IMAGINES: Celebrity Encounters Starring You (60 page)

Lawrence halfway smiles, seemingly nervous and antsy. “Right this way, madam.” He appears the type to drop everything on his way out of the kitchen.

He takes you on a short walk to a small room. There are probably only around twenty tables here, whereas the larger room you just passed through had at least a hundred. Lawrence pauses at an empty circular table for two, its cream candles burning.

He glances at you before pulling out a chair. “This is your table, Mrs. Hiddleston.”

A zing runs through your spine and your stomach when he calls you that.

You sit, then he pushes your chair back up to the table. “Would you like to wait for Mr. Hiddleston, or would you like to order?”

“I’ll wait.” You smile. “Thank you.”

He nods, and with that you’re alone.

Now that you’re somewhat alone, here at your little white linen table, you flip out. You were just called Mrs. Hiddleston. You cover your mouth with your hand to ward off the giggles that threaten to ensue, and you quickly look around you to make sure that no one notices how much you’re freaking out. You feel like you’re shaking in your seat. You force yourself to take deep breaths. To
breathe.

Not five minutes later, Lawrence is coming back, Tom in tow.

That’s when you realize that you didn’t
correct
them.
Oh, crap, this could be bad.

“Here we are, Mr. Hiddleston.” Lawrence motions nervously to a chair. “I’ll be back in a moment with your menus.”

And there he is. All six foot two inches of Tom. His reddish blond hair sort of sticks up like it had a few days earlier, and his black suit has a black vest underneath. The navy-blue necktie really pulls it all off, though.

He smirks as he sits down. “Hello, Mrs. Hiddleston. How are we this evening?”

“I didn’t know what to say!”

He laughs a little, eyes shining and full of humor.

“If I had told them I wasn’t your wife, they may not have let me in.”

“Oh, so you don’t
want
to be my wife?” His eyebrows rise in a defiant gesture. “Is that it?”

You pause, at a complete loss for words.

“I understand,” he dismisses, then gives you a mischievous grin. “You don’t have to explain.”

Lawrence practically rushes over with the menus. “Are we celebrating something this evening?”

Tom speaks up before you have the chance to say no. “Yes. Our six-month anniversary.”

“Congratulations.” Lawrence shakily smiles and hands you a menu. You take it numbly, staring at Tom, who’s smiling like it’s nobody’s business.

“Can I start you two off with champagne, then?”

“No alcohol,” you say quickly, cutting off whatever Tom had been about to say. You remember to smile with the comment “Just water, please. For both of us.”

Lawrence stands there, unsure whether he’s supposed to listen to you or wait for Tom.

“Water,” Tom grudgingly sighs, saving Lawrence from his turmoil.

As soon as the waiter’s gone, Tom whispers dangerously, “I’ll get you for that,
Mrs. Hiddleston
.”

Why is he saying that name like it’s an insult?
If anything, it’s a compliment you don’t deserve. And when it comes from him, it’s even more potent than from the others. Your heart skips in your chest; your eyes go a bit foggy for a second. And he just doesn’t get it.

“If you don’t stop looking at me like that, everyone will think that we aren’t
happily
married,” you smirk, dipping your head into your menu.

His stern expression melts into an easy smile. “We aren’t.”

You glance over the top of your menu, wondering if he’s decided to put an end to this little charade.

“If we were married, we wouldn’t be here,” he states matter-of-factly.

“We wouldn’t?” you ask out of curiosity.

“No.” He chuckles, skimming his menu. “Obviously, we’d be at home; wherever home happened to be.”

You furrow your brows in confusion. “Why is that ‘obvious’?”

He purses his lips, raises his eyebrows, and seems to find something on the menu extremely interesting before saying, “We both know you wouldn’t be able to keep your hands off of me.”

You’re not sure if you’ve ever before been this red in your entire life. Has your heart ever beaten this quickly and with such urgency? Your head is pounding and your vision is cloudy.

He chuckles again. “Why are you blushing, love?”

