IMAGINES: Celebrity Encounters Starring You (59 page)

Intending to text him later, you plop down on your bed, pulling the closed laptop open, and type in your password. You need to settle a few things with the bank and with your passport before you fly off to another country. . . .

But Skype looks too tempting.

And you do need to tell someone about London. . . .

So, sitting on your bed, in your Iron Man pajamas, you log on to Skype. Cora and MacKensie are both on, and for a moment you hover over their icons for a call. But then you notice another name: Tom.

You click it before you consciously decide to.

“Hey!” he nearly screams when he answers, a smile spreading across his face while he almost jumps out of his chair. “My love!”

“Hello, Thomas,” you giggle in an English accent. “How are you?”

“I am marvelous, darling. Just marvelous.” Even through the computer you can see his eyes are as bright as ever. “And you?”

You feel yourself fall into this natural state of just being. You’re not required to be anything but you, and it makes you smile. “I’m great.”

“Let’s see.” He laughs and looks at the clock on the computer screen. “It’s nine o’clock here, so it’s three where you are, right?”

You nod, shifting so you can lie on your stomach, and move
the laptop to the foot of the bed. Your arms prop up your head, and when you finally settle enough and look back to the screen, Tom’s got a pudding cup. He’s sitting at a desk, in the middle of a dimly lit living room. The walls are this dull gray; hardwood floors, large leather couch. The TV is tuned to the news, although it’s muted. It’s dark outside the large windows that open to a tiny dining room.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” He stops. “Can I eat the pudding?”

You laugh because the question seems so silly. “Of course, Tom.”

“What’s new?” Just as you’re about to tell him about his iPod and your vacation, he drops a spoonful of pudding down his shirt. “Well, maybe I
can’t
eat the pudding.”

You both laugh while he tries to get it off as best he can. Not long after that, he realizes that it’s a lost cause. “I’ll be right back.”

You watch him get up, his previous smile replaced with a frustrated look. Twenty seconds after he’s up and gone, the phone starts ringing . . . and he’s running back through the living room, in plain view of the computer screen. If you’d had the time to notice that he was sliding across the slick wooden floor in his socks, you would have. However, there is something much more pressing to concentrate on: he is shirtless.

No. Shirt. On.

It’s in his hand, not on his body. Your brain has stopped working, completely, as if you’d never before seen a man without a shirt. This is . . . different.

“Hello?” you hear him ask the person on the phone. “Oh! That’s great!”

You can’t stop looking. It’s like your eyes are glued to him, and in the back of your mind you’re screaming at yourself to quit. He’s not built or anything. But he’s not wimpy either.

He looks over to you, and you blush because you’ve been caught staring at him. Again. He winks and starts to pull the T-shirt over his head as he talks into the phone. He’s having some difficulty, however, and you can’t help but laugh out loud. Much louder than you’d intended because he stops as the shirt’s halfway over his head and glares at you.

A chill runs through your body, and you wonder how he’s able to do that to you. How does he affect you like this? Without your permission?

Once it’s on, he strides over to the computer, still listening to the person on the other line.

“Yeah, Mum,” he answers, and makes a funny face at you.

You giggle while sticking your tongue out at him.

He grins at you. “Yes, she’s the one I was talking about last week.”

Tom visibly sighs, resting his chin on his hand, and it’s adorable. He’s pouty and obviously tired, the true mask of him coming to life in front of you.

After another minute of silence, he looks at you and mouths, “Can I call you back later?”

You smile and nod, returning his wink before ending the call. Flopping back onto your bed, narrowly keeping yourself from kicking the laptop onto the floor, you let out a deep sigh.

Before
you completely flip out.

Sadly, he doesn’t call back. Around four thirty you receive a text:
Just got off the phone, and I’m so sorry, but I really do need to go to sleep because of this thing in the morning. Text you tomorrow, love.

You take a moment to glance around your beyond-messy bedroom and decide you need to finish packing. You text back a quick
Good night, Tom.
Then you dive into the folding of clothes full force, focusing all of your attention on your flight that leaves in the morning.

