IMAGINES: Celebrity Encounters Starring You (55 page)

But it’s not like you didn’t know all of this already. Cora had told you every detail about the man before you started working for him. You want to embarrass him a little, because it’s always fun. If he can prank you endlessly, you can at the least make his pale cheeks turn red. The best way to do this is to open the Images search bar.

Pictures galore. There are lots of him with curly blond hair, and you click one. It’s adorable, and although you don’t say it out loud, your brain continues to scream it at you.

“I can’t believe my boy was a blond,” you sigh dramatically, making sure your hand brushes his arm as it flops down into the middle cushion.

“Ohhh,” he whines, moving closer to see the screen. “You’re looking at pictures now?”

“I’m actually thinking about getting on Tumblr to see what your fans are saying about your gorgeous eyes, or beautiful hair, or to-die-for cheekbones,” you say, pretending to be dead serious. But once he looks into your eyes, you know that he’s seen the joke. “Or maybe I’ll just text Cora,” you say, invoking your biggest threat, and he knows it.

He gets silent, and you take the opportunity to google
Tom Hiddleston Tumblr
. Then you click the first link to the Tumblr search page.

“Oh, goodness, Tom.” You laugh. “This girl wants to kiss your ‘gorgeous English face off.’ Sounds painful.”

He snaps back to attention. “Give me that.” With his quick hands, he’s got the laptop in his lap within three seconds.

Giggling, you watch him sift through the page. You’ve never seen that face on him before. And you don’t even know how to describe it. Or how to begin to either.

You grab a pen and paper from the vanity. You sit in the chair there and over the next five minutes sketch his face, for future reference. Then suddenly, just as you finish shading his cheeks, the look changes to a mask of indifference. And he starts typing away.

“Just so you know,” he says, eyes unwavering from the screen, “I adore Cora.”

You smile to yourself and go back to the drawing, working on his hair. You think back to his first encounter with your niece—somehow Cora didn’t pass out upon meeting him. That day was hectic and crazy and psychotic, but it was fun. Especially with Cora swooning over everything that Tom said or did.

He’s still typing when you glance up again to refresh the mental image of his hair. “What are you writing over there?”

It takes a moment for him to finally answer, “Oh . . . nothing, really.”

“It sounds like the world’s longest novel.” You grin, penciling in the small scar on his forehead.

“It’s a letter.” He smiles, glancing up at you. “And what are you doodling?”

“You.”

He laughs.
“Again?”

“You made a face that was priceless, and I had to draw it before it went away forever.” You wink in his direction.

“Oh, that’s a perfect reason.” He rolls his eyes with a grin, clicking the mouse and closing the top of the computer. “Let me see.”

“Not finished yet.” You frown, upset with the way his hair is lying. And the way it’s colored.

He grumbles a reply, but you don’t catch it before he throws himself back onto the couch, closing his eyes. You’re not sure how he manages to get comfortable on such a small sofa.

“Guess what,” you say.

“Um, dinosaurs have found a way to travel forward in time to steal all of our pudding.”

You slam the paper down on the vanity. “Crap, Tom! How do you always know?!”

He shrugs. “It’s what I do.”

Letting out a laugh and standing, you start pulling out all of the stuff you’ll need to redye his hair. “Come and sit in the chair, my darling.”

When he dutifully does, you exclaim, while brushing out the tangled mess, “Look at the ginger roots!”

“I’m not ginger. I’m blond.”

“Look.” You lean down to put your face right next to his in the mirror. “When this”—you tap his chin and jawline with your index finger—“grows out, it’s red. And brown. Not blond.”

“Well, I used to be blond.”

You laugh to yourself. “I know, dear. And if you want it stripped back to blond, I’ll do it for you when this is over.” His hair is still a little wet from the shower he took that morning, making the little curls spring up everywhere. “I’m surprised that these little guys are still around after I straighten your hair so much.” You grab the scissors and trim a piece.

“You should’ve seen my hair when I was younger.” He smiles, crossing his arms over his chest. “If I had ever gotten gum in it, Mum would’ve lost her mind.”

AT SOME POINT
heading into the third month of filming, Tom’s and your relationship drastically changed. At least, for you it did.

