Amelia and Bash have been in love with each other since college, when she wandered into the basement laundry room to find him running a monologue for his freshman theater class. But things have changed since then. As Bash went from gangly theater major to international movie star, Amelia grew from a bookish English major to a failed novelist. The only constant was the passionate chemistry between them. But the more famous Bash got, the less Amelia wanted a part of his life in the spotlight and all that entails.

So they decided to be friends … with super secret benefits, of course. 

Their randezvous are fun and hot, but of course nothing stays private in Hollywood. When their secret becomes a scandal, Amelia and Bash have to decide if they’re better off friends, or if their feelings are too great to deny.

New chapters on Mondays and Thursdays!

The jingle of sleigh bells echoes through the speakers, and I immediately feel my entire body tense up. By the time the vocals kick in, I feel like I might snap and start flinging books around the store.

“Not again,” Jeanine groans from the children’s section.

“This is the fifth one today. The third since lunch!” I grumble. I reach for the mouse and click next, only to find the program won’t let me skip anymore today. “Ugh, we’re stuck with it.”

Jeanine peeks out from around the shelf, where she’s reorganizing the board books that are in shambles from this morning’s story time.

“Seriously, I’m starting to think this is a psychological experiment,” she says, waving a copy of The Very Hungry Caterpillar over her head. “Some evil professor somewhere is trying to find out how many covers of ‘All I Want for Christmas is You’ a person can take before they go completely berzerk.”

I pull my long brown hair into a messy bun at the base of my neck, then reach for the mouse.

“Well, turns out my limit is five before I throw in the towel on Christmas music for today.” I switch the station to Motown and feel myself unwind as the The Supremes come over the speakers, then go back to scrolling through the latest inventory to see what I need to reorder. The shop has been busy, and the usual bestsellers have been flying off the shelves. The children’s section is also pretty depleted.

I’m contemplating how many copies of Twas The Night Before Christmas will get us through the holiday season when Jeanine appears at the counter. She leans over, her long red hair pooling on the glass top, a bright spark in her eye.

“Oh my God, you are not going to believe who’s browsing in literature and fiction right now.” Her voice is low, but the whisper is sharp with excitement. I didn’t hear anyone come in, but with the sleigh bells masking the antique welcome bell on the door, I’m not surprised. I peer around her, but I don’t see anyone.

“If it’s that sticky fingers Robert, you better keep an eye on him. Seriously, how many copies of Fifty Shades does one man need?” I say before decided that ten copies will get us through the month of December.

Jeanine wrinkles her nose.“Ew, no.” She grabs my arm in an iron grip and drags me out from behind the counter and over to the edge of biography, pointing towards the display of Penguin classics. Over there, she mouths.

Instead of peering around the shelf like some kind of grown up Nancy Drew, I decide to locate my dignity and give myself a drive by. It’s not unusual for us to get celebrities in the shop. We’re close enough to Broadway that we frequently get whoever is starring in whatever incarnation of Broadway smash persuing the shelves, looking for something to read between rehearsals (plus countless hopefulls waiting out their audition slots by pretending to thumb through The New Yorker). And while I don’t get quite as startsruck as Jeanine, I won’t lie. It’s still fun to catch a glimpse of Neil Patrick Harris or Paul Giamatti or whoever else happens to be a Tony contender that season. 

I head across the floor toward the display of blank books and journals, giving a quick glance to my right, almost as an afterthought (like I said, we get celebrities in here often enough that I’ve got this down). I’m barely past the aisle when I spot him. He’s attempting to go incognito, with a ratty Red Sox cap pulled low to hide his piercing blue eyes and messy, sandy waves. A flannel scarf is wrapped around his neck that almost hides his signature razor-sharp jaw and perpetual five o’clock shadow. 

But there’s no mistaking that Sebastian Wyatt is paging through a copy of The Old Man and the Sea in my store right now. 

I swallow the gasp that rises in my throat, and concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other. If he’s going incognito, I’m not about to give myself away. Or him. So I continue on to the journals, pick up a stack of unlined Moleskines like that’s what I intended all along, and then double back to the register. Jeanine is already there, her emerald eyes wide.

“It’s him, right?” Her voice is breathy.

