IMAGINES: Celebrity Encounters Starring You (50 page)

What happened?
Life happened. Your big shiny dream turned into a bleak memory once you found out that getting into MoMA was harder than robbing Fort Knox.

And you found yourself a job you didn’t love, working under
a boss you didn’t like, to pay the bills and the rent on your box of an apartment. You entertained yourself with glossy gossip magazines the clinic received for its clientele.

Your stomach grumbled again, and you realized that while you were poking away at the keyboard, you forgot to stop for lunch. You stretched a hand to peek through slits of the blinds and were shocked to find the whole street covered in white fluff.

You liked snow. It signified happy times, happy Christmas times. But you didn’t like it this much.

How long have I been sitting here?
you worried, biting down on your bottom lip.

You stood, stretching your hands up and shaking out your left leg, which had promptly fallen asleep. Walking to the front of the clinic, you turned on the radio.

“Snowmageddon 2.0 is upon us!” each radio host of every radio station you flipped to announced a little too proudly, like they had made up the term. Two years ago, you had experienced the devastating power of so much snow dumped on the city in such a short period. It had brought everything to a standstill. Flights had been delayed and many people stayed within their residences for days until the subways were running again and the roads were cleared. You were lucky enough to not have a job then and stayed safe, nestled in your apartment.

Not so lucky this time. Even if you powered through the files, you were looking at another two to three hours. The entire city could be buried deep in snow by then. You switched the radio to a cheerier station—there was no sense in wallowing . . . well, not much more than what you were already doing—and stopped at a quick-beat Ariana Grande pop song. You rolled your neck around, shaking the tension off your shoulders and dancing to the beat. What was that saying you found on your friend’s wall?
Dance like nobody’s watching
. It was about the only time
you let yourself dance, or else people might think you were having a seizure.

But the trick worked. Your mind worked better. You picked up the phone to make a quick call to your sister; even if you weren’t too sure what you could tell her. Before you could dial, there was a loud knock on the clinic’s glass front doors. Raising your chin, you saw a man standing outside waving at you.

You paused and warred with yourself. How easy would it be to ignore the man? Would your conscience let you think that he could survive the cold outside? Would your conscience let you sleep if he didn’t?

Then another thought came to mind . . . he just witnessed your dancing. Maybe he was more worried about you than he was of himself.

Placing the phone back on its cradle, you walked over to the door. The man’s hood covered most of his head, and as you neared, all you could see was his beard coated in snow. It made him look comical. It made him look like Santa. A homeless Santa.

Your subconscious waved the red flag—this thought had you taking a step back.

Homeless Santa waved again.

You waved back and mouthed, “We are closed.”

He lifted the phone in his hand and shouted, “It’s dead,” and gestured that he needed to make a call. The cell phone wasn’t exactly a clear sign that he wasn’t some homeless man. The other day, you spotted a bag lady strutting on the streets of Tribeca with designer kicks.

You mentally calculated the chances that this guy could possibly be a serial killer. The odds should have been enough to scare your pants off, but if he croaked out on the clinic’s doorstep, it would forever haunt you.

And it’s Christmas,
the angel on your shoulder reminded you.

You ran a hand over your dress, and the smooth fabric was a reminder that you were still lucky compared to those living on the streets. Slowly, you unlocked the door and inhaled deeply before opening it.

“Thank you. I just need to make a call.”

You nodded as you opened the door wider, letting the man in. You didn’t realize how tall he was until he stepped inside the warmth of the clinic’s waiting room, brushing snow off his shoulders, head, and face.

“I got lost on my way to my hotel.” You detected an accent as he went on. Australian? British? You were never good at figuring out which one. When he pushed the hood off his head, you were instantly rendered mute by the brightness of his almond-shaped eyes.

Are they blue? Green? Gray?
you wondered, and before you could stop yourself, you stepped closer to get a better perspective.
Hazel, fringed with dark lashes I know those eyes
.

“Hi.” His warm breath tickled your nose and made you aware of your proximity. “I’m Charlie.”

