Page 4 of The Likelihood Of You

The sunglasses he’d sported earlier are now resting on top of his head, and given how his eyes are burning a hole right through my body and tanning my insides, I might just advise him to keep them on at all times. Also, because his eyes might be the dreamiest thing mine have ever looked into. They’re the same shade as his hair, chocolatey brown with flecks of gold sprinkled through. Spellbinding would be an appropriate word to describe them, seeing as though I’m finding it hard to shift my gaze away from them.

The sudden eruption of steam from the espresso machine sends a jolt through my body, snatching my attention away from themanand giving me some breathing room to muster up whatever words I can find.

But before I can, he turns his whole body to face me, leaning his head down to reach me. I hold my breath.

“Look, normally I’m all for taking photos, but not today. I appreciate the support, though.”

Excuse me?

He finishes his words with a glimmer of a smile, which grows apologetic, along with his eyes. I try not to focus on his smile or how oddly sultry his voice is, but it’s revealed a dimple that my eyes will be glued to for as long as he’s in front of me. Right now, it also seemed like the only easy thing for my brain to fixate on.

Hmm, do I think about the weird photo rejection from theman, the call request from my ex-fiancè or the cutest face crater I’ve ever laid eyes on? Oh boy, is thata tough one.

But in the hopes of not coming across as creepy, I avert my eyes and opt to tackle his rejection instead.

I almost find myself wanting to say, ‘Oh, no worries. Thanks anyway!’ purely because of how guilty he sounded. And because the pathological people pleaser inside of me is terrified of upsetting anyone, even strangers whose stare feels like an open flame straight on mine, I almost do. But instead, I manage to mumble something along the lines of “Huh?”

I watch him as he nods his head at my phone, which is still in my hands after the text bomb from Hugo. I drop my head down towards my phone and back to him in a rapid motion, letting our eyes burn again. I watch him as his lips part, but before he has the chance to talk, my guardian angel in the form of a blonde-haired barista asks who’s next, and it’s him, meaning I have time to regroup and prepare myself in case he tells me he doesn’t want me to take a photo with him.

Again, what?

My eyes follow him as he talks to the server, a larger, more genuine smile resting on his face as does. He stops talking for a second, and his eyes wander back towards the pastry display. On their way, they catch mine, only for a second, before returning to the barista, setting off a weird sensation in my stomach that I’m not sure how to feel about, but one that makes me wobble. He gives her the rest of his order before she tells him to wait, giving him a chance to step off to the side and his attention to fall back onto me.

Unless the next thing he says explains what on earth that was about, I don’t think I could be more confused if I tried. That’s if he even says anything to me again. He might wait for his order, forget this awkward encounter, and leave, letting me carry on with my morning.

I should be content with that. I should want him to leave. I should be urging him to stop glancing at me and instead head back outside to fight the torrential rain with his UV protection. But there was something in me that wanted to get to the bottom of what he’d said to me. Something so trivial that if I didn’t find out what he meant, I’d think about it for the rest of time. I was obliged to find out, for my peace of mind.

Or was I saying all this because I liked how his stare burned me a little too much?

Chapter two

Jacob

I’m considering murdering Nate for suggesting I should wear sunglasses to avoid being recognised. And by murder, I mean I’ll eat the almond croissant I’ve just ordered for him, and let the catering crew at the production lot know that he’s starting a very strict diet as of today so they won’t pop by his dressing room with the lunch cart.

He and his 24/7 appetite can suffer.

It was my fault for listening to him in the first place. I should’ve known better. I’ve seen this happen to him more than enough times after his first movie premiered almost three years ago.

Although it’s cool having the leading man of modern cinema as a best friend, it comes with its downfalls. Being spontaneous was out of the question. We can’t simply go to places without a plan of action in mind. Going to Sals for pretzels is near impossible, and the fact that the tiny cart sits on the outskirts of Times Square doesn't help our midnight cravings either. Within seconds,he has half the city swarming him, fans who recognise him, and I’m pushed to the side, turning into another hopeful in the crowd who wants to snap a picture with the heartthrob Nate Patricks.

But ever since my debut movie,Defenders of Time: a sci-fi blockbuster where I played the lead, premiered last December, that had somehow become my fate now too.

It’s now Day 132 without a midnight pretzel trip. Send reinforcements; I don’t think I’ll make it much longer.

After reciting my order to Eden, the server I see every morning, I put my attention back on the girl standing behind me, leaning my head a few inches closer to her. “I’m assuming you were working up the courage to ask me for a photo?”

Jesus, that sounded way less douchey in my head.

But in my defence, this girl has been staring at me with her phone gripped in her hand for at least three minutes, and given that this has become a daily occurrence for me now, I assumed that was why.

Well, staring at me isn’t entirely true. Her eyes were drifting outwards in different directions, but I felt her eyes on me nonetheless.

I don’t have a problem with taking photos with fans. I don’t mind the interaction, and it reminds me of how grateful I am for them and their crazy support. Without them, I’d be down the road in Brooklyn in my tiny one-bedroom apartment, tucked away on my second-hand couch, listening to the hustle of the Sunday flea market just outside my window whilst waiting for my ninety-nine cent ramen to finish cooking.

But as grateful as I am, there’s still something about strangers secretly videoing me or running at me without any warning that’s still so alien to me, and I’m scared I’ll never get usedto it.

Nate told me I would, but from now on, I’m refusing to listen to another thing that comes out of his mouth.

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