by Anna Todd
“It sounds like the world’s longest novel.” You grin, penciling in the small scar on his forehead.
“It’s a letter.” He smiles, glancing up at you. “And what are you doodling?”
“You.”
He laughs. “Again?”
“You made a face that was priceless, and I had to draw it before it went away forever.” You wink in his direction.
“Oh, that’s a perfect reason.” He rolls his eyes with a grin, clicking the mouse and closing the top of the computer. “Let me see.”
“Not finished yet.” You frown, upset with the way his hair is lying. And the way it’s colored.
He grumbles a reply, but you don’t catch it before he throws himself back onto the couch, closing his eyes. You’re not sure how he manages to get comfortable on such a small sofa.
