Already Famous Page 3

  But this situation is strange. This beautiful, funny, interesting girl knows Adam Reynolds, as in ‘on a first name basis’ knows him. Now I really hate him. An icy cold sensation creeps down my spine, causing me to clutch my hands into fists under the table. What if he fucked Sydney? I’d have to break his neck, not that I wouldn’t have before, but if he touched her. Fuck!

  Struggling to contain my anger at the knowledge that this jerk knows this intriguing woman, I can’t help but ask, “You know him?” I stab my finger at his stupid picture.

  She seems bewildered, an almost sickened look on her face. “Yes. No. Kind of. I don’t know. I don’t understand. He comes in here a lot. We sit together when we’re here at the same time, maybe a dozen times over the last few months. I only know him from the Coffee Bar. I’ve never seen him outside of here. And I guess I never asked enough personal questions for me to know that he would appear on the cover of freaking GQ magazine!”

  Good. I let out the breath I had been holding. So she doesn’t really know him. She’s seen him in here though. And interestingly, she didn’t know he was a celebrity either. This girl must literally live under a rock. There’s no way she doesn’t know who Adam Reynolds is.

  “You had no idea that the man you have been chatting with for several months was Adam Reynolds? Grammy winning lead singer of Sphere of Irony, Adam Reynolds? That’s crazy? Everyone knows who he is.” Okay, now I sound like the cold bastard that I usually am around women. It’s that damn Reynolds, I can’t stand him!

  “Look, Sydney doesn’t own a TV. She doesn’t read gossip rags, or follow celebrity bullshit, okay?” Shocked, I look over at Sydney’s tiny blonde friend. She sounds angry, but she’s actually assuring me that Sydney really has no idea who Adam is, and letting me know that Sydney doesn’t know who I am either. “She doesn’t care about that crap, so trust me, no, she had no clue who he was.” I think I owe this girl a thank you. She’s trying to explain Sydney to me and help me score with her friend.

  “Leah!” Embarrassed, Sydney turns and looks at me after admonishing her friend. “I just don’t care for that whole scene, you know? I’m not interested in famous people’s lives, and everything on TV sucks so I just don’t bother with it.”

  I study Sydney intently. Wanting to know what she’s thinking more than I’ve ever wanted to know anything before. Doesn’t like celebrity gossip, go to the movies, or watch TV? Who is this girl? I smile, she can’t be real.

  “Ok, I believe you. I’ve just never met anyone who wasn’t at least familiar with most famous faces, let alone held multiple conversations with one on a first name basis and still didn’t recognize them. I think it’s great. People do spend too much time obsessing over celebrities and in front of the TV. It’s nice to know that not everyone is like that.”

  She’s too good to be true. I drink more coffee to keep from blurting out that I might be in love with her.

  Leah’s mouth falls open after my hypocritical, anti-celebrity speech. She must think I’m crazy, but it’s true. I love acting, but all the famous shit is exactly that, shit.

  She draws her eyebrows together in bewilderment and then relaxes her features to turn back to Sydney. “I wanted to show you his interview, Syd.” She flips open the magazine to a folded page and points something out to Sydney. “Right here, see what Adam says?”

  Sydney, clearly irritated, bats Leah’s hand out of her way and reads from the article out loud.

  GQ: So you’ve been in New York City for the last 3 months recording your new solo album, do you have any favorite haunts in the city?

  AR: Well, I’ve been right busy, and the studio hours are really early, but Galaxy, a nightclub in SoHo is brilliant. And there’s a neat little café, the Village Coffee Bar, in the West Village that makes the best specialty croissants you’ve ever had.

  GQ: Who knew you were a croissant lover?

  AR: I know, (laughing, he smacks his abs with his hand) I can’t eat too many, it’s too painful to sweat off later in the gym. I’m hoping to make it back to New York soon, because a friend of mine is redesigning Verve, the nightclub at the Warren Hotel, I’ve seen some of her work and she’s quite the talent. I’m keen on checking it out.