His voice halts every train you had running through your head. They all explode simultaneously. You stand up. “I need to go powder my nose.”

We both know you wouldn’t be able to keep your hands off of me.

Did he really say that? Did he?

He did.

The entire trip to the bathroom was you asking that over and over. Did he actually just say that?

It ticks you off, for one thing. It just infuriates you, and you’re very sure why.

As you walk into the bathroom, the lights flash on automatically, and you nearly scream in surprise at the sudden illumination.

He’s just so . . . so . . .
not wrong.

Standing in the bathroom, staring at your reflection in the mirror, you have to stabilize yourself on the counter. You stop, your anger-flushed face staring madly back at you. What can you do? How do you continue talking after he goes and says something like that?

Deep breaths. Breathe. Inhale, hold for ten seconds, exhale. Peace. Pure, complete blankness of mind that eases the tensed muscles in your neck and arms. Safety, here in this space. Bliss. You breathe again.

And something breaks your solid concentration.

“And I-eee-I will always love you-hoooo . . .”

“Shut up,” you growl at the radio, straightening back up and fixing your cardigan.

If he wants to play,
you’ll play.

Just before heading out, you throw the mirror a wide smile. Building up confidence.

Dinner passes with normal conversation, but your mind keeps drifting to that sentence.

You wouldn’t be able to keep your hands off of me.

“TOM,” YOU BEGIN,
sitting back in your chair carefully, “I need to say something.”

He gives you the most reassuring smile, and it warms you. Almost enough to have the courage to continue. But only almost.

“Anything, love.”

You take a deep breath, steadying yourself. You’re so nervous, your hands are shaking, and your palms are sweaty. Your heart is going to beat out of your chest.

“You’re nervous,” he states, the tone of his voice getting softer. “It’s only me, love. You can tell me anything.”

You wish you could believe that.

You’re about to say it. So, so close to letting it fly, when you look up and see Tom watching you, his eyes curious and kind; that mix of blue that breaks you to the point of wanting to cry.

Taking another deep breath and letting it out in a slow, shaky halfway laugh, you stare at your hands in your lap.

“What is it?” Tom whispers, leaning in closer.

You swallow the lump in your throat and force yourself to speak. “All right, I’m going to say this, and I totally understand if you just never want to talk to me again. Just please don’t shoot me down immediately.”

Tom leans back, a gentle smirk on his face. “Okay.”

You want to slap that smirk off. Or kiss it off. Whichever.

“Okay?” It’s like you’re checking the word for yourself to
make sure that it’s a valid answer. “Um, I really don’t know how to say this. . . .”

Eyes twinkling, he chuckles, and the sound reverberates through your body like an earthquake. “You’re cute when you’re frazzled. Sorry,” he apologizes for interrupting, “please continue.”

He just called you cute. Goose bumps break out all over your arms, a shiver shuddering through your frame.

“I was going to say that—” Another deep breath, and you prepare yourself. This is it. Now or never.

Crossing your arms over your chest and propping your elbows on the table, you swallow the lump in your throat and say the words as quickly as possible, thinking about ripping a Band-Aid off. “I like you. There—I said it. Ridicule me. Mock me. Just don’t leave. Okay? Because even if you don’t think the same way, you’re a great friend, and I don’t want to lose that.”

Your eyes close and you let out a little breath before you hear his chuckle.

“Let’s go dance.”

What? You open your eyes and just sit there, staring at him. You’re completely confused because you just told him everything—
everything—
and his reaction is so strange.

He stands quietly, moving around to your chair and holding his hand out. Numbly placing your own in his, you stand and allow him to lead you to the larger room, where you see couples spinning around the floor.

Your mind is reeling.
What did you just do?? Or was it all a dream and you only think that you did it?
Because he didn’t respond at all. Not even his face. Nothing in his look or eyes or anything showed any indication of your spilling the beans.

And
, it just so happened that you being the lucky one that you are, the fast, upbeat music switches over to a slow, peaceful tune when you two step onto the floor.
Great.

