“Look, he’s over by the car!”
Putting his acting skills to the test, Roman pretends not to notice. He keeps his head down and walks over to my side of the car, opening the door for me and offering me his hand. I grab on tightly, allowing him to help pull me up and out of the seat. He draws me in close, tucking my body in tightly to his. My heart kicks into overdrive at the contact.
“Showtime, Daly.” Roman moves to pull us toward the coffee shop when the horde of photographers descends upon us.
“Roman!”
“Roman Everett!”
“It’s his new co-star!”
“Clover!”
“Over here, please!”
They all shout at once and on top of one another, desperate to get Roman or me to look at their cameras and give them a shot worth lots of money. I don’t know how profitable a photo of two tired and sweaty actors entering a cafe would be, but clearly it’s got to be worth something based on the frenzy.
As they push in closer to us and yell louder, Roman takesthe lead and pulls me by my hand. What we didn’t anticipate, however, was the crush of the photographers pressing in closer and closer and eventually completely obscuring the path to the cafe entrance. All I see are flashes everywhere, and my hands fly up to cover my eyes. Christ, these things are blindingly bright.
I am by no means someone who suffers from claustrophobia, but the way they’re all beginning to press in from every direction sends my heart rate hammering. Is this normal? Surely they have to let us pass into the cafe. What are they going to do, stand here and hold us in this spot all day?
“Clover, are you excited about the role?”
“Are you nervous?”
“What’s it like to work with Roman Everett?” They shout at me.
I don’t know where to look, and I’m trying to keep my mouth shut. I understand why the paparazzi don’t have a good reputation. When I think they can’t get any closer, they press in a little more. The cameras are inches away from my face—if I move too quickly I’m in danger of bumping into one.
Right as the feeling starts to turn into panic, I hear Roman’s commanding voice. “Step back, we’re going inside,” he says with such authority that I can’t help but have my mouth gape open a little. He brings his body between me and the more aggressive photographers, creating a much-needed barrier for me.
“Excuse me,” he grits out to the photographer standing directly in our path. The man quickly steps to the side, and cameras continue to flash in our faces as Roman offers me his hand once more. I know it wasn’t part of our plan to hold hands twice, but the feel of his large palm wrapping around my hand provides me with the extra sense of security that I need right now.
Looking at the ground and shielding my eyes with my free hand, I let Roman pull us both into the safety indoors. Assoon as the door shuts behind us, relief washes through me. Roman’s hand continues to firmly grip mine.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Are they normally like that?”
“For them, that’s tame, unfortunately,” he mutters. I have a feeling there’s more to what he’s said, but honestly I’m a little shaken up and not in the mood to pry. Roman gestures to the empty back corner of the coffee shop, where there’s a cozy-looking booth. “How about there?”
“Sure,” I say.
“I’ll grab us some coffees and food. What do you want?” It’s an offhanded question, and it shouldn’t stop me in my tracks like it does. But suddenly my palms feel sweaty, and even though I’m starving, I might need to puke.
Since my mind is apparently my worst enemy, it conjures up that stupid comment section once more. Playing a highlight reel of the shitty comments over and over again.
I’ve been working out hard, and logically, I know I’m in fantastic shape for this role. I’m talented, and I’m beautiful, I wouldn’t have been cast otherwise. But the comments sink their nasty little hooks into my brain.
I’ll show them.
I’ll be perfect.
I’ll control what I can.
“Clover?” Roman asks.
“Uh… a black coffee is good, thanks,” I rush out and head to the back corner booth before Roman can question me further.
