I smoothedmy features with a steadying breath as I stepped out of the elevator and into the lobby. It had been a mistake to bring Pete to LA. From the beginning, my gut told me it was a bad idea, and I should have trusted it. Now, here I was, plotting ways to give myself some space from him when I should only be focused on the amazing experience I was here for.
My hands still shook, so I decided to double-check my face to make sure I wasn’t splotchy with stress. A long corridor led off to the left that might lead to bathrooms. Past a business center where people could fax things, in case they were communicating with someone from 1998, there were several semi-closed off booths lined up and separated by short opaque partitions, providing a bit of privacy. What I didn’t see were any signs of a bathroom. As I passed one of the booths, a man speaking into his cell phone stopped me in my tracks.
It was a voice I instantly recognized. Deep and rich, somewhere between posh BBC and cockney London accent. Instant chills traveled down my arms as he continued in a low, soft tone.
Charles Downing. Feet away from me. I swayed slightly. Okay. What would RC say? Just breathe. Don’t lose your mind.
I moved to a booth across and one over from him. I couldn’t be responsible for my actions. I was not in control of my body. The partition partially blocked me, so he wouldn’t see me creeping on him but gave me an entire slice of him. My god, he was even larger in person.
He sat forward on the seat, one hand rubbing at his eyebrows as the other held his phone to his ear. The bicep muscles of the arm that held the phone were all but bulging out of his black sweater. His light brown hair was cropped short as always, looking fuzzy without any product. Had I mentioned the shoulders yet? Because they were also asking alotout of the soft fabric of his shirt.
“If he continues to act out …” he said.
I couldn’t keep the thread of what he was saying. He was just so soft-spoken, exactly like in the dozens of interviews I’d watched over the years. Especially when he was clearly not using or drinking. It made me sad to watch the videos of Charles when he was at his worst, so I avoided them, preferring the ones where his eyes were bright and his speech wasn’t slurred. He was focused and gentle, if not a little agitated. And he was. Right. There.
“No. He won’t bite you.” He sat back, head leaning against the back of the booth, legs spreading wide. Histhighs. They were easily as wide as my waist, and that was saying something. “Well, he might,” he added with a grin.
I sucked in my lips to keep from smiling.
“You have to have a firm hand with him, or he’ll walk all over you. Would you—”
He was cut off by the person on the other line. Who was he talking to? His partner, perhaps? And was he referencing a kid? He didn’t have any children unless he was amazing at keeping them out of the limelight.
“No. I know.”
Another pause. He chuckled softly.
After the many videos I’d watched, the sight of Charles Downing should have felt so familiar. And yet watching him in easy conversation with someone he was obviously comfortable with was like seeing an entirely different person than that man I saw online. It made me truly understand just how uncomfortable he had been behind the camera. Not in TF, but in interviews. He was a good actor, even though he hadn’t been asked to do that much for the character of Freddy, but he held his own. But this was a totally different side. A soft smile tugged what was usually the hard line of his flat mouth. His famous square jaw was dimpled as he rolled his eyes good-naturedly at the speaker on the other side of the line.
He was … adorable.
But he also very much seemed the type that would adamantly refuse to admit he was anything but a hard-ass. He’d tell you he was just trying to protect his own shoes as he held an umbrella over you. The type that would rock a baby to sleep only because the crying was too loud.
And then I pictured a tiny little baby cradled in his massive forearms.
Boy, look at me projecting all my fantasies. How utterly unlike me.
I needed to stop staring but found it impossible. More than half my life, I had looked at images of this man and had fantasies that I wouldn’t even write in my fan fiction. Fantasies I wouldn’t ever even admit out loud.
“Yes. I didn’t—” he continued.
Sigh and pause.
“Yes. I know. I will.”
His voice lowered, and I started to feel weirder about listening to his private call.
Overhearing these easy bits of conversation—perhaps with his mother, not at all wishful thinking—should have put me at ease. He really was just a person. Rationally, I understood this.
A powerfully handsome person. In normal circumstances, that alone would likely keep me from being able to make direct eye contact. Tack on the disarming smile and gentle countenance, and I was absolutely hopeless.
But the thought of trying to strike up a conversation? What does even one say? Wow, how about that weather? Please.
An embarrassingly audible sigh escaped from my lips just as I took a step to move away.
His gaze snapped up and I swore he looked directly at me through the small crack. I froze in place. He couldn’t see me, could he?
“I have to go.” He ended the call and stood up so that he now towered over the short partition.
