Page 111 of Shy Girls Can't Date Celebrities
Wyatt turns to me for clarification. “Circle 8 is my management team, right?”
“Yeah. I think they’re Circle 8 Management, and the stars are Circle 8.”
“Huh?”
“Circle 8 is the name of your group,” I explain. “Like, all you teen stars who signed with them are called the Circle 8 kids. They’re like yourcolleagues.”
“Oh. So, Portia is Circle 8?”
“Mm-hmm. There’s 8 of you. Hence the name.”
“And if one of us leaves?”
I shrug. “They get replaced. You replaced someone.”
He winces. “I did?”
“Yep. And someone else was replaced a few months ago.”
“Sounds like a machine.”
Marsha beckons me closer. She shows me a few new pieces, and also walks me along the clothing racks. We narrow down my style, and she helps select a few outfits for me to try on in the fitting room.
As I walk around with Marsha, I can’t help keeping an eye on Wyatt. He’s just so effortlessly gorgeous. His arms fold around his middle and his gaze wanders the clothes with slight curiosity. When Marsha picks out a short sleeve, white knit crop top and pairs it with a lilac and mauve tartan skirt, both eyes leave Wyatt. The outfit is super cute, and I take it and two other outfits to the fitting room.
As I enter my stall, the giggles of two girls break my concentration. I pull back the curtain two inches and watch the girls link arms as they slink their way toward Wyatt.
“Umm, hi,” one girl says, followed by a mass of nervous laughter.
Wyatt warily lifts a hand. “Hi.”
“Oh my gosh,” the other girl gushes. “It’s really you.”
Wyatt clutches his elbows and his posture straightens. “Have we met?”
This sends the girls into another fit of giggles.
“Ah, no,” one says, clutching her friend. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
“We’re huge fans,” her friend gushes.
Wyatt combs his fingers through his hair, and the girls almost collapse. “Well, thanks.”
The girls raise their phones and ask in unison, “Can we get a photo?”
As if on cue, Wyatt’s security guard approaches the three of them.
“It’s okay,” Wyatt tells the man in all-black. He then smiles at the girls, and lifts his index finger. “One photo.”
I grip the wall of the fitting room as my heart thunders in my chest.
One girl flings her phone at the security guard. “Take a photo of us, will you?”
The security guard presses his lips into a hard line, but obliges. The girls gather at Wyatt’s side, pressing their bodies against him as they squeal, “Cheese,” at the phone’s camera.
Wyatt’s grin grows, reveling in the adoration from the two girls.
The security guard gives the phone back. “Okay, ladies. Time to step back.”