He takes you to the center and grabs your other hand to hold up as if you’re about to waltz. Pulling you closer, his right hand wraps around your waist . . . but doesn’t stop. Instead, it lands on the small of your back, fingers spreading out slowly. A blush rises to your cheeks when he starts moving his feet to the beat, and you try to look anywhere but at him.

“Love?” You feel his hot breath on your ear, and it sends shivers down to your toes. “I would never ridicule you.” He leans back and kisses your cheek. “Or mock you.”

He leans forward, placing his forehead against yours. For a moment you can’t breathe—can’t even take a breath because those two gorgeous eyes have got you. They’ve got you held completely captive. You’re not even sure how your feet know to move to the music, because all you can think about are those eyes. Blue seas that must have galaxies inside, because there’s no way that’s all they could be. And they betray him: you see the pent-up nerves, the anxiety. The hope, and fear. And happiness. Undeniable happiness.

His nose brushes yours lightly, his eyes closing as he whispers, “And I would never leave you.”

His tone of voice stalls you, and you find that your feet have stopped. Instinctively, your eyes close with a shaky breath. Your palms are sweaty, and you just know that he feels it. His fingers draw tiny circles on your back before his whole hand pushes you forward into his frame; your breath hitches.

“Tom,” you whisper, but you don’t get the chance to finish. He bridges the gap between you and kisses you ever so slowly.

And, goodness, you’d wondered how this would feel. You forget the room of people around you, lose the sounds of the band and couples chattering. It’s him. Just utterly him, and you’re sure that nothing else in your life had ever resulted in this much peace.

After months of worrying, of anxiety from wondering how he was or if he was thinking about you—you feel peace. Like nothing is easier than just standing here, being in his arms and knowing that you aren’t alone. That at least, for now, you have him to yourself.

And he isn’t anyone else but Tom.

A
million thoughts are flying through your mind as you rush to get ready for work. You had planned on going to work in the afternoon, but no, they called you to get there in an hour because some big important singer was coming in today, and they weren’t really nice about it on the phone.
Ugh.

Ever since you started this internship, you have been nothing but a bottle of stress waiting to explode. Who knew there was so much hard work to do at a small-town radio station? But here you are, fresh out of college, and doing a big-kid job, it seems. . . .

You give yourself a quick once-over in the mirror for the umpteenth time and grimace. Oh, hell no, is stress already causing your hair to turn gray—

Beep! Beep!

Shit, your warning alarm! That means you have fifteen minutes to get to work! Feeling even more stressed out, you run to the door and grab your keys—

Ding!

Dammit—another one! You swipe the screen of your phone open and quickly read the texts from your coworkers.

Where are you?

Hey are u on the way?

Well, duh. They only called you like, when, forty minutes ago?

You quickly stash your phone in your pocket and bolt out of the house after slamming the door, scaring your poor pets. You fumble for your keys as you unlock your car door and throw yourself inside.

Music starts surrounding you inside your car as you pull out of the driveway and floor it.
“What’s wrong with being
 . . .
What’s wrong with being confident?”

Ugh, these stupid cars in front of you are so slow!

Ding!

You glance at your right pocket, hearing and feeling the vibration of a text message again. Should you check it? Well, maybe at the next stoplight. If that Mercedes with a Texas license plate would hurry the hell up, you would probably be at work by now!

Ding!

Ignore it. You need to.

Ding!

Ugh, what do they want?! You’re on the way!

Ding! Ding!

You give up. Just do a quick peek, no harm done. Trying to stretch your leg so you can dig your fingers inside your pocket, you pull your phone out and swipe it open.

You quickly look back up, one eye on the road. Okay, you’re safe.

Only you find yourself looking back down again. Oh, wow, five messages! Why could they possibly need to text you so much when they know you’re on the way to work? You click on the first message and look at the—

CRASH!

WHAT JUST HAPPENED?

There’s this annoying ringing in your ears, and a pounding headache coming into full force as you slowly regain consciousness. You open your eyes to feel your forehead against the top of the steering wheel, your nose barely just missing the horn.