Somehow you felt like you’d been around Cora too much. Something must have rubbed off, because nothing about Tom seemed the same. Everything that you’d thought before had gone out the window, and new thoughts had emerged. New, scary, alarming thoughts.

You’re not entirely sure what did it either. It had to have been gradual, because you don’t remember waking up and just thinking it. But you are thinking it.
Now.
No matter how much you try to distract yourself, everything relates back to him.
Everything. Relates. Back.
You don’t even know how that’s possible. The piece of
toast
you had for breakfast made you think about him.

It’s a strong possibility that you’ve started to go insane. Stress at work, perhaps. Long hours. Repetitive applications of makeup and hair dye on one of the sweetest people you’ve ever known. High cheekbones. Large blue eyes . . .

Stop it. Now.

You woke up this morning, at four just like every other day. Made coffee. Got dressed. Grabbed your sneakers. Your
green
sneakers. Jumped in the car after checking the weather. Listened to the radio.

Your pep talk this morning went in this general direction:
Everything’s fine. I do this every day. There’s no need to be nervous. He’s just a person. There is nothing that is significant about this. Once the day is over, that’s it. I’ll go home. I’ll shower. I’ll forget about Thomas William Hiddleston for the entire weekend. He will not enter my thoughts.

You take a deep breath to steady yourself, and when it exits, it’s shaky. This doesn’t help you at all.

Regardless, you have a job to do. An important job that hundreds of people expect you to do seamlessly. No matter if you feel like you’re going to explode while you do it.

You run by the breakfast tent, ordering a piece of toast and
jam before running to your trailer and throwing your stuff on the floor. Checking your supplies quickly, you notice a new note on the wall:

Don’t forget your earbuds for the drive.

It’s in his writing. And it wasn’t there the day before yesterday.
Oh. Crap.
With this in mind, you hit the door, jumping down the stairs and running to your friend MacKensie’s trailer, beating on her door. She answers after a second, asking why you didn’t just come in like you always did.

“Are we going to
wherever
today?” you ask, eyes wide.

She gives a throaty chuckle. “Yes, you forget?”

“Dang it.” You sigh and slide down to sit on the stairs, head in your hands. “
Of course
I did,” you reply, exasperated. You’re
very
angry at yourself.

MacKensie nudges you with her foot. “Not life-or-death. Go get your suitcase.” And then she’s back inside, door closed.

You pick yourself up slowly and dash to your trailer and check the schedule on the door. You leave in an hour. As his makeup and hair stylist, you’re expected to ride in his car. With him. Granted, there will be a driver and his publicist, Luke, but still. It was a four-hour drive.

There goes the “forgetting Thomas William Hiddleston for the weekend” plan. You’ll be spending the next three days with him.

You were supposed to forget about
him
, but he was making
you
forget things. You never forgot stuff like this. Was he the one who told you about it, and that’s why you don’t remember? It’s possible, but highly unlikely.

You start putting together all of the stuff you’ll need for his makeup and hair while on the road, knowing that he’s not going to be filming anything but interviews about the movie. When he gets back, he’ll be battling Captain America. That is, if the schedule goes according to plan. You grab the toast, considering its integrity before taking a bite.

Shoving the hair spray in the bag, yet knowing he’ll try to get you not to use it, you hold the toast between your teeth. As you zip pouches and stuff items in the large black tote bag as fast as possible, it starts to fall out of the vanity chair, and you barely catch it as the door to the trailer swings open.

A familiar tune meets your ears, the whistle dying down when he finally steps in. He’s wearing dark sunglasses, though you don’t know why because it’s still halfway dark out. Earbuds are planted firmly in his ears, a black gym bag on his shoulder, and on his phone in his hand he’s typing with one thumb. “ ‘Thursday I don’t care about you,’ ” he sings softly. “ ‘It’s Friday I’m in love. . . .’ ”

His tongue pokes between his lips, nose scrunching because it’s hard typing with just one finger. You’ve frozen unconsciously. It’s hard not to drink in his appearance: red plaid button-up shirt, dark jeans, barely brushed black hair, sunglasses.

