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 B
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
Ads: Link
good glass.
“Are you on your way home for Christmas?” It takes a full second and a half for his question to register, his words traveling through the molasses that has taken up residence around your brain.
“For good,” you say, then wince again. Shut up. Shutupshutupshutup—
“What do you mean?” He leans fully on the shared armrest, glomming on to the opener with more enthusiasm and interest than your two words deserve, his beefy shoulder practically melting into your side.
“I . . .” You swallow hard, considering him, still dazzled by his proximity, but thinking maybe you can fake it if you don’t think too hard about who you’re talking to. Before you can suck enough wind to finish, though, your phone goes off with a stream of colorful language and a heavy beat, and the obnoxious ringtone is naked-at-school levels of embarrassing.
You should have killed Olivia and hidden her body a long time ago.
“Well, that sounds important,” he says with a wink before standing.
Your cheeks are scalding as you scramble for your phone, trying to silence the inappropriate song before it hits the chorus— Oh, God— and when you look up, he’s already gone.
WHY? WHY WHY WHY? you bemoan to your reflection in the mirror. The ladies’ room smells like all airport ladies’ rooms do: a queasy blend of antiseptic soap, baby wipes, and Chanel No. 5. So you wash your hands and leave, miserably aware of all your romantic failings. Not that Chris Evans was ever a legitimateromantic option, mind you. He sat beside you in an airport in Kentucky (or maybe Arkansas) for less than two minutes. That’s just winning the geographical lottery. It’s nothing to get all moon-eyed over.
Still.
An intelligent, successful, gorgeous man was actual facts paying attention to you, looking into your eyes as though you were the only person in the room. And—instead of being demure or flirtatious or fascinating in that way some girls manage as easily as breathing—you nearly dumped your sad, pathetic life story in his lap. Of course he bailed the moment he saw even a mere sliver of opportunity.
You use a makeup wipe to clear some of the raccoonish shadows from under your lashes and sigh. Somewhere in this godforsaken airport there has to be pasta. You need noodles. Pronto.
THERE ARE NO NOODLES.
There’s barely an airport. There are A, B, and C terminals, each with fewer than eight gates. It takes you less than twenty minutes to traverse the whole damn thing. Back at B, there was a hot dog stand, and processed-meat product is as good a stand-in for noodles as the overpriced (and allegedly healthy) bags of organic granola at the newsstand.
Chris Evans’s face beams at you from the cover of a magazine beside the register. You buy it and curse yourself all the way back to the hot dogs.
The girl behind the register is singing as she slaps a wiener between a bun, and she wiggles, scooting around on the dull tile floor with more rhythm than your entire high school drill team combined.
“Isn’t that your ringtone?” a familiar voice asks from behind you.
Your heart can’t decide whether it’s stopping or going, and you briefly consider vomiting and keeling over dead before you turn and offer a sickly smile. “I didn’t pick it.”
“Hmmm,” Evans says with the same dimply smile displayed on the cover of the magazine peeking out of your handbag. You surreptitiously shove it in a little deeper.
“That’ll be eight ninety-five,” the girl chirps, taking your card and swiping it efficiently. “What can I get you?” she asks without looking up.
You both wait for her to make the connection, to look at him, but she’s still singing, still wiggling, and you snicker at her cheerful obliviousness.
Your new friend gives you a mock scowl and nods at your dog and Coke. “I’ll have what she’s having.”
“Eight ninety-five,” the girl singsongs, dancing over to the heated glass case.
Not even his credit card gives her
“Are you on your way home for Christmas?” It takes a full second and a half for his question to register, his words traveling through the molasses that has taken up residence around your brain.
“For good,” you say, then wince again. Shut up. Shutupshutupshutup—
“What do you mean?” He leans fully on the shared armrest, glomming on to the opener with more enthusiasm and interest than your two words deserve, his beefy shoulder practically melting into your side.
“I . . .” You swallow hard, considering him, still dazzled by his proximity, but thinking maybe you can fake it if you don’t think too hard about who you’re talking to. Before you can suck enough wind to finish, though, your phone goes off with a stream of colorful language and a heavy beat, and the obnoxious ringtone is naked-at-school levels of embarrassing.
You should have killed Olivia and hidden her body a long time ago.
“Well, that sounds important,” he says with a wink before standing.
Your cheeks are scalding as you scramble for your phone, trying to silence the inappropriate song before it hits the chorus— Oh, God— and when you look up, he’s already gone.
WHY? WHY WHY WHY? you bemoan to your reflection in the mirror. The ladies’ room smells like all airport ladies’ rooms do: a queasy blend of antiseptic soap, baby wipes, and Chanel No. 5. So you wash your hands and leave, miserably aware of all your romantic failings. Not that Chris Evans was ever a legitimateromantic option, mind you. He sat beside you in an airport in Kentucky (or maybe Arkansas) for less than two minutes. That’s just winning the geographical lottery. It’s nothing to get all moon-eyed over.
Still.
An intelligent, successful, gorgeous man was actual facts paying attention to you, looking into your eyes as though you were the only person in the room. And—instead of being demure or flirtatious or fascinating in that way some girls manage as easily as breathing—you nearly dumped your sad, pathetic life story in his lap. Of course he bailed the moment he saw even a mere sliver of opportunity.
You use a makeup wipe to clear some of the raccoonish shadows from under your lashes and sigh. Somewhere in this godforsaken airport there has to be pasta. You need noodles. Pronto.
THERE ARE NO NOODLES.
There’s barely an airport. There are A, B, and C terminals, each with fewer than eight gates. It takes you less than twenty minutes to traverse the whole damn thing. Back at B, there was a hot dog stand, and processed-meat product is as good a stand-in for noodles as the overpriced (and allegedly healthy) bags of organic granola at the newsstand.
Chris Evans’s face beams at you from the cover of a magazine beside the register. You buy it and curse yourself all the way back to the hot dogs.
The girl behind the register is singing as she slaps a wiener between a bun, and she wiggles, scooting around on the dull tile floor with more rhythm than your entire high school drill team combined.
“Isn’t that your ringtone?” a familiar voice asks from behind you.
Your heart can’t decide whether it’s stopping or going, and you briefly consider vomiting and keeling over dead before you turn and offer a sickly smile. “I didn’t pick it.”
“Hmmm,” Evans says with the same dimply smile displayed on the cover of the magazine peeking out of your handbag. You surreptitiously shove it in a little deeper.
“That’ll be eight ninety-five,” the girl chirps, taking your card and swiping it efficiently. “What can I get you?” she asks without looking up.
You both wait for her to make the connection, to look at him, but she’s still singing, still wiggling, and you snicker at her cheerful obliviousness.
Your new friend gives you a mock scowl and nods at your dog and Coke. “I’ll have what she’s having.”
“Eight ninety-five,” the girl singsongs, dancing over to the heated glass case.
Not even his credit card gives her
Similar Books
