You don’t object or protest. Probably because you are half-asleep, and he is warm and nice and you love him. The last thing you remember is the feeling of fingers playing with your hair.

“LOVE?” YOU HEAR THE WHISPER,
and then a laugh that isn’t his.

Wait. What?

“See you Thursday, Tom.” The voice is faint and moving away, and you know that it’s Luke.

“Bye.” Tom’s quiet, then there’s that hot breath on your ear again. “Love, wake up.”

What are you lying on? Whatever it is, it’s very warm and soft.

He sighs. “Roger, can you take us to her apartment building? I don’t want her driving like this.”

You hear a door slam closed and a chuckle. “Yeah.”

You snuggle closer to whatever it is that’s so warm. It smells like detergent and cologne, which seems like the oddest thing to you.

“WHICH ONE’S YOURS?”

You’re groggy from sleep and whisper a number. Vaguely you realize Tom’s helping you up the stairs, and you clasp on to long, warm fingers. He laughs. You reach into your pocket for the
apartment key and hand it to him. He opens the door and leads you inside.

“Where’s your bedroom?” He raises his eyebrows at you.

“Cheeky,” you reply, not sure where it came from or why you said it; it just seemed appropriate.

Tom laughs loudly, which makes you jump and knocks consciousness back into you. You move toward the bedroom and flop down on the bed as soon as you enter. He follows you, and you feel your shoes being unlaced. Everything’s drifting in and out, and you’re not sure if what happens next actually happens.

“Good night, love.” He chuckles and plants a kiss on your forehead.

The next morning when you wake up, the events from the night before slowly come back. But everything is halted. The music. His warm side. The kiss to your forehead. Halted by one little, tiny thing you told yourself.

You’d said that you’d loved him.

EVERYTHING AND EVERYONE
has limits. And you can be the kind of person who tests those, to see what they are, or step back and never know. The thought of leaving
The Avengers
set next month after filming and not knowing these limits had you antsy. This crush on Tom had blossomed more than you had wanted it to, and dancing all over the line between friends and
more
was a little tempting.

This Monday morning you had woken up and decided that you were tired of silently sitting back, going about day-to-day life as if nothing had changed in you. Because it certainly had.

Tom waltzes in, sweaty and bright-eyed, after a three-hour workout at the gym. Your heart skips a beat as you take him in because that head of hair is as wild as ever.

“Good morning.” He smiles, setting his gym bag on the floor. “Mind if I take a shower? I smell horrendous.” He was such a liar. Tom was probably the only human being on the planet that thought the smell of detergent and cologne was bad.

“If you smell horrendous, then I smell like a garbage dump,” you reply, remembering that you’re supposed to be testing boundaries.

He gives you this look that says, “You are the silliest girl who has ever walked the face of the planet.” You can’t disagree, but nonetheless, when his eyes roll back and those eyebrows shoot up, it feels like the whole trailer has come crashing down on you.

“You know where the towels are.” You dismiss him with a wave of your hand, turning around to the vanity before your cheeks can betray you.

“Thank you, dear.” You hear his bag slide across the floor, into the bathroom.

If you’re supposed to be learning how far you can go without it becoming awkward, how are you to do it? What are you going to say? It’s causing your cheeks to turn pink. You sit there, in the vanity chair, for what feels like ten years, trying to decide what you’re supposed to do.

The opening of the sliding door to the bathroom breaks you out of your stalled thoughts. And out steps Thomas. In jeans. And that’s it. He’s drying his hair with a towel, and you can only assume that he didn’t want to get his shirt wet doing so.

You can’t help but stare. It’s like you don’t have control over your eyes. He’s pale, but you see the potential for a tan, and he’s still sort of wet.

“Hey?” He finishes up with the towel.

You don’t look up at his face and only softly ask, “What?”

He laughs. “My eyes are up here.” Tom throws the towel on the bathroom sink.

“Huh?” Then you realize exactly what he said and blush a deep red. “Sorry.”

“Oh, the fault is mine.” He chuckles. “No woman can resist my charms.”

You stand, turning to the counter quickly, and pick up a makeup brush. “Your charms need to put a shirt on.”

It had taken some time, but every once in a while you’d slip in a derogatory statement that had more than one meaning. Nothing vulgar, mind you, just little things that would possibly get his head turning the slightest bit.

Something had to give, otherwise you’d have to be put in a mental institution. How one person could be so oblivious to
everything
amazed you. For someone who seemed to be able to read between the lines, he sure needed help.

A lot of help.

FILMING ENDS SOON.
Very, very soon, and the day has snuck up on you so quickly that it’s started to get hard to keep breathing. All of these wonderful, beautiful, exciting people will not be part of your life every day anymore. The thought threatens to crush your heart again for the second time that morning, while applying Tom’s mascara.

Turning around to get the eyeliner, you peek a glance at yourself in the vanity mirror. Red-rimmed eyes aren’t something desirable. But they’re there, nonetheless. You blink a few times to stop their burning, which doesn’t help much.

Turning around with the liquid pen, you tell Tom, “Look up.”

He does as he’s told. He’d caught on to your dark mood when he walked in this morning. A few jokes were made, a couple cheery sentences, a hug. It all just reminded you of what you were losing. Not what you had.

Your steady hand drags the pen across the bottom lid of his eye. You can’t help but want to stare at the color of his eyes sometimes, just to memorize it, so you can keep it with you when he moves on.

Because he will move on. Without you. Without Cora. Without anyone but himself. Your throat closes up at the thought of not seeing him every day. Not hearing his voice or his laugh, or those silly jokes that he thinks are funny and which you don’t understand because he uses so much British slang. Not being able to mess with that beautiful head of hair or to play pranks anymore. There won’t be any more outings for lunch or dinner just to talk about stuff you both liked.
He’d be gone
.

Finishing his eyeliner, you step back and sniffle softly, hoping that he doesn’t see through the mask you’d put on this morning.

“Done?” He sits up and gives a grin that melts your heart a little.

You nod, not trusting your voice to stay steady, but he sees right through you. He stands and comes forward and holds out his arms, waiting for the hug.

“Oh, my love,” he whispers, holding you tightly to him, one hand on the back of your head, burying your face in his chest. The other arm wraps around your shoulders, pressing you against him.