Read Online IMAGINES: Celebrity Encounters Starring You by Anna Todd, Blair Holden, Rachel Aukes, Ashley Winters, Leigh Ansell, Doeneseya Bates, Scarlett Drake, A. Evansley, Kevin Fanning, Ariana Godoy, Debra Goelz, Bella Higgin, Kora Huddles, Annelie Lange, E. Latimer, Bryony Leah, Jordan Lynde, Laiza Millan, Peyton Novak, C.M. Peters, Michelle Jo, Dmitri Ragano, Elizabeth A. Seibert, Rebecca Sky, Karim Soliman, Kate J. Squires, Steffanie Tan, Kassandra Tate, Katarina E. Tonks, Marcella Uva, Tango Walker, Bel Watson, Jen Wilde - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Anna Todd, Blair Holden, Rachel Aukes, Ashley Winters, Leigh Ansell, Doeneseya Bates, Scarlett Drake, A. Evansley, Kevin Fanning, Ariana Godoy, Debra Goelz, Bella Higgin, Kora Huddles, Annelie Lange, E. Latimer, Bryony Leah, Jordan Lynde, Laiza Millan, Peyton Novak, C.M. Peters, Michelle Jo, Dmitri Ragano, Elizabeth A. Seibert, Rebecca Sky, Karim Soliman, Kate J. Squires, Steffanie Tan, Kassandra Tate, Katarina E. Tonks, Marcella Uva, Tango Walker, Bel Watson, Jen Wilde
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Air travel: the ultimate equalizer.
A tall figure approaches the desk, hitching a backpack over his shoulder, and your eyes widen as they travel from a well-toned backside to a familiar, handsome face. You know you need to mentally recant your assumption of equality, but you’ll have to find the thinking part of your brain first.
Because Captain America is standing right in front of you.
“Holy shit,” you whisper.
“A-fucking-men,” mutters the lady on your right.
Oblivious to the complete standstill he has brought the gate to, Chris Evans (!) smiles beatifically at the gate agent behind some stupidly appealing scruff, his charcoal henley shirt straining across a pair of insanely defined biceps. He’s charming the socks off the girl behind the counter, you can tell, as she blushes profusely under his five-hundred-watt grin.
“Damn, I never have my phone out when I need it,” the woman next to you says as she rummages through the kind of colorful quilted bag you only see in airports. She throws you a wry smile. “My daughter will never forgive me if I don’t get a picture.”
Oh, you think, same, mentally substituting your best friend Olivia for her daughter, and then you too are digging through your (slightly more chic) Michael Kors knockoff. A subtle shift in the room’s energy gets your attention and you glance up, figuring someone has asked for an autograph or maybe a selfie with him, and you’ve probably lost your shot (just like you’ve apparently lost your phone). But what you find instead is a solemn and respectful Evans shaking the hand of a young soldier in fatigues. The younger man’s hair has been sheared so close you can see the unevenness of his skull.
“Well, would you look at that,” your neighbor murmurs before dabbing at her eye.
They’ve moved to the open jet bridge now, the soldier and the superstar, and Evans hands his ticket to the agent at the door. He clasps the kid’s shoulder, and you think he says, “No, thank you. ”
The soldier gives Evans a spontaneous hug, and now you’re the one dabbing at your eyes, and a distinct sniffle comes fromsomewhere behind you when the soldier tosses a duffel over his shoulder and starts down the tunnel to board.
The waiting passengers burst into applause when Evans turns around, and he blushes a lovely shade of rose, one hand coming up to swipe across his mouth. His self-consciousness is palpable, he’s obviously forgotten he has an audience, and somehow that makes his generosity even more touching, and you want nothing more than to gather him up and give him a hug.
You suffer a profound and paralyzing panic when he looks right at you and beelines for the empty seat on your left.
“Sweet merciful heavens,” your neighbor gasps, echoing your thoughts.
His big, gangly legs are a distraction all their own, but they become doubly so when one brushes against your thigh, and not for the first time (damn it to hell and back) you wonder why you chose comfortable black sweater leggings over something cute and fashionable. Then his biceps ( Holy Jesus ) knocks into your arm when he abruptly sits back.
