☼ seven ₪ play

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PEOPLE TURN TO STARE AT us after I practically shouted out his identity in the middle of the store, but I ignore them. Tom doesn't and drags me out into the bustle, barely giving me enough time to grab my suitcase and lug it behind me. Now people are really watching. I continue to stare him down, daring him to deny it. He looks at a loss for words, and almost guilty—and I don't know why he would feel that way. "Hey, dude, look sorry for yelling, but I kinda think the whole sunglasses inside thing is a little obvious in the first place. People might have started to ask questions. And true fans can probably tell who you are with them on anyway."

          He sighs and pulls the glasses from his face, using the back of the same hand to wipe tiredly at his brow. His head tilts down and his warm brown eyes melt into mine, capturing me. "It's not that. I love the fans and everything. It's just—I'm super drained from the past few months and I've wanted to keep low before I head back to LA for the premiere. And, so, right now talking with a bunch of people and having to pretend I'm not tired and irritable would be hard." He folds up the glasses and tucks them into the collar of his shirt with a shrug and then digs his hands into his pockets.

          I narrow my eyes at him and lean in slightly "You don't seem like it to me. You're fairly energetic. Definitely enough to run around with a strange girl you knocked to the ground in an airport." I drag my suitcase back and forth in front of me absentmindedly. "Also, exactly how famous do you think you are?"

          "It's not that I think I'm incredibly famous," he chuckles lowly, leaning down towards me so our faces are inches apart, "it's that I always underestimate just how many people actually know who I am." With a small smile, he moves away, and I feel myself let out a shaky breath I didn't realize I'd been holding.

          "Well," I say quietly, fiddling with the handle of the suitcase, "in other news, I think I've figured out what to get Bex."

          "Yeah, well, what is it?"

          I give him a cryptic smile. "Something good. But I'll need your cooperation."

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          "Man, I love frappuccinos," I moan as I finish the last of the strawberry cream drink in my trademarked Starbucks cup. My back hits the booth and I spread my arms across the worn faux-leather, leaning my head down heavily. "Ugh, I want the fucking plane to be here already."

          Tom chuckles and takes a sip of his black tea, 'cause he's so fucking British, and gives me a toothy grin. "Those were two very distinct phrases there, Thea."

          I lift my head up reluctantly and glare at him. "I have been at the airport for almost three hours longer than I was supposed to and I'm starting to get antsy, dude. And, you know, it's so weird that both of our planes were delayed right?"

          Tom shrugs, finishing off the last of his drink. "Yeah. A bit. But it meant I got to meet you, so I don't mind." Suddenly he glances down at his lap and furrows his eyebrows, producing his phone and cursing. He types something with crazy speed into it, his lips mouthing whatever words he was writing. It was cute. When he notices me giving him a questioning, and admittedly admiring, look, he half-smiles and says, "Harrison. Woke up and asked me where I am. I forgot to text him."

          "Of course," I say, dropping my arms and wrapping them around my body, lifting my legs to place on top of my suitcase. "You seem pretty scatterbrained."

          "Thanks," he deadpans, putting away his phone and giving me his dazzling smile. "Let's play a game to get your mind off it then, yeah?" Tom suggests, leaning against the wooden back of the chair.

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