A Lie for a Lie (All In) - Helena Hunting Page 0,58
my boob.
I glance toward the window again. RJ’s face is practically pressed up against it, and if he had superpowers, I would bet that laser beams would be shooting out of his eyes right now and Walter would be minus a hand.
“Just coffee with a friend.”
“Lucky friend.” He gives me an exaggerated wink. “Will you be around later? Maybe I could come by and we could watch an episode of Jeopardy! together.”
“Oh, um, can I take a rain check? I’m not sure how long I’ll be out, and I haven’t been sleeping all that well the last few nights.”
His smile drops. “Sure, of course. You can call if you change your mind. I have a bag of sweet-and-salty popcorn and some of that special mint hot chocolate you’re always drinking.”
“That sounds nice.” I push the elevator button for him. “I’ll call you later.”
“Sounds great.” He leans in and kisses me on the cheek before I can run away.
Thankfully, the elevator dings.
RJ is waiting outside the front doors for me. I glance over my shoulder, relieved to see that Walter is already in the elevator. He lifts his hand in a parting wave at the same time as RJ pulls me in for a brief hug. Walter’s smile slides off his face like an egg off a nonstick pan as he disappears behind the elevator doors.
“Friend of yours?” RJ asks, obviously referring to Walter.
“Yes. He is.” I adjust my purse. I want to tack on that it really isn’t any of his business, but I refrain.
“Does he work in IT or something?”
I frown. “How did you know that?”
He smirks. “Lucky guess.”
“Walter is nice. Not everyone is built like a Greek god and gets to be a celebrity.” As if I need to stroke his ego. Based on everything I’ve seen in my internet searches—which is all I have to go on, since I have no idea where the lies end with him—he and a good percentage of the female population of Chicago know how amazing his body is. I push past him and head for the coffee shop next door. I know the baristas here, and there are always a lot of regulars, so it feels like a safe space.
RJ grabs my hand. “Sorry. I’m just . . . jealous and being petty.”
I purse my lips and try not to let the butterflies in my stomach get the best of me.
RJ puts his hand on the small of my back, inciting another storm of butterflies. He also opens the door for me and pays for our coffees and pastries, although I order a decaf tea because I’m already having enough trouble sleeping these days without hopping myself up on caffeine at dinnertime.
He picks out a table in the corner, and we settle into our seats. I’m barely out of my jacket when two teenage boys approach us asking for autographs. For the next half hour RJ is bombarded every two minutes by another group of people asking to take pictures and wanting an autograph. Teenagers, college kids, adult men, and fawning women who rudely drool all over him with me sitting right there across the table. It’s incredibly overwhelming. And enlightening.
This is his life. This is what happens to him every time he goes out in this city. It’s what he knows, and I have to assume it’s much worse depending on where he is and who’s around him. I consider all the pictures I’ve found since I discovered his true identity, and a very small part of me can understand how difficult it would be to have a relationship that involves any kind of equity.
He would never know if he was wanted by someone because of his fame or because of who he really is. And isn’t that another question I don’t have an answer to? The man I was with in Alaska was kind and sweet and down-to-earth. But this . . . it’s completely different. And this is what his life is really like.
I move aside, unable to handle the number of people clamoring to get close to him, and allow his fans to mob him while I observe from the sidelines. RJ is gracious and accommodating and charismatic, but I can sense his frustration by the tic in his cheek as more people gather for selfies. Finally, once everyone has had their picture taken and he’s signed all the hats and random pieces of paper people shove at him—and even a couple of magazine spreads—he gives me