OFF CAMERA

LIZZY...

LIZZY          

It's been raining for hours.

Not the cute, romantic kind of rain either. The kind that gets into your shoes, ruins your hair, and makes you question every decision that led you to standing outside in the middle of London with a camera pressed against your chest.

And it's killing me...

I pull my hood further over my head and glance at the entrance of Starbucks.

Still nothing.

I check my phone.

8:47 p.m.

I've been waiting for him to come out for—what? Fifteen minutes?

Fifteen minutes is nothing.

At least, that's what I keep telling myself.

My stomach growls.

"Yeah, yeah. I know," I mutter.

I can already picture it.

Home. Dry clothes. My stupid little kitchen. A pizza so hot I'll probably burn my mouth because I have absolutely no patience.

That sounds significantly better than this.

I look back at Starbucks.

Still nothing.

Noah Hayes.

Of course.

The man can sell out an entire stadium in under five minutes, have millions of people screaming his name, and somehow getting out of a Starbucks takes him longer than my last car repair.

I sigh and wipe a raindrop off my camera lens with the corner of my sleeve.

Please don't let me ruin this camera.

It's older than half the people Noah Hayes dates.

I glance down at my car keys in my hand, turning the little metal ring around my finger.

My car is parked two streets away because apparently London has decided parking should cost approximately the same as a small kidney.

I really should be saving this money.

The insurance is due next week.

The tyres need replacing.

And there's still that weird noise coming from the engine that my mechanic insists is "probably nothing."

Probably nothing.

Famous last words.

Which is exactly why I'm standing here.

Taking pictures of celebrities I couldn't care less about.

The agency calls it entertainment photography.

I call it getting paid to stand in the rain.

My boss calls it "building a career."

Sure.

Maybe one day I'll believe him.

I raise my camera again and zoom in through the window.

People are sitting inside, drinking coffee, laughing, scrolling through their phones.

And then I see him.

Finally.

Noah is sitting at the back, wearing a black hoodie with the hood pulled up.

He's alone.

Or at least, I think he is.

I adjust the focus.

Got him.

I take one picture.

Then another.

Then another.

The flash is off, because I'm not an amateur.

I've been doing this long enough to know when to be noticed and when not to be.

Noah Hayes has been in front of my camera more times than I can count.

For years, actually.

And somehow, every single time, he manages to look more annoyed about it.

I don't know why.

It's not like I invented paparazzi.

He's famous.

I'm a photographer.

It's literally the arrangement.

I zoom in again.

He looks toward the window.

My finger freezes over the shutter.

For one second, I wonder if he's looking at me.

Then I shake the thought away.

Impossible.

The glass is fogged from the rain, and there are dozens of people outside.

He probably can't even see me.

Probably.

I lower the camera.

"Come on, Hayes."

My stomach growls again.

"Please just leave."

Because I have a pizza waiting for me.

And unlike Noah Hayes, pizza actually likes me.