“It’s him,” I reply.

“Oh. My. God.” I can see her hand trembling as she brushes her hair back from her face, probably already plotting their first date. She always does this. It doesn’t matter if it’s Zack Efron or Kevin Spacey or James Earl Jones, whoever walks in gets the full Jeanine Fantasy Life treatment. There was even a very long time where she wondered if she might be able to put something together with Claire Danes (nevermind that neither of them are gay).

I try to busy myself behind the counter so I won’t think about that smile and the muscular body hiding beneath a zip hoodie and leather moto jacket. Not to mention the ass that just won’t quit beneath his perfectly distressed jeans. But from the flutter in my stomach (and rapidly heading lower), I can tell it’s not working. He’s all I can think about.

Some celebrities (most, actually) never look as good in real life as they do on the big screen. They’re shorter, or more severe. The hot guys tend to look too slight, like I could pick them up and fling them into the travel section at the back of the store without breaking a sweat. Or worse, they look too good, like a stylist dressed them and a makeup artist glossed them, all before they took a casual stroll down 8th Avenue on a Wednesday. And while they look just like they do in the movies and the magazines, it’s such a letdown to see the effort.

But as he strolls up to the register, a paperback under his arm, I give myself persmission to to check him out and notice that he doesn’t look as good as he looks on the magazines. 

He looks better.

“Are you ready to check out?” Jeanine’s voice has a slight quaver in it, but I can’t tell if he notices. He plunks down a copy of On The Road onto the counter and pulls a twenty dollar bill out of a leather money clip in his back pocket. He flashes me a smile, and I quickly busy myself with the inventory, as if restocking copies of the latest political thriller is an immediate concern.

“Great shop you have here,” he says in the lazy, slightly gravelly voice that’s earned him an endless string of film roles as the hero, saving the girl, the country, the planet (usually all three). 

“Oh, it’s Amelia’s,” Jeanine says, because even though she’s plotting her fantasy life with him, she’s also one of my best friends. She’s not gonna throw a girl under the bus. 

I glance up and see him smiling at me. I smile back, the warmth spreading all over my body, When Jeanine ducks her head to make change from the register, he winks, and something inside me shatters. I feel like one of those glow sticks where you break the vial and the goo inside spreads and lights up. I worry I might actually be glowing.

“Alright, here’s you go Mr. Wyatt,” she says, handing him his change. But then she realizes that she’s let on that she knows who is, and her face goes beat red. Her hand quivers, and a quarter and two dimes clatter to the counter. “I’m sorry. I’m just, you know, a fan.” And for some reason, she makes this little jazz hands motion as she says it. I swallow a laugh, because I’m her friend and I’m not going to embarrass her, but she knows what she did. Though her smile remains bright, I can see her dying a thousand deaths inside her head.

“Not a problem. Part of the job,” he says, a smile so bright it could melt butter. He crumples the bills around the coins and shoves the whole handful into his pocket like he’s in third grade and it’s his ice cream money. Then he reaches a hand across the counter. “Sebastian. And you are?”

“Jeanine,” she says, giving his hand a shake. His hand is large and strong and tanned, and her pale hand disappears inside it. The thought of the touch has my mind going dark places.

“Nice to meet you, Jeanine.” Then he turns towards me, his smile quirking up at the corner. “And Amelia.” He gives me a little wave. My stomach turns backflips as the fleet of butterflies inside it dance a tango. I nod and give him a tight smile, hoping he can’t see the thoughts in my head projecting on my face (and only partly because the shopkeeper/customer fantasy is so cliche). He tuckes the book under his arm and adjusts the cap, a bit of his sandy hair curling out from underneath it. “I appreciate the support. And again, it’s a great shop.“

“Come again,” Jeanine says. She gives a fluttery wave, and I can see that her fantasy future is crumbling in her mind. As soon as he walks out she’s going to lament what a goober she was. It’s always the same.

“Thanks for coming,” I say.

He cocks an eyebrow at me, his mouth opening slightly like he’s going to say something, but then he thinks better of it. Instead he gives us a wide smile and a mirror of Jeanine’s wave. And then he’s out the door, back into the bitter cold and bustle of the city.

