To that end, I’ve got loads of work ahead of me today.
I only have…forty-seven more calls to make this morning, according to my list. That’s totally doable. I’ve gotpurpose.It’s not just any random sort of call. These are calls thatmatter.Forget I’m an introvert and that I hate making even one call. It’s only forty-seven more pleading, shameless calls for a very important Blake-shaped cause. I don’t care how desperate I sound, or how much groveling is in my future, or how unlikely any of this is to turn up Blake.
I can’t think like that.
After all, I’ve literally just crossed an ocean for him.
If none of my calls pan out, I’ll go to a couple of casting events that I’ve seen advertised on social media. It doesn’t matter if I’m shit at auditions. I’m willing to go through that and embarrass myself like I haven’t ever embarrassed myself in my life if it gets me in the door.
It’s a long shot, but I figure if Blakes’s not there, maybe I can find out where actors usually hang out in New York. Maybe I’ll get lucky and someone will say,“Hey, he’s always at this bar or that coffee shop,”and I can pretend to run into him by accident.
Or, you know, I could go the simplest route—figure out who his agent is, and come up with a watertight, compelling story that only someone truly coal-hearted could deny. Like, say, Blake forgot something very important in my shop while he was filming, something that’s irreplaceable. Maybe a watch from his family. Or, say, a lucky figurine that he always has to have on set. But it’d have to be really outrageous, like a Barbie Ken doll or a baby Yoda or even a My Little Pony. Something so silly that it’ll be bound to get his attention, that his agent will think is so ridiculous it has to be true.
Worst case, I’ll very predictably send him a book if I can’t find him. But not just any book—that damn poetry book he returned on the day we met in my shop. It’ll be my turn to put a note inside and I don’t care who reads it. Because I’m in love and I want him and, God, we just need a chance, a proper chance, to try to make this work.
Please, universe. I don’t ask for much.
We’ve just had a handful of days together. Enough to tease of a promise of a future together. Enough that he’s impossible to forget, to see a million possibilities of a future together, of what things might be like. I’ll learn every bean on the planet to impress him, learn fluent vegan and ethical zero waste, and be an all-around better human.
Okay, let’s try to keep this a little real.
So, Imightlapse and have the occasional guilty kebab like I did on our first date, but he’ll totally understand, because he’s Blake and he’s cool like that. Way, way cooler than I am, that’s for sure. And that’s only one of a million reasons why I fell in love with him.
Which is what makes coming to America and risking making a fool of myself so worthwhile. Because I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t go all out in search of him.
My heart couldn’t bear not taking the risk.
Out of habit, I open up Instagram as I have the last of my tea. And I’m rewarded, because the algorithm knows what I want. Right away, there’s a dramatic black and white shot of Blake. He’s glorious, his bare chest peeking out from an unbuttoned black shirt in the obvious heat, that navy cap.
I’m starting to sweat just looking at him.
God. He’s gorgeous, all svelte muscle and serious smolder. Top shelf selfie. A++ would recommend. I shake my head, flustered. Even here, by myself.
And then I notice something important about that Blake photo. Forget the summertime swelter and Blake raising the heat by at least a hundred degrees in one selfie. Or that it’s fine material for a consolation wank later on. Forget all of that.
I groan. “Motherfucker.”
He’s standing in what clearly is Trafalgar Square, a broad expanse of space by the fountains in front of the National Gallery in London. It takes a fraction of a second to register the scene, the accompanying caption.
Back enjoying the sights because I can’t stay away.
Blake’s back in London.
God help me—I’m in the wrong damn country.
Chapter Twenty-Five
In shock, I just stare at Blake, as if I haven’t memorized his face, or the scent of his skin. My fingers trace the screen, seeking the feel of him again, but instead there’s cool glass.
This is obsessive, Aubrey. There’s nothing attractive about this. Lily shouldn’t have encouraged this dumb idea in the first place.
And yet here I sit, getting all nostalgic over a man who doesn’t even have the decency to be in his country of origin when I make the unlikely grand gesture to come here and find him.
Unable to stand it any longer, I text Blake. There’s no further dignity left to make the pretext of saving it any longer.
You never gave me that answer to the black and white bean trivia. x
There’s no response. I check the time. In London, it’s getting on late afternoon. A reasonable time for him to be up and awake.