“Sorry. I was just . . .”
Ogling
was the right word, but you couldn’t say that out loud without embarrassing yourself even more. You took a wide step back as you told him your name and wrapped your arms around your waist. “You need to make a call.”

He nodded and gave you that sweet smile, one that nudged a little dimple on his right cheek and knocked the breath out of you.

Charlie “Hummunah-hummunah” Hunnam just smiled at you.

Snapping out of the daze, you abruptly turned around, almost tripping over your own feet as you made your way to the reception desk. “You can make the call here.”

When you turned on your heels again to hand him the
phone, you didn’t realize that he had followed you . . . and the smell of snow on his leather jacket overpowered all of your senses. Who knew the smell of fresh snow could put your panties into a twist?

“Thanks.” Just one, simple word.

It might as well be “Have my baby,” with that accent of his.

You walked around the desk and kept your hands busy rearranging the sticky notes and pens on the top, but all your focus was on Charlie. Through his conversation, you learned that Snowmageddon 2.0 had already blocked most of the major roads and bridges in and out of the city, stalled the subway system, and grounded all flights. Shocked by the news, you ran to the windows and stared hopelessly at the streets. It hadn’t looked threatening at first, but now the thick snow on top of the scaffolding across the street made you cower.

“I heard it’s gonna get worse.” It took you a second before you noticed that Charlie was talking to you. “I hope you don’t have big plans.”

You screwed your lips into a grimace. “I’m supposed to have dinner with my sister tonight.”

“I’m afraid that’s not going to happen, honey. My agent said it might take overnight to get someone out here. You might be stuck with me for a while.” Charlie leaned back against the desk, jammed his hands into his jeans pockets, and smirked. For a second, everything was okay with the world. Charlie called you
honey
. Charlie was there to keep you company. How bad could that be?

Horrible, if it meant you wouldn’t be able to reconnect with your sister, which you suddenly realized you’d actually been looking forward to. But what other choice did you have?

You excused yourself to make the call, leaving the Harley-riding Brit in reception. After the third ring, your sister picked
up, and once you explained the dilemma, you thanked your lucky stars that she was more understanding than you remembered. You promised to see her as soon as the roads cleared.

When your stomach complained again, you trudged to the staff kitchen and grabbed the sandwich you made for lunch and two small plates out of the cupboards. The moment you entered the waiting room, your heartbeat sped up.

How many times had you googled
Charlie Hunnam shirtless
in the past year? And here, Charlie had removed his jacket, leaving on only a tight white T, paired with his dark jeans and Nike Air Max 90 shoes. No matter how many times you’d seen his naked toned torso and killer abs on the screen, him sitting dressed in front of you was ten times better. Because he was there. He was real. And you were breathing the same air as Charlie Hunnam. Your wild imagination could run rampant.

“I have an egg sandwich we can share.” Immediately you wished you had a better offering. Then, knowing that he was as eco-conscious as you, you proudly added, “It’s free-range.”

You sat down, leaving an empty seat between you two, and placed the plates there, but a chill came over you. “Hmmm. It’s cold here.” The waiting room was often kept cooler than the rest of the clinic, and the institutional look of its white walls, hard plastic chairs, and stark fluorescent lighting didn’t help warm the area.

“Do you want my jacket?” He was already lifting it off the seat beside him.

Yes!
your brain shouted at you. But instead you jumped to your feet. “No. I have a better idea. Come.”

Without hesitation, Charlie gathered up the plates and followed you to the end of the hall, in front of Dr. Schwann’s office. You rifled through the office manager’s desk to find the key that would unlocked the dentist’s often-locked door.

You’d been inside it once, on the day your suspicions of
Dr. Schwann’s perviness were proven. He’d asked you to follow him into his office, only to receive an open-palm squeeze on your tush. You responded the only way you knew how—an open-palm slap on his face. You’d been prepared to receive a pink slip right after that, but you also discovered that day that as much as Dr. Schwann liked perky office assistants’ bottoms, he despised any hint of legal action. He stayed clear of you and you kept your head down.