Jeanine waits exactly fourteen seconds before she crumbles, flopping over the counter, her head in her hands. “Aaaahhhhh!!!!” she squeals. “I can’t believe it! Sebastian Wyatt in the store! He’s by far the hottest customer we’ve ever had, famous or otherwise.”

“He definitely gets that title,” I say. I let out a low exhale, hoping to dissipate some of the energy that’s buzzing through my body. I feel electrified.

“How did you manage to be so cool?” She mumbles into her hair.

I grin, thankful that she’s not looking so she can’t see my face. “You know me. Stone cold,” I reply.

She lifts her head, fliipping her deep red locks over her shoulder. “Yeah, sure, with Patrick Stewart. Judi Dench, maybe. But Sebastian Wyatt? Even you can’t be immune to that.”

I’m not. But I don’t say it. Instead I shrug and return the stack of Moleskines to their shelf. But before I can get back to the inventory order form on the computer screen, my phone buzzes in my back pocket. I pull it out and see a familiar name on the screen. 

Bash: headed to MoMA. Care to join?

I can’t suppress the giddy grin the spreads over my face. I glance around the store, which is fairly empty, but that’s standard for a Monday afternoon. It’ll get crazy again when everyone gets off work and we get the foot traffic on the way to Penn Station, but Riley and Jake will be in by then to cover the evening shift. The shop can do without me for the afternoon.

Thank god. 

“Hey Jeanine, I’m gonna run out. You good?” I call to her, winding a gray scarf around my neck and hoisting my messanger bag over my head. 

“Only if you come back with a peppermint latte,” she replies, still slumped over the counter.

“Deal.”

I type back a quick message.

Amelia: See you by the soup cans.
Bash: Great. Bring me the new James Patterson?
Amelia: I knew that Keroac was a cover!
Bash: I like the way it looks in the paparazzi shots.
Amelia: And for a minute I thought you were just a shallow Hollywood type

I grab a copy of the thriller off the shelf and shove it into my bag, then make a note by the register to remove it from inventory. As I’m headed out the door, my phone buzzes again.

Bash: Touché. Now get that sweet ass over here and look at some art

MoMA is an absolute madhouse. It’s wall-to-wall people, almost entirely tourists, though a few school groups seem to be mixed in (if the matching plaid skirts are to be believed). As Bash once told me, it’s usually easier to be invisible in a crowd, where there’s too much going on for your eye to zero in on any one person.

If that’s true, then he’s gonna be damn near invisible here. Even I’m having trouble finding him, until my phone buzzes in my pocket.

BASH: To your left. Behind the potted tree.

I turn and spot the tree, then see his boots, scuffed and only half-laced. He’s parked on the floor, his back against the wall. The copy of On The Road he just bought is open on his lap, giving him an excuse to keep his head ducked, his face almost completely hidden beneath his ball cap. If you weren’t looking for him, you’d never notice him, much less realize there’s an Oscar winner with his butt parked on the marble floor.

His hair is slightly shaggy, grown out from the short cut he had for his last film, a political thriller set in the 50s. It makes him look a little bit more like the boy I met over a decade ago in the basement of our dorm. It was a Saturday night, and I walked into the laundry room, my arms loaded down with jeans and hoodies, to find this tall, gangly guy giving a Shakespeare monologue to a stack of dryers in the corner. I grin at the memory, and then I see him stand, stretch, a sliver of his tanned, taught stomach flashing at me from across the room. My stomach does a backflip, and any memory of that string bean from ten years ago is gone.

He shoves the paperback in the back pocket of his jeans, then glances up from beneath the brim. When he sees that I’ve spotted him, he gives me a little tip of the cap that makes him look like a Yankee at bat. It’s a small movement, and again one only I notice, but it makes my heart skip a couple of beats. All thoughts of the shop and the inventory and the holiday display I need to finish are gone. It’s a good thing I don’t see him all that often, because I’d never get anything done. Ever. Already skipping out on the shop during the holiday season is pretty out of character for me. But for today, to spend time with him, I’m more than happy to do it.

I tap out a reply on my phone.

AMELIA: Let me drop my bag. See you at the entrance?

BASH: Can’t wait.