And paying no mind to the pudding that was likely still caked all over his stained shirt.

THE WORLD TAKES
a few moments to come into focus, your bleary eyes registering the onslaught of dank light drifting through the windows. It’s cloudy out, you notice, but then again, England apparently is always under the cover of rain. You’d arrived at the hotel earlier this morning, after an eight-hour flight, and immediately passed out on one of the room’s two beds.

You glance over at the other bed and see your friend Danielle fast asleep, drool escaping her mouth. You’d decided to take someone else with you; there was no sense in going alone to a country you’d never stayed in for more than a few days.

Dani was the owner and operator of her own YouTube channel, generating her living from the videos she made each week. You’d been friends since freshman year of school, sharing a dorm the four years you both attended. The sight you faced when you woke up was not surprising or anything new. Her thick, curled brown hair was brushed back from her face, and you noticed she hadn’t even slipped off her flats before passing out on the bed. Groaning inwardly, you see the time on the digital clock: 4:15 p.m.

Now was as good a time as any to see if entering
The Hollow Crown
set was even a viable option for returning Tom his iPod.

AND THERE HE IS.
All sweaty and looking as if he’s been beaten with a thrashing rod, bruises covering his exposed neck and small, fake cuts dotting his face. Absolutely, irresistibly gorgeous.

Berating yourself for finding him attractive in the first place, you yell his name from across the street, from behind the barricade
with the twenty or so other fans who had gathered for different actors. As far as you knew, there were only a few Hiddlestoners, and thankfully none of them knew who you were.

You see his head snap up, some wet hair clinging to his forehead, and a smile spreads across his carefully designed face. He motions to an attendant to get one of the guards to let you in, and you impatiently wait for the large man to move the small fence just enough for you to wiggle yourself through.

Your steady footsteps falter when you see Tom staring at you, a smile still firmly plastered on his lips. You get butterflies—you’d flown around the world for this town, this country, this vacation, this man.

No. Not for Tom.
You didn’t come here for
him
—you came for the beauty of the
city
, remember?

“What in the world are you doing in England?” He laughs, wrapping you in a tight hug when you come close enough. “You’ll catch your death of cold!”

“My immune system is better than that,” you joke back as he releases you.

“Let me get a proper look at you.” His face becomes mock sternly serious, his arms pushing you out and away from him to give you a once-over.

“I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it for myself,” he says, tsking.

You smirk, trying to catch on to his mood. He was looking extremely mischievous in those blue eyes. “What, Tom?”

“You have actually gotten more beautiful since I’ve last seen you.” He smiles, a dangerous flash of brilliantly white teeth, pink tongue sneaking out between the two pearly rows as he attempts not to laugh at himself.

“Oh, shut up.” You swat at his arms at your shoulders, getting his hands to drop to his sides.

He laughs loudly, not worried that anyone around may hear. “What are you doing here? Miss me too much?” One of his eyebrows rises up, questioning you with everything it has.

“Oh,” you tease, “every day, darling. I just don’t know what I’ll do without you back at home with all of these movies I’ve been doing.”

“Oh ho ho.” Tom crosses his arms. “Climbing her way up the ladder, are you?”

“Trying to, anyway.” You shrug and begin scooting a little closer to him. He may find it a bit odd, but you want to get a look at his makeup. It is absolutely stunning.

“Who’s your artist?” you ask, with awe. “Whoever they are, they’re, as you would say, ‘bloody fantastic.’ ”

He laughs, watching as you hover around him and take note of each brushstroke the artist used for the individual cuts. “A couple of people work on me, Jon and Christine most of the time. They did this.”

“Tell them they are amazing and that I’m insanely jealous,” you say softly, raising your hand to carefully tilt his head back. A cut is right underneath his jawline, and you are inspired by the detail they’d taken.

“Oh, wait.” He begins rolling his shirt down at his shoulder. “You haven’t even seen my favorite part.” He moves the shirt to reveal a red slice between his arm and torso, underneath his armpit. The wound had already bruised and looks as if it is becoming infected. “Is that cool, or what?” he gushes.