Since then, you’d never set foot inside the office. It was everything its owner wasn’t: warm, welcoming, comfortable. A large wooden desk sat in the middle, and two leather chaises flanked a gas fireplace, which hung on a sandblasted brick wall. You hit a switch and dimmed the overhead lighting, then flicked on the fireplace. You looked over to Charlie, who glanced at you with hooded eyes and the sexiest bottom-lip bite you’d ever seen on a man.

Charlie strutted to one of the chaises and lounged on it, stretching his long legs over the leather and propping his head on one arm. “This is better.”

You set the plates on top of the glass coffee table in between the two chaises, and before you could sit and unabashedly stare at your companion, you remembered Dr. Schwann’s secret stash. Inside his third desk drawer, you found a pack of Skittles and a bottle of bourbon. You ran back to the kitchen to grab two glasses.

Charlie sat up, rubbing his hands together when he saw what you brought. “Now, we’re talkin’.” He offered you another heartbreaking smile.

THROUGHOUT YOUR SHARED DINNER,
with drinks and candies, Charlie enthralled you with his tales of how he was discovered, drunk, monkeying around in a shop in the UK. You held your
breath when he told you about the times—not just once, but twice—he’d scared off burglars from his old Hollywood home. He awed you with how much love and respect he had for his parents. And made your heart skip a beat when he described his ideal date with his ideal woman.

You could count on one hand how many celebrities you’d met—none as popular or engaging as Charlie. But there he sat, in front of you, in an office where you shouldn’t have been, while the snow continued to blanket the entire city, trumping your plans of reunion with your sister and your birthday celebration.

Alas! You had completely forgotten all about your birthday.

You stood, ignoring how the room swayed a bit. “Do you like cake, Charlie?” You felt a little tickle in your belly when you said his name.

“I love cake.”

“Good. I’ll be right back.” You run out and return with the log cake you had stashed in the staff fridge and two spoons. “It’s not the best, but it will do for now.”

“Why do you have cake?” Charlie’s eyes seemingly reflected the flickering flame of the fireplace.

You scoop a spoonful, and before taking the small piece to your mouth, you simply reply, “It’s kinda my birthday.”

Charlie’s eyes brightened. He straightened and produced a lighter out of his pocket. When he stood, he flicked on the lighter and waved it in the air, while he stretched out a hand to you. He hopped over the coffee table and knelt on one knee while he sang you a loud rendition of “Happy Birthday.” Before he let go of your hand, he pressed a kiss on your knuckle, while his gaze was directed on you.

A blush crept up your neck and colored your cheeks. When Charlie continued to trace kisses onto your wrist and your arm, your entire body’s temperature peaked at an alarming rate.

In a hushed tone, while he had your hand clasped in his, he said, “I’m sorry you had to spend the night with me instead of your family.”

“I’m not.”

Charlie tipped your chin with his thumb and placed a tender kiss on your parted lips. “Happy birthday.” He sidled beside you and took the spoon out of your hand, using the spoon to scoop a slice of the cake. He tasted it. “You’re right. This really isn’t the best cake. I know a place; once we’re out of here, I’ll buy you the best cake in the city.”

“Or I can make it for you,” you offered, trying to steal the spoon back, but instead Charlie thrust it back into the cake, then held out a spoonful of it for you to take.

Charlie cocked his head to one side, quirking one corner of his lips up. “You bake?”

“I try.” You took a bite of the thoroughly mediocre cake.

“Tell me more about you.”

He might have asked to be polite, but you didn’t think life would afford you another chance like this. While you recounted almost every minute of your life—including why you worked a job you didn’t like, why you hadn’t seen your sister for years, and why your dream job as a curator had turned into a pipe dream—you discovered that Charlie was a great listener. With this you suspected—and also from binge-watching
Sons of Anarchy
on Netflix—that he was the type of guy who wasn’t just an amazing lover but also a caring friend. A man who would protect you from a home invader, who would make you laugh by singing off-key, who would hold your hand and feed you cake throughout a snowstorm.

But guys like him only happen in dreams and on TV and movies. Compared to his Hollywood life, yours was dull and bleak like the winter sky.