IMAGINES: Celebrity Encounters Starring You (51 page)

With high amounts of icing sugar, bourbon, and reality’s disappointments coursing through your veins, you suddenly felt out of place and tried to excuse yourself to continue the pile of work you still had to do.

But Charlie took your hand, asking if he’d done something wrong. You explained why you found yourself stuck in the office on your birthday, on Christmas Eve. Charlie walked with you back to your desk, dragged a chair beside you, and sat on it, offering to help you with your task. You couldn’t think of anything more boring for him to do, but he insisted.

After a few moments of riffling through the files, he sighed and buried his hands in his hair. “I have an idea. Any time I read a
Smith
surname, I’ll take something off.”

You laughed at his silliness and his attempts at making your life seem more interesting. “I’m not going to agree to that. It’s the most common last name in the USA—you’ll be naked in no time!”

“C’mon. It’ll be fun.”

“
You
’ll take off your clothes?”

He sucked his bottom lip between rows of white teeth. “Yes. . . . However, to be fair, if the surname
Brown
appears, you have to take something off.”

“What? No way!” You shook your head. You could already feel the start of a blush on your cheeks. You’d read somewhere that the last name
Brown
was a common name in the city.

“It will make this go quicker.” He tapped the files on his right thigh. He tilted his chin up and regarded you with those mesmerizing eyes. It was a dare. A dare that a few hours ago you wouldn’t have thought you’d ever encounter, let alone consider doing. Yet, here you were, in front of one of Hollywood’s sexiest actors, about to play his game.

He was right; it did make the time go faster. It also made you feel like the luckiest girl in the world. By the time you went
through the files, all he had left on was one sock and his underwear. Meanwhile, all you had had to take off were your shoes and stockings. You stretched your arms up, pumping your fists into the air.

“You win . . .
this
time,” Charlie said, smirking.

“I’m not always this lucky. But seriously, you better put your clothes back on before you catch a cold.” As you grabbed his shirt off the floor and threw it at him, a knock echoed through the office. “Who could that be?”

Before leaving him to dress and checking to see who was knocking on the clinic’s door, you snuck a quick glance back, catching Charlie bent over as he put on his jeans.
I’m never this lucky,
you thought.

Like always, your luck ran out.

Charlie ran to meet you in the waiting room, ensuring that you were safe. But the man at the door turned out to be someone his agent had sent over with a monster truck capable of plowing through the thick snow.

“Would you like to come with me to my hotel?” Charlie asked. “We could just chill out there.”

In your head, you ran through the list of women you were acquainted and friends with who would jump at the chance of spending the night with Charlie Hunnam, although after spending most of the late afternoon and night with him, you’d learned that he was as sweet as he was gentle and polite.

Shaking your head, you declined. “I should go to my sister’s.”

Charlie nodded, understanding what it would mean to you and to your sister.

Quietly and quickly, the two of you cleaned up your boss’s office from the impromptu dinner, and while you gathered all of your stuff, including the half-eaten Yule log cake, Charlie waited by the door.

THE RIDE TO YOUR SISTER’S
was bumpy and surprisingly short, but it was a welcome distraction from the thundering of your heart. This was it. The end of a daydream.

Charlie helped you hop out of the truck and walked you to the door of your sister’s apartment. He stood in front of you, oozing sex appeal. As the snow continued to fall, fluttering thick groupings of snowflakes all around you, he wrapped you in a tight embrace and kissed the top of your head. You circled your arms around him and held on.

With a final inhale of his intoxicating scent, you let go. With some reluctance, so did Charlie. You rang your sister’s apartment, and after verifying it was you on the intercom, she buzzed you in. While Charlie held the door open for you with one hand, he cupped the back of your head with the other and gave you a kiss that would destroy all other kisses. You swayed on your feet as he slowly released you.

“Happy Birthday and Merry Christmas,” he whispered in your ear before turning around and walking back to the truck.

You slipped into your sister’s apartment building, convinced that everything had been a dream. When she welcomed you into her arms and, essentially, back into her life, you almost wanted to break down.

“I’m glad you’re safe. But how did you get here?” she asked, helping you out of your coat.

