Not If I Date You First

Chapter 3

ADA

I'm wedged between the building and the potted tree that separates Jitters from the juice bar, heart pounding in time to the symphony of honking horns and feet beating against pavement. My hair catches on the rough brick as I lean my head back against the wall, trying to focus on the earthy scent of the tree and not the stench of the sewer grate a couple of feet away.

You can do this. They're just people. You're only going to take a few pictures. This isn't a big deal.

I'm doing my best to convince myself, but if my sweaty palms are any indication, I'm not buying it. This moment is almost more than my fangirl heart can take.

Coming face-to-face with two of my favorite celebrities out in the wilds of the city is so much more exciting than taking photographs of them from behind a barricade at a movie premiere. Like stumbling across a zebra while on safari versus seeing one at the Bronx Zoo.

I wipe my hands on the lycra of my pants and set my to-go cup on the ground before peering through the viewfinder of my Nikon. Spinning the dial, I adjust the aperture and shutter speed, double-checking the flash is turned off. Usually, I'd leave it on. Even during the day, using a flash makes for crisper, cleaner photos. But I want to get these shots and get out without Liam Anders noticing me.

Liam is one of the sexiest men alive, according to People magazine, and he's ridiculously talented to boot. But he's also public enemy number one to the paparazzi, which doesn't stop them from trying to catch shots of him. He almost always refuses to give it up for the cameras, keeping his head down and face covered so no one can get any pictures worth selling.

Liam's also got a rep for getting violent with the paps. There have been stories plastered all over the tabloids lately about him breaking some guy's camera. He even punched a photographer last year.

I give my shoulders a little shimmy, shaking off prickles of anxiety. Liam might be an A-list jerk, but nothing is going to keep me from capturing these photos today. If they ever decide to come out of the juice bar anyway.

I poke my head around the wall, trying to peer through the door. In the tinted glass, all I can see is my own reflection staring back. I look every bit as starstruck as I feel. My eyes are round as film reels, and my hair is staticky from rubbing against the bricks. The cotton-candy purple strands float from my ponytail. I tug my fingers through my hair, smoothing it down as I bend forward. My nose almost touches the glass as I hold up a hand to block the light. It takes a second for my eyes to adjust, but then I see Liam and Mia. He's got one hand on her elbow. The other shields his face, blocking his view of the door. They're heading straight toward me.

I leap back to my hiding spot, ducking behind the tiny tree. The door flies open, and Liam storms past. A tall, muscular bald man follows quickly after him. His long, red mustache hangs almost to his waist. It's styled in two long braids that, strangely enough, make him more intimidating. He's got this don't-mess-with-me, biker vibe going. He must be Liam's bodyguard.

The door bangs open again. "It's always all about your career. I have a career, too, you know." Mia's deep, melodic voice trembles as she strides after him.

I stand there frozen for a beat. Oh. Em. Gee. They're fighting. Photos of Liam and Mia together are guaranteed to sell, but pictures of the two of them arguing would be tabloid gold.

When Liam doesn't respond, I take a tentative step out from behind the tree. My hands shake like I just pounded ten extra-large cappuccinos, and something like guilt wriggles in my gut. If they're really fighting, they don't want anyone snapping shots to sell to the media. But this is your typically crowded New York City sidewalk. No experienced celebrity would get into a public argument like this unless they wanted to end up on the front page of every rag in the country. There's no way this isn't a publicity stunt.