Saliva starts to make the toast soggy, and you hardly notice it when it starts to fall from your mouth. Wanting to keep yourself from looking like a complete idiot, you grab it and throw it in the trash can, no longer hungry.

“Good morning, love.” He smiles, pulling the earbuds out with one swift jerk. The nickname he started to call you two weeks ago does not help your current dilemma.

“Morning,” you reply with a smaller smile, and then remember what you’re supposed to be doing.

You hear his stuff land on the floor and the laugh that follows as he watches you scramble around for items. “You forgot, didn’t you?”

You wince and feel your face get hot. One glance in the mirror tells you that it’s pink. “I’ve got to run back to my apartment.”

After a short moment of silence he says, “We can just leave a bit earlier and drop by on the way.”

His accent
melts
you. Your stomach has a flutter that you
want to squash with your foot before it spreads. The simplest thing that comes out of his mouth is like poetry, and it makes you want to scream.

This is not healthy.

You nod to him, not sure what you’re supposed to say. Then you check all the drawers to make sure you’ve got everything.

“What did you pack for?” he scoffs, looking at the overstuffed black bag. “I’m not competing in a beauty pageant, love.”

It’s times like this you wonder if he uses the name as a way to demean you.

“Just packing what they tell me,” you manage without blushing, and slip past him to grab your jacket. A chill had run up your spine, making goose bumps appear on your arms. You’d decided to leave your hair down today, and its loose strands get caught in the jacket as you pull it on.

Shaking them out, you pass him again to get the bag.

“How’s that sound?” He raises his eyebrows at you.

Your face turns beet red because you haven’t been paying attention to what he’s been chattering on about. “Mm-hmm” is all you can manage in a halfhearted reply, and you try your best not to look at him.

But your eyes betray you for a split second and you see his face light up in a grin. “I just said I was going to make out with you in the backseat the entire ride.”

So he
knew
you weren’t listening. But his statement causes you to shed the jacket you’re wearing because it just got really hot in the tiny trailer.

“Sorry.” You shake your head and pick up the bag. “My mind is everywhere this morning.”

“I’ve noticed.” He chuckles and follows you out the trailer door into the rising sun. “So no make-out session then?”

You snort, glad that some sort of semblance of your old self has decided to surface. “Nope.”

Some part of your brain tells you that the answer you just gave him was the wrong one. And you squash
that
before it spreads like the stupid butterflies. He does not have the right to overtake everything you think about. It’s not nice.

“Wonderful.” He sighs. “Four hours in a car and I don’t even get to kiss my lovely girl.”

If you weren’t blushing before, you are now. It’s like when he says your name and it sends all these chills through you.
Every time
. And if you were the person you used to be, before he completely turned you to mush, you would’ve had a sarcastic comment to tease yourself with.

But being the trembling loser that you are, all you manage is a weakly sarcastic “I’m flattered, Tom.”

“You really are preoccupied, aren’t you?” He laughs as you both haul your stuff out to the black SUV.

“I don’t know what it is,” you tell him honestly. “Everything’s like Jell-O.”

He opens the trunk and throws his bag in the back before taking yours. His long fingers clasp the strap, brushing against yours. After tossing your bag in as well, he slams the hatch and turns back to you.

“Are you sick?” He pauses, and now he’s looking intently at your red face.

Yes. I’m very, very sick. There is something seriously wrong with me. Because everything you do makes me want to scream.

You press your hands to your cheeks and sigh. “No.”

“Sure?” He’s not supposed to be around anyone that’s sick. Yet, he steps forward and places a hand on your forehead. “You feel a little hot.”

You’d love it if maybe you were just delusional because of fever.

“No”—you lower your hands, thinking he’ll lower his also, but he feels your cheeks too—“I’m not.”

“Promise?” He’s skeptical now, like he doesn’t believe you.

You nod and smile. “Yes, Tom. I’m fine.”
Maybe it’s PMS. Is that a valid excuse?
Then you realize you almost told Tom that you were PMSing, and that makes you blush deeper.

“You look like a tomato.” He bends down a little to look in your eyes. Does he have some medical degree you don’t know about?