I grin, working hard to direct it at my phone and not at the gorgeous man across the room. I hurry through the crowd in the lobby, dodging winter coats and backpacks and wait in a line that feels interminably long to drop by back at the coat check. When I emerge near the entrance, I notice a pair of broad shoulders in a well-worn leather jacket line up to get in. I take a spot six or seven people behind him.

I know how this works. 

I follow him and a sea of other people into the museum and up to the fifth floor. I keep my eye on the shaggy blond hair curling out from under the back of his cap, the broad shoulders in his leather moto jacket, so that I don’t lose him. He weaves effortlessly through the crowd, carefull not to move too fast or get in anyone’s way or bump anyone. He draws barely a glance.

Through the heavy crowds I see Picassos and and Van Goghs and Mondrians rush by until he comes to a stop in a small gallery off to the right. And for a moment I temporarily forget about him as I take in Monet’s Water Lilies. The room is mostly quiet despite the crowd as people take in the delicate purples and blues and pinks and greens, speaking only in hushed, reverent tones.

BASH: your favorite

AMELIA: you remembered

BASH: like I'd forget that time in Giverny

The heat rushes into my cheeks at the memory of the night in the shabby inn, just a few weeks after graduation. We were celebrating, both our diplomas and the fact that a few days after the trip, Bash would start filming on his first feature, a small role in an indie film that would turn out to be his breakout performance. From there it was Sundance, Independent Spirit Awards, glossy magazine profiles. Then late night talk shows and red carpets. Then Golden Globes. Then the Oscar nomination. His first, but not his last.

That tour of Monet’s home where we bought silly straw hats as souvenirs. The dinner at Hotel Baudy where he tricked me into eating sweetbreads and then laughed when I said they tasted like the inside of a chicken nugget. And that night in the creaky bed with the fluffy quilt and the walls that were far too thin for the things we were doing.

That trip was the last time we walked around in public holding hands, because it was the last time no one was looking at him.

No one except me, of course.

BASH: Do you think they ever fixed that bed?

I let out a surprised bark of laugh in spite of the quiet, and am quickly shushed by a white-haired woman with her audio tour  unit pressed to her ear. I mouth an apology, then glance back at the text. Now there’s no denying the heat that’s rushing places other than my cheeks. I feel it on the back of my neck, in my chest, and lower. My heart is pounding, and my stomach is flipping, and I feel an invisible electric current running from him to me.

I’ve been purposely staring alternately at my phone or the painting in front of me, but for just a moment, I give myself permission to scan the crowd. I want to see him, maybe catch him in a his half-smile, the dimple on his left cheek just starting to form. It’s not the smile he gives to the cameras. It’s the one he saves for his favorite people. It’s the one that makes me quiver. 

I look for the ball cap, the blond hair, but I don’t see him. I reach up to pull my hair into a ponytail with a rubber band around my wrist, using the motion as an excuse to more thoroughly glance around the room, now even more crowded with the addition of a group of tourists in matching neon yellow windbreakers. But I can’t find him.

And then he’s there, passing by my left shoulder, his fingertip trailing ever so lightly across the strip of bare skin at the waist of my jeans, exposed as I tie up my hair. 

"Gorgeous," he whispers, so quiet that only I can hear. The warmth of his breath melts down my shoulder and settles deep in my belly. I have to work to keep my legs from collapsing beneath me. 

He pauses in front of the painting, then turns to head out just as a mother wrangling twin toddlers does a surprised double take at the sight of him. But before she can say anything or react or otherwise blow his cover, her son reaches out his tiny hand to brush one of the pink lilies on the canvas, and she's distracted again, jerking him back as the guard hurries over to reprimand them.

BASH: can we cut this short?

I let out a ragged breath, still trying to regain my sea legs after the SS Bash left that a wake.

AMELIA: got somewhere to be?

BASH: with you. Four Seasons.

I don’t even think. Not about the store or the crowd or all the reasons why we have to be careful (most of them armed with telephoto lenses and the email addresses of every gossip columnist in the known world).

AMELIA: I'm there. Who are you today?

BASH: Jason Bourne

I roll my eyes, turning on my heel to head out of the gallery.

AMELIA: I'm groaning under the weight of your ego

BASH: too many dirty responses. Can’t choose.

AMELIA: see you soon