Not If I Date You First

Chapter 8

ADA

Beads of sweat trail down my face. I can feel my heart pounding in the strangest places: the tops of my feet, the inside of my ears, even the tips of my fingers. I might be on the verge of passing out. Or throwing up. Possibly both.

I wipe the back of my wrist across my damp forehead. It's just past seven in the morning, but it has to be eighty degrees out here. My morning routine usually consists of devouring high-sugar coffees and the biggest pastries I can find. But apparently, I should've taken Mom up on her offer to go jogging. I severely underestimated the amount of running I'd have to do as a paparazzo. I can't believe people do this as a hobby.

My camera bag smack, smack, smacks against my hip in time with my steps, leaving what I'm sure will be a glorious bruise tomorrow. The soft morning sunlight streams through the leaves of the trees overhead, casting fragmented shadows across the paved trail. The sound of birds chirping rings through the air. Apparently, I've entered a scene from The Sound of Music.

Agnes couldn't have been vaguer in her text about where I should go this morning. Central Park is massive. I've been running aimlessly—if you can call this weird shuffle-footed thing I'm doing running—for the past hour. I've yet to spot anyone remotely famous.

I've seen plenty of ridiculously fit people jogging, more dogs than I can count, and a mommy and me yoga class where the toddlers seemed much more interested in blowing spit bubbles at each other than in their tree poses.

But celebrity sightings? Zilch.

All of a sudden, my lack of fitness catches up to me. The threat of vomit seems imminent. I stop, bending forward and grabbing my knees, chest heaving in and out.

"You all right?" a guy wearing lime-green running shoes calls as he jogs past me. He doesn't bother waiting to hear the answer.

"Oh, I'm fantastic. Thanks so much for your concern!" I yell after him, but he's already rounded a corner and jogged out of sight. I straighten, taking a deep breath and rallying what little energy I have left. I attempt my shuffle-jog again, but my stomach instantly revolts. That awesome thing happens where a tiny bit of puke creeps up the back of my throat, and I force myself to swallow. Bluuurgh.

If I didn't have so much riding on getting these shots this morning, I would've turned back already. Maybe I should try a different part of the park. I'm trying to decide what direction to go when two shirtless dudes come jogging around a bend in the path ahead of me. I don't recognize them at first. They're far enough away that I have to squint to make out their faces.

Their abs, however, I can see clearly even from this distance. They wouldn't be out of place on the set of 300—one of Grams' all-time favorite movies. It's Wesley Grant and Liam Anders.

Wesley plays Liam's know-it-all best friend on Cipher. With his sculpted cheekbones and soulful eyes, which are usually bordered by thick-framed glasses, he's got the sexy-nerd vibe locked down. He's not wearing his glasses today, though. I wonder if they're a prop for the show or if he's wearing contacts.

I'm suddenly very aware of my appearance. Drenched in sweat and puffy-eyed, I look worse than I did covered in green juice yesterday. Part of me wants to crawl behind one of the park benches rather than have two A-listers see me like this. But I'm pretty sure professional paparazzi do not hide from celebrities.

Just seeing Liam has me reliving all the outrage and embarrassment of having him yell at me in front of all those people yesterday. It's like rubbing a raw sunburn, painful and annoying. But I force myself to shake it off and pull out my cell. I drop a pin of my location into Agnes's group text from last night and cross my fingers the other interns see it.