  GQ: I’m sure the Warren will send you an invite to the opening.

  AR: Hopefully. (Crosses fingers and laughs)

  Sydney’s voice wavers as she reaches the last few sentences. Okay, so he mentions the coffee shop, Sydney already said that she met him here before. That explains why all these women are flocking into the café and standing around doing nothing. Each one of them is hoping to catch a glimpse of the magnificent asshat, Adam Reynolds. I know he’s in New York recording an album because, lucky me, I saw him at that New Year’s Eve Party last week.

  “Shit.”

  I look up when Sydney curses and see that she appears ill. Her coloring is pale and she’s shaking.

  What the hell is going on?

  “I know, Syd. I know.” Leah’s face crumples as she looks at her friend. “But think of all the publicity the Warren is getting. If they didn’t already love you, they really love you now. This is why it’s so busy in here today. I know Adam just thought he was helping you and me out. He doesn’t know about you, Syd.”

  Adam doesn’t know what? What is in the GQ article that helps Sydney out? I had already heard that the Warren Hotel is redesigning their nightclub. Adam even references that in the magazine. Does Sydney know something about the new nightclub? Can she get him into the opening? That’s low even for Reynolds, using a magazine to ask a chick out. And what about Kiera? He’ll just fuck both of them?

  Jesus Forrester, control it. I can feel the anger clawing its way up from my gut. I have no idea why I’m feeling this way, I hardly know her.

  Before I can ask any of the million or so questions that are overwhelming my mind, Sydney throws the magazine across the table and stands up, wrapping her arms around her waist as if she’s physically holding herself together. “I can’t talk about this now. Call me later.”

  What? She can’t just leave again! I’m not done talking to her.

  Leah snatches up the GQ and stares at me one last time, her intelligent eyes narrowing as if trying to figure out my motives with her friend. “Nice to meet you, Drew,” she says and stalks off to the serving counter, her blonde ponytail bouncing around behind her.

  While I’m sitting here worrying about Leah’s reaction to me, I notice that Sydney is swiping all of her stuff into her giant purse and throwing away her trash. She’s running away from me for the second time in a week! She can’t just leave without giving me a way to contact her. I leap up out of my seat to follow Sydney out. “Are you leaving?”

  Fuck, now I’m panting after this chick like a dog.

  She’s stuffing her arms into her coat like the place is on fire. “Yes, I need to get out of here.” She finds out a guy she chats with occasionally is famous, so she freaks out and runs away? This makes no sense.

  Sydney is clearly distraught. I can’t let her walk home like this, what if someone takes advantage of her? “I’m going with you, you’re upset. I can walk you home if you like.”

  Then maybe I’ll get her to give me her number. God, I sound like a stalker. A famous, movie star, lunatic, Adam Reynolds-hating stalker.

  “Drew, you’re being very nice considering I just acted like a total psycho. Just because you saved me once doesn’t mean that you have an obligation to walk me home.” She looks in my eyes and I see it there, behind the fear. She doesn’t want to end our conversation either, but for whatever reason, she needs to be somewhere else right now. I feel hope rising up in me.

  Be honest with her Forrester.

  I reach out and touch her arm to stop her from bolting out of the café. Just like the last time, a spark of electricity shoots straight to my dick. Jesus, calm down. I can’t let her see a damn tent in my pants.

  “First of all, you’re not a psycho, well, maybe a little for sitting with a strange pseudo
-repellant man who gives really good first aid and rides home to bleeding women. Second, I know I’m not obligated to walk you home, but I don’t think you should be alone when you’re upset. Plus, I just like talking to you and was hoping we could talk more.”

  She nods at me, a little stunned. Maybe when I touched her she felt it too. I grab the brim of my cap and pull it down to hide from the Adam Reynolds’ fan club in the café and follow her outside.

  Shit, this is my chance. Go big or go home, right?

  CHAPTER 3

  We’re out on the freezing cold sidewalk and Sydney is just standing there twitching, her eyes wide with panic. Did she change her mind about me?