“That is . . .” You don’t have words. This kind of makeup is extremely—gorgeous . . . in a purely professional and grotesque way.

Tom sees that you lack words to describe it and raises his eyebrows, rolling his shirt back up. You smile while taking in the bustling actors and crew members around you. They’re all chatting,
some smoking, feeling the warmth of the English sun before it has a chance to hide again. With the forecast calling for rain, they’d probably all be back in the building within the hour.

“So you never answered my question.” Tom scuffs his foot against the damp pavement.

“Oh! I’m on vacation. Thought I’d see some of London for once instead of being rushed through it for interviews.” You grin, taking your eyes off him for the tiniest of moments to look out at the rising city.

“You’ve got a tour guide?” he asks, curiosity set deep in his tone.

“Not really, no. I should be fine with a map and a bus, though.”

“Seeing the city by bus.” He smiles. “Brave soul. Hide your valuables.”

That’s when you remember why you’d come to the set in the first place. “Speaking of valuables . . .”

“Hm?” His ears perk up.

“I found something that I think you might want back. . . .” You reach down in your coat pocket, feeling the cold metal hit your fingers. You pull out the small silver rectangle, and you get insane amounts of pleasure seeing the astonished expression Tom makes.

“Where . . . ?” he asks, disbelief mixing with the awe in his voice.

“In an old purse I had in my closet. You must’ve dropped it in there and forgotten about it.”

“Thank you so much!” He smiles, looking down at the iPod as if it were a long-lost friend.

“No need to thank me. Just buy me dinner the next time you’re in the States.”

He pauses, a thoughtful look overtaking his features. “I believe
I’m free one day next week.” His brows furrow. “Maybe . . . Tuesday? I think? Will you still be in town?”

Is he . . . ? Asking you out? To dinner? In London?

“Um, yes. My return ticket is for Thursday.”

His smile at this is bigger than you could have imagined.

YOU’D
BOUGHT
A DRESS
for this. Tom was the only man you’d ever gone out and gotten a new outfit for. And a gorgeous dress, at that. It took long enough for you to pick out the right one: a modest, navy-blue, knee-length thing that still showed what curves you had. The boatneck made it necessary, however, for a small black cardigan; otherwise you’d freeze. A pair of small black heels finished it off. You curl your hair and leave it down, slipping on a black satin headband to keep your bangs out of your face.

The phone dings on the bathroom vanity; Tom has been texting you all afternoon.
What are you doing now?

You laugh, grab the phone, and type,
Putting on mascara :D

No more than twenty seconds later you get
You d
on’t
need it, love.

In the safety of your hotel room, you blush without being worried about who sees. You exit the bathroom, satisfied by your appearance, and run to get your black clutch.

The cab ride to the restaurant goes quickly because you are so nervous. Usually time slows down and drags by like an old snail, but tonight, you were anxious.

The place looks fancy enough, even on the outside. The sun is setting, making the front windows glow with light and the green grass around it burn dark brown. It was odd how sunsets always masked the earth in a different way, making the beauty in ugly things come out, or making the beautiful things ugly.

The valet comes around and opens the door for you when
you finally make it to the curb. You smile and go up the walkway beneath a black awning to the large double doors. You can hear the music from here in the lobby, and your stomach leaps in anticipation. You wonder if he’s here yet.

The line for the host isn’t long, and yet you’re impatient. If you hadn’t been so deeply rooted into thinking that everyone was staring at you, you would’ve been bouncing up and down in your shoes.

“Good evening,” the host greets you, looking completely bored out of his mind.

“I believe it’s under Hiddleston,” you say, feeling proper and important. You want to giggle, but refrain because Mr. Grumpy is sighing and calling a waiter over.

“Take Mrs. Hiddleston to her table, Lawrence,” the host huffs to an overly eager-looking young man.

Your face has exploded tomato-red at being called Mrs. Hiddleston. You’re not complaining . . . at all. But it
is
an embarrassing mistake for the host to make.