“I got a ride.” You almost didn’t sound too sure.

“Well, we have an extra bedroom you can stay in tonight. We can sort everything else out tomorrow.”

“That would be great. . . .
Oh, no!
” Your hand flew to your mouth as you remembered that you had brought the half-eaten cake with you, only to forget it in the truck. “The cake! I forgot—”

You were interrupted by a knock on the door, and when your sister opened it, Charlie held out the thoroughly mediocre cake to her, leaving her as shocked as you were when you first recognized him.

“Your cake,” he said with a sly smile.

“Oh my God, you’re . . . but you’re . . .” your sister stammered.

“I’m Charlie, your sister’s date.” Charlie turned to you and winked as he stepped into the apartment.

You could have been under the sun, getting your tan on, and drinking colorful, fruity drinks. Instead, you spent your birthday and the Eve of Christmas with your long-lost sister and the man of your dreams.

Maybe your luck hadn’t run out after all.

Y
ou’re a journalist, older, cynical, and yet . . .

There’s something exciting about a film-set tour; sure, you’ve done a few over the years, but still, the magic of the movie business never ceases to amaze, to excite you, to make you feel younger than your forty-five years.

This set tour is particularly exciting: lunch with the international cast and crew, then a one-on-one with a few of the stars. You didn’t do these things often anymore; hard news was more your style these days, but the movies were your first love, and anytime you could get back to the magic of it, you were there with bells on. And you certainly had bells on today (well, not really; in actuality, you were wearing red Cons, a gypsy skirt, a sensible top, and a long string of beads that matched your glasses), but still. Yes, you were a hard-news journalist, but you still dressed like an entertainment editor, and let’s face it, this beat sitting in a courtroom trying not to fall asleep.

The movie was billed as the next big thing—a blockbuster in the making. You were a big fan of the director’s and knew of a couple of the cast members—well, one in particular, your teenaged daughter’s current crush. Rani had squealed when you told her where you were going; today you were the cool mum (it didn’t happen often now that she was seventeen—careening headlong
toward being an adult—so you relished it). Her younger sister, Hazel, thirteen and full of attitude, was a little nonplussed, though she did give you a thumbs-up when you dropped them at school on the way north to the job. You kind of wished you could bring them with you, but this wasn’t “take your kid to work day”—this was a feature story for your paper, part of the weekend supplement, a big deal!

Really, though, it was mainly a favor to your friend who was the PR and had arranged this whole press junket.

Still it was fun, and you’d promised your girls a few pictures. You’d jokingly told Rani you’d bring home a Nicholas-shaped doggie bag.

That was his name, Nicholas Hoult, the current flavor of the month. He was the star of the newer
X-Men
movies and
Mad Max
—though Rani preferred him all “zombied up” in
Warm Bodies
. His inner monologue gets her every time—that and the eyeliner. You’ve got to love a boy in eyeliner apparently.

He’s also incredibly tall, appealing to a teen Amazon who was five feet eleven inches in her stocking feet.

You knew he was above-average height going in, but catching him filming on set, you were struck by just how tall he was. You’re only in the mid-fives, but this guy, this guy would look a Hemsworth in the eye, and given you came eye to pecs with Chris Hemsworth a few months ago during an interview, you’re glad you’ll be sitting down when you talk to him. You’re nervous enough; these things always make you nervous.

At lunch you sit with your friend and the director and a couple of the crew members. Casey started in newspapers but was now the PR for the studio. You’d known her for a while—she’d been a cadet at your paper; you’d trained her. Now she was hobnobbing with celebs.

The other journalists in today’s scrum were honing in on
the “movie stars,” ensuring they were all “on” when they should have been taking a breather. You felt sorry for them. Nic had two young women sitting either side of him and another across from him. Your partner in crime for today, photographer James, was sitting across from Nic too, though you didn’t know if he’d been attracted by the movie star, with whom he apparently shared a love of cars, which he’d explained in great detail on your rather hair-raising journey to the studio—first rule of journalism: don’t let the photographer drive! Or maybe he was attracted to the nubile things around Nic.

Nic was smiling and animated, giving the trio of young “journalists” his full attention, and they were hanging on his every word. None of them looked much older than Rani, but that was the way of things these days: papers, radio stations, and online media were employing younger and younger journalists, barely out of university (barely out of nappies). You were the
T. rex
of the journalism world. A dinosaur from the time when newspapers were king and first-year cadets spent more time making coffee than writing stories. Now they were writing the front pages and throwing themselves at young actors. Apparently.

“So what did you think?” Paul, the director, said, grabbing your attention just as you were about to shovel the catering company’s vegetarian lasagna into your mouth.

“It looks fantastic!” you enthuse. “Thanks for opening your doors to the media. It’s great to see where the taxpayers’ money is going and how many Queenslanders and Australians are being employed on this project.”

“It’s great that we could film here. Everyone has been welcoming; it was the least we could do. But of course you can’t print the entire story—there are things you’ll have to wait a few months to print, obviously—the movie’s details, etc.”

You nod sagely. “Mmmm, but I’d better write it now—a
week is a long time in journalism, let alone a year,” you quip. You both laugh, though you both know with the way your industry is changing, you’re only half joking.

“Yes, both our industries are pretty transient these days. We’ve only got two more weeks here, and then it’s off to Africa for three weeks, and then I go into production and the cast scatter around the world,” Paul said. “I feel sorry for young Nic in particular—he’s done three movies on the trot all around the world, and he has a fourth one now, and then some promotional stuff. He hasn’t been home in a very long time.”

You look across to where Nic and James and their media harem are sitting, but this time you have more than a “dad look” as your daughters would say. Even from this distance (thank God you have your glasses on) you can see how tired he looks; you can see that though he is flirting, the smiles that cross his face don’t reach his eyes. Acting can be glamorous on the outside, but up close it was a lot of hard work and time away from your family. You look and you don’t see a glamorous celebrity, a sexy man in his midtwenties; you see a boy a long way from home, and your heart goes out to him.

And you know right now you’re going to mother the crap out of him—you’re famous for it. Out of the corner of your eye you see Casey smile to herself. That devious little cow—she planned this. She knows you can’t resist a stray; you have a dog and two rescue cats and your house is often full of your daughters’ teenaged friends. And now you’re set to adopt a Hollywood heartthrob. Well, this is a first!

It comes as little surprise to Casey or you that after your one-on-one with Nic, you’ve invited him to dinner.

It was his own fault. He (a) said he’d lost fifteen kilos doing this movie and (b) mentioned how much he missed his mother’s home cooking and roast dinners, even once expressing that you
“look a bit like her.” You were hooked and he was doomed to an evening of roast lamb and family—not his own, admittedly, but family nonetheless.

You ring your man to tell him there will be one more for dinner, and you can almost hear him roll his eyes—he’s used to your strays. You wonder briefly if you should warn your kids. But they’ll be at school, and while Hazel is in her first year at high school, Rani is in her last and is distracted enough. No, this can be your little surprise.

Casey takes you aside and thanks you. While Nic has been happy enough, been partying and enjoying his surroundings, he’s talked about his family a lot. He needs a bit of family life, a bit of perking up—and as your nickname is Perky, she believes you’re the woman for the job.

Plus, if you get something in your mind, it’s hard to move it—you’re a terrier and he’s a bone, and even though he’s started to play tough guys, they always have an edge of vulnerability. After a few short hours around him you start to see that these guys aren’t quite the act they would like the world to think.

You file your story quickly—it’s only the preliminary about the shoot—and an hour and a half later you are back to pick him up.

You ring Casey and she brings him out to your waiting car.

He’s incognito—as well disguised as six feet four inches’ worth of frankly stunning-looking brown-haired, blue-eyed man-boy can be. Out of his space-suit costume and poured into a tight white T-shirt, brown leather jacket and tight blue jeans, aviators and a baseball cap, he’s breathtaking, much more man now than boy, and you briefly fantasize about not going home at all. But it’s only brief as you see a bemused look in his eye when he clocks your tiny, beat-up blue hatchback complete with Tinker Bell seat covers and Tinker Bell flying from the rearview mirror. The back is full of shoes, clothes, textbooks, and a trombone.