  “So which way is your place? I’ll walk you home and we can talk if you want.” I’m praying that she doesn’t tell me to get the hell away from her. Playful, fun Sydney is gone and the nervous and scared Sydney from the other day is back.

  She turns her unfocused eyes to me and seems to snap out of her daze. “Okay. That sounds great.” Sydney rattles off her street and building number. Her address is just a few blocks from mine, but then, Bruce already told me that.

  God, I really am a stalker.

  I feel the overwhelming need to hurry up and find out more about her in case she doesn’t let me spend more time with her after this. Her place is close, so I may only get fifteen minutes at the most.

  “So, how long have you lived in Manhattan, Sydney?”

  Her face pales at my question. Damn, this girl is beyond private. She answers me reluctantly, “Twelve years, you?”

  Good, actual back and forth conversation. That’s much easier than trying to wheedle information out of her like a creepy lurker. “I’ve been here for ten years. Funny how the island is only thirty-three square miles but we can both live here for a decade and never meet and then run into each other twice in a week,” I ramble, trying to fill the silence and encourage her to open up.

  It’s like fate, don’t you think?

  I decide not to ask the last part. She’d run away for sure, especially since it’s not fate that I found her, I’m a goddamn fucking stalker. I smile at the ridiculousness of this situation, of what I’ve become since meeting her. A love sick puppy with a creepy stalking habit and a perpetual hard-on.

  “That’s what I love about New York. You can be invisible if you want to.” She actually cringes after she tells me this. Who fucked this girl up so much? There has to be a reason that she’s so afraid of discussing herself. I want to beat the ever loving shit out of whoever did this to her.

  I stop, and grasp her small arm gently. I don’t want to freak her out but I can’t let her talk so badly about herself or watch her cower on the sidewalk like I’m going to kick her. “Sydney, you could never be invisible.”

  She came out of nowhere and fell into my isolated world, making me feel things I haven’t felt in a long time and she can’t see how amazing she is. It’s so frustrating to finally find someone real and interesting, only to realize that they think they’re worthless.

  I let go of her arm and keep walking toward her place. I don’t want her to see how upset I am, if she sees my horrific temper this early on, she’ll never want to talk to me again.

  We reach her building and stop out front. I’m relieved to see that it’s a nice place. Safe, with a doorman and a concierge. I relax knowing she lives here and not in some dump. Her doorman greets her and steps aside to let her enter. “Miss Allen, welcome home.” Sydney Allen, now I have a last name to go with her first.

  The mysterious Sydney Allen speaks to me, her cheeks and nose slashed with pink from the cold. “Ummmm, do you want to come in and continue talking? I mean, well …”

  Thank god, I had been holding my breath, anticipating her blowing me off and having to think of a way to stretch out this encounter. Grinning, I gladly accept her invitation to go upstairs.

  Okay, so Sydney Allen has money. A lot of money. I wonder what she does. She’s not in show business, that’s for damn sure, and she’s too young to have earned it on Wall Street. She can’t be older than her early twenties.

  “This place is great,” I tell her as I look around. Her loft is big, maybe four or five thousand square feet if I had to guess. There are only two doors in the hallway, so I’m assuming she has half of the floor. Pre-war, five-thousand square foot, updated loft in the West Village with a doorman? Big money for sure.

  She stops in the foyer and holds out a slender hand. “Thanks. Let me take your coat and, uhhh, hat.” She looks disgusted by my choice of headwear.

  My hat. I forgot I have my lucky Red Sox hat on. She probably wouldn’t care that catcher Trevor Caldwell wore this for the entire 2004 World Series-winning season. He gave it to me when I met him and practically bowed at his feet.

  I hand her my coat but keep the hat, removing it and tossing it onto the nearby coffee table. I can’t wear it in the house, it’s impolite, and besides she looks grossed out by it. “That’s pretty old and sweaty; I wouldn’t want you to have to touch it.”

  I try to hold in my laughter as she wrinkles her nose at my hat. It is fairly disgusting if you didn’t realize that it was kept unwashed on purpose for an entire season of baseball in order to win with World Series. Well, maybe it’s disgusting even if you do know that.

  I wander into the living area and she turns toward the kitchen. “Would you like a drink? I know it’s not even five o’clock, but I have no shame in indulging in a beer this early”

  “A beer would be great. Thanks, Sydney,” I call out to her.

  While she’s making noise in the kitchen, I take a closer look around the room, trying to gather any little bit of information about this girl from her possessions. She’s not super forthcoming about herself so I’ll take what I can get. A quick peek around and a few photos of her in Europe are the only personal items I can find. Even her home reveals nothing.

  Sydney comes back and hands me an amber bottle of beer. “You’ve been to a lot of places.” I motion toward the photos and look down at the drink in my hand. She gave me a Sam Adams, my hometown’s best brew, and she drinks it straight from the bottle. Seriously, is there nothing about this girl that I’m not already in love with?

  She stands just out of my reach, eyeing me speculatively. “Yes, I’ve traveled a bit. How about you? Ever been to Europe?”

  I don’t want to talk about me, Miss Allen.

  “Yes, I’ve been to most of Europe.” I answer and take a seat on the couch, my eyes not leaving her. She sits on the other end of the couch and downs a huge portion of her beer, probably out of nervousness, but it’s still sexy watching those lips wrapped around the bottle.

  I need to know more about her. “I noticed that you really don’t own a TV, unless you’ve hidden it somewhere. So, why don’t you like the entertainment industry, Sydney?” I could be skating on thin ice with this question. She might recognize me and tell me to get the hell out.

  Sydney’s eyebrows shoot up in alarm and her shoulders hunch forward just a bit, like she’s trying to protect herself again. “I … I really don’t feel like answering that right now, if that’s okay with you?”

  Fuck, I upset her. Her eyes dart away and she drinks another huge gulp, leaving only a little beer left in her bottle. I’m making her uneasy, I need to fix this. I shift a little closer to her, so I can see her expressive eyes. “Sydney, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. Maybe someday you’ll feel like you can trust me enough to tell me. I’m patient.”

  I shouldn’t lie to her. I’m far from patient. Patience isn’t even on my radar. I want her and I want her now, but for her I’ll wait.

  Her eyes open wide in surprise and her mouth falls open. I have no idea what she’s thinking, and I’m usually very good at reading people. “Even though I barely know you I do feel like I can trust you, Drew, but that’s a part of me that I don’t like talking about. I’m just not able to go there. Not yet.”

  She gives me
a tiny smile and I let out a huge breath. She trusts me, which is strange, because she’s barely told me a thing about herself and knows next to nothing about me. I can only imagine how she treats people she doesn’t trust. She pounds the rest of her beer and gets up, grabs the empty bottle from me that I don’t remember drinking, and heads for her kitchen.

  No way am I letting her get in there alone and give her time to decide to kick me out. I hop up and follow her. I’m going to go all in and see if she’s as attracted to me as I am to her. Like I always say, go big or go home.

  When I enter the kitchen, she’s placing the bottles in the sink with her back to me. I walk right up behind her and get as close as I can without touching. She turns around and I’m inches from her gorgeous pink lips. Shit, it’s so hard not to just throw her on the table and take what I want, what I’m used to getting without even trying. I know I could probably have her like that, but she’s different. I’m interested in her, I want more from her.

  I breathe deep and lean my hands on the countertop, trapping her between my body and the sink. She smells like oranges and flowers and I can feel the heat coming off of her delectable body. This girl is destroying my willpower. I can barely speak above a whisper, her closeness is making me crazy. “Are you hungry? We could order in, hang out. What do you think?”

  Sydney meets my eyes with a dark look that makes my dick twitch. “Sure. Why don’t you start a fire? Everything you need is in the wood box next to the fireplace. I’ll just order the food, is sushi okay?” Her voice is raspy and her breathing is heavy. She’s attracted to me all right.