Page 20 of My Charming Rival (Stars In Their Eyes 1)
She gasped, like what I’ve uttered is clandestine news. “I’d never check him out.”
Laughing, I said, “You can fool most of the people with that line, but I know straying eyes when I see them, and yours were wandering, my friend. He’s a hottie.”
“And you’re a troublemaker. See you Friday.”
I hung up, glad to have snagged a little side gig. The occasional shoot like that helped pay a few bills.
I showered, dressed, ate an apple and a plain yogurt, and hopped on my scooter to swing by the hospital. I needed to drop off Jennifer’s certification renewal with Helen, the bawdy salt-and-pepper-haired woman who ran the volunteer program, as well as the hospital’s human resources department. I knocked on her open door, and she quickly waved me in. She was guzzling a latte and pointing to the computer screen.
“It’s Reeve Larkin,” she said, waving a hand in front of her face, as if she was fanning herself. “Shirtless. From Escorted Lives Part III. I’m dying from the hotness.”
My eyebrows shot up to my hairline. “Show me,” I said because Reeve was a certified babe. He’d risen to stardom in the first two Escorted Lives pictures, based on the mega bestselling erotic romance novels, and while he’d been shirtless in the first two flicks—not to mention pants-free, too—his chest was still a sight to behold.
Helen leaned forward and kissed the screen. “Some day he will be mine,” she said, leaving red lipstick marks on Reeve’s chest.
I laughed. “Good luck tearing him away from Sutton,” I said, referring to his wife, well known in Hollywood circles for her work as a casting director.
“A woman can dream,” Helen said in a wistful tone, then gulped more of her latte.
I handed her the papers. “Dream big, then. And here is Jennifer’s renewal.”
“Excellent. Keep bringing that hound by. The kids love her, and I love chatting with my favorite gossip hound,” she said.
“The hound and the hound are happy to be here. See you next time.”
Several minutes later, I pulled up to the university parking lot for my advanced biology class. After the lecture on gene organization, the professor reminded us about the quiz tomorrow, then tossed out some rapid-fire sample questions. I’d been studying for it for weeks, so my mind wandered briefly to William, and his coursework. He’d been speaking Spanish yesterday at the beach, then said he knew Japanese and was studying East Asian languages. I wondered how he knew so many languages, why he took pictures, and if he was paying for college himself as well. Most of all, I was curious how he felt about all those things. Did he feel the way I felt? Tense. Poised. The weight of the world on your shoulders.
The professor called on me and asked me a question about cell structure. I wasn’t paying attention, so I plucked an answer out of thin air.
“Very good,” he said, and I was pleased that my impromptu guess was correct. Good thing William hadn’t worked his hot guy magic yet to distract me from school. I had to stay strong, though, and remain impervious to his charms.
8
William
A quick Google search revealed the initials MT stood for…waiting, waiting, waiting.
Ah, there it was.
Of course.
Monica Tremaine. That was all I needed because everyone knew she had the most distinctive identifying feature in all of celebrity culture.
I raced through the hall in the University of Los Angeles building where I’d just finished my two morning classes in Traditional East Asian Civilization—one for Japan, one for China. J.P. had sent the assignment only three minutes ago. As I picked up the pace, I tapped out a curt reply: I’m on it. Will have them.
Rushing to the parking lot, I hopped on my bike and started the engine. Desperately needing to land the shot first this time, I repeated J.P’s orders as I weaved through late morning traffic. Get a shot of MT. She’ll be ordering an iced latte in an hour at the Sbux near those punk crap shoe stores on Melrose.
After finding the spot, I parked then grabbed a position, leaning casually against a shoe store that peddled buckle-laden boots and chunky platform shoes. My eyes were shielded with my aviator shades, but I wasn’t trying to go incognito as a shooter. Besides, the celeb I was pursuing wanted to be recognized. This celeb preened for all the cameras, and dozens of photographers were lying in wait for the call of the booty. Across the street, I noticed a guy with a soul patch pacing the sidewalk as he clutched a camera. A couple stores over, a gray-haired and well-weathered guy smoked as he fiddled with his camera lenses. Down the street, a girl with a red braid hunched over her Vespa, waiting to snap a shot. They didn’t even pretend with Monica. There was no need to. Monica lived her life in the public eye.
