Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 116999 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 585(@200wpm)___ 468(@250wpm)___ 390(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116999 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 585(@200wpm)___ 468(@250wpm)___ 390(@300wpm)
Basically, I’m not a teenage girl, so why the hell am I nervous?
Is it the fame thing? Are us ‘nobodies’ pre-programmed to be intimidated by famous people? As I step out into the lobby and spot Laurence fucking Cole chatting away to Andrew in the bar opposite, I realise that yes, yes we are.
“Okay,” I mouth before blowing out a readying puff of air. As I walk, I take in the modern lobby, the high gloss floors, the amount of white furniture and pristine smear-free glass everywhere. The décor is a good distraction.
The bar comes into better view. The whites and glass shifts to greys and chrome. I’m spotted, like prey. “William!” My name in that chipper tone is starting to feel like a warning bell.
I wave, lift my lips into my best fake smile. I’m becoming rather brilliant at it. Must be where Ben inherited that superb acting talent of his. Two hands await when I reach their table. I shake Andrew’s first because it’s closest, then Laurence’s. Fucking hell. What in the mother of Mary fuck just happened in my belly? I think I might officially be a teenage fucking girl.
“William, Laurie. Laurie, William,” Andrew says, introducing us. Andrew takes his seat first.
Laurence follows, his gaze locked on my face. “Nice to meet you, pal,” one of the most well-known people in the world says to me. To me.
Scottish? I don’t remember him being Scottish. Then again, I’ve never paid any real attention to a celebrity until one was seated directly in front of me. Oddly, I can’t look away from Laurence’s stare while lowering myself into my own chair, despite how uncomfortable it makes me. I’m sitting across from a real-life famous person. I know that’s the reason why. He’s handsome in the flesh. Brown hair, hint of auburn. Square jaw, darkened by an evening shadow. Prominent Adam’s apple that moves slowly when he swallows the whisky he’s just brought to his lips. He’s got youthful eyes. Blue. Enigmatic. The small scar above his left lid doesn’t detract from their magnetism.
I’m unsure how old he is. I don’t follow his status. At a guess, I’d put him at five, six, maybe seven years my junior.
“William?”
“Sorry, yes?” Shit.
Andrew looks puzzled, while an impish smirk curls one side of Laurence’s mouth.
“Sorry,” I say again, turning to Andrew. I force a cough, clearing the sudden lump in my throat. “I just remembered I forgot to return my wife’s call. Distracted me for a moment.” Why am I lying?
“I was just asking if you wanted to eat here or elsewhere. I can get us a reservation pretty much anywhere. But if you need to call your wife first?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I should.” I pull out from the table, stand up. “And here’s fine for me,” I say, hoping he’ll agree. I expect the kind of places they’re used to making reservations at are way out of my price range. Still, I feel obliged to add, “But I’m happy with whatever you decide. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
My legs carry me from that bar like I’m making a jailbreak. I’m too hot. Flustered. I head outside rather than back to my room, embracing the evening breeze. Perhaps I’m making the wrong career move if this is what being around famous people does to me. I should research who else is starring alongside Laurence Cole in this movie before they start filming next week. Prepare myself. Ensure my pathetic display in the bar doesn’t repeat itself.
Phone in hand, I call my wife. She’ll get my head back on straight. “Hey, you,” I say as soon as she answers. “Are you home?”
“Yeah. Only just. How’s life as a southerner treating you?”
“The hotel is great. Huge. Posh. Comfy bed. But I’ve just made a massive tit of myself in front of Laurence fucking Cole, so there’s that.”
“Oh my God!” she shrieks, excitable. She sounds like our daughter. “You met him?”
“Uh huh. Didn’t say anything. Just stared at him like a bloody idiot.”
“Oh, Will.” Sympathetic words that mean little when coated with laughter. “Wait till I tell the kids you’ve met a film star.”
“You can tell them I’m having dinner with said film star when I hang up the phone.”
“Seriously?”
“Yup. Hopefully I’ll manage more than staring. I dunno if I’m cut out for this, Becs.”
“It’s bound to be overwhelming, babe,” she says, giggles replaced with sincerity. “He’s famous. It’s a big deal! I’m sure it’ll wear off.”
“Yeah.” I bloody hope so. I’m a grown man for fuck’s sake. “Did the kids tidy up like they promised?”
“They didn’t rinse the plates before loading the dishwasher, so the filter is clogged with cornflakes, but they tried. That counts, right?”
I don’t know whether to laugh or sigh. “We spoiled them, you know. How are they going to function when they go off on their own?”