“Oh, sorry,” he says softly, trying in vain to squeezehimself into a space meant for a normal-size man.
“Thank you,” you reply, and your eyes meet his in horror when you realize that was totally not a sane response. No, that was you, your stupid brain thanking its lucky stars that Chris fucking Evans is sitting beside you, thigh-touching you like your thigh is worthy— your thigh is worthy, and apparently your elbow too!
“I mean, it’s okay,” you add with a grimace.
He snorts, mouth twisting in amusement.
His color is returning to a less self-conscious shade, you note, and then immediately wish you hadn’t, because, Lord , he’s even prettier up close. Which you wouldn’t have thought possible. For a split second you wish you had your camera, the realone, with a nice 50 mm lens, because a face like that deserves
Air travel: the ultimate equalizer.
A tall figure approaches the desk, hitching a backpack over his shoulder, and your eyes widen as they travel from a well-toned backside to a familiar, handsome face. You know you need to mentally recant your assumption of equality, but you’ll have to find the thinking part of your brain first.
Because Captain America is standing right in front of you.
“Holy shit,” you whisper.
“A-fucking-men,” mutters the lady on your right.
Oblivious to the complete standstill he has brought the gate to, Chris Evans (!) smiles beatifically at the gate agent behind some stupidly appealing scruff, his charcoal henley shirt straining across a pair of insanely defined biceps. He’s charming the socks off the girl behind the counter, you can tell, as she blushes profusely under his five-hundred-watt grin.
“Damn, I never have my phone out when I need it,” the woman next to you says as she rummages through the kind of colorful quilted bag you only see in airports. She throws you a wry smile. “My daughter will never forgive me if I don’t get a picture.”
Oh, you think, same, mentally substituting your best friend Olivia for her daughter, and then you too are digging through your (slightly more chic) Michael Kors knockoff. A subtle shift in the room’s energy gets your attention and you glance up, figuring someone has asked for an autograph or maybe a selfie with him, and you’ve probably lost your shot (just like you’ve apparently lost your phone). But what you find instead is a solemn and respectful Evans shaking the hand of a young soldier in fatigues. The younger man’s hair has been sheared so close you can see the unevenness of his skull.
“Well, would you look at that,” your neighbor murmurs before dabbing at her eye.
They’ve moved to the open jet bridge now, the soldier and the superstar, and Evans hands his ticket to the agent at the door. He clasps the kid’s shoulder, and you think he says, “No, thank you. ”
The soldier gives Evans a spontaneous hug, and now you’re the one dabbing at your eyes, and a distinct sniffle comes fromsomewhere behind you when the soldier tosses a duffel over his shoulder and starts down the tunnel to board.
The waiting passengers burst into applause when Evans turns around, and he blushes a lovely shade of rose, one hand coming up to swipe across his mouth. His self-consciousness is palpable, he’s obviously forgotten he has an audience, and somehow that makes his generosity even more touching, and you want nothing more than to gather him up and give him a hug.
You suffer a profound and paralyzing panic when he looks right at you and beelines for the empty seat on your left.
“Sweet merciful heavens,” your neighbor gasps, echoing your thoughts.
His big, gangly legs are a distraction all their own, but they become doubly so when one brushes against your thigh, and not for the first time (damn it to hell and back) you wonder why you chose comfortable black sweater leggings over something cute and fashionable. Then his biceps ( Holy Jesus ) knocks into your arm when he abruptly sits back.
“Oh, sorry,” he says softly, trying in vain to squeezehimself into a space meant for a normal-size man.
“Thank you,” you reply, and your eyes meet his in horror when you realize that was totally not a sane response. No, that was you, your stupid brain thanking its lucky stars that Chris fucking Evans is sitting beside you, thigh-touching you like your thigh is worthy— your thigh is worthy, and apparently your elbow too!
“I mean, it’s okay,” you add with a grimace.
He snorts, mouth twisting in amusement.
His color is returning to a less self-conscious shade, you note, and then immediately wish you hadn’t, because, Lord , he’s even prettier up close. Which you wouldn’t have thought possible. For a split second you wish you had your camera, the realone, with a nice 50 mm lens, because a face like that deserves
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