Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 129110 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 646(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129110 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 646(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
My mind snaps out of it when I hear the phone being placed back on the receiver, and I look up.
"Most people already know what I want to eat. I can't remember the last time I ordered food for myself."
"Wait, really?"
"Yeah," he chuckles. "Come on, we'll eat in the dining room."
"How long did they say?"
"They didn't, but I image it won't be too long."
"Ah, of course. Asher Montgomery doesn't have to wait for anything."
"Now you're getting it."
We start down the hall, stopping in front of two small white double doors with fancy molding and gold handles. He clicks them both open at the same time and motions for me to go in first.
There’s a massive window overlooking the water on the opposite wall, and in the middle sits an oversized table and a ridiculous amount of chairs.
I start overthinking about where I should sit - next to him, across from him, two seats down? But as he steps in behind me and pulls out a chair, the decision is already made.
"Thanks," I sit.
“So how long have you been working at the magazine?” he asks, walking to the other side of the room and sitting directly across from me.
“Almost a year,” I trace the detailed embroidery on the cushion, unable to look at him as I pinch my leg with my other hand, just to make sure I'm not dreaming for the millionth time.
“And where do you live?” he clasps his hands in front of him and rests them on the table.
“A few blocks from the office… in Manhattan… New York,” I clarify, finally looking up.
He nods, and I realize I should probably ask him something too. It would be the polite thing to do. Only I don’t know what because I already know so much. I wrack my brain for facts about his life and all these tidbits start running through it. He has dual citizenship, a sister, and his parents are divorced. His Dad is American and teaches history at a college in California, and his Mom is British royalty. He was raised between California and a small town right outside of London. I know he’s a hardcore fan of the popular British TV show Doctor Who, but also loves the American sitcom Seinfeld.
Obsessive stalker.
I hate myself for knowing these things, but my high school self was utterly obsessed. Plus, Asher is everywhere - on TV in the morning, a talk show in the afternoon, a magazine cover at the check out line in the grocery store. It’s difficult not to find him. Hell, I’ve seen most of his baby pictures plastered all over the Internet.
I bite my lip, letting the silence swirl between us, thinking.
When the magazine was invited to the press junket I received a list of things that we couldn’t talk about - Let's Go and music being the main two. Aside from his dating life everyone wants to know what happened with the band's break up, and why he doesn't sing anymore. On that same paper, in big green letters (meaning it's okay), was his acting career. Hell even Sabrina Wilson was in yellow, but damn I'm dying to know about the music thing. It’s publicly known he doesn’t talk to the other members of the group anymore. Rumor has it he thought he was too good for them so he went solo, but the weird thing is even he doesn’t even sing anymore. It’s been over two years since he put out an album, and it’s a huge mystery as to why.
God, now the silence is deafening.
Ask him something. Make conversation! Pretend he’s not insanely talented or the hottest guy in the world.
Bringing up the fact that we met before suddenly crosses my mind, but I think he would have mentioned it if he remembered, and now it would be awkward if he doesn’t. He meets so many people why would he remember that anyway? Plus, I don't think I want to admit that I waited for him outside that theater.
"So, um, where do you live?" I sigh and cringe and hate myself. He sounded completely normal asking me the innocent enough question, so why do I sound so creepy asking him?
"I have a house in LA, but I'm hardly ever there," he politely answers what I already know.
"Cool," I clear my throat. "You know, I like Seinfeld too."
Oh shit. I got too cocky.
I knew being cool, calm, and collected wasn't my thing. Blurting out something I know about him without him telling me sounds much more like me.
His eyes widen and a weird expression crosses his face, like he wants nothing more to do with me, and for some reason I’m crushed by it.
“So exactly how big of a fan of mine are you?” he hesitates, and I open my mouth to respond, saved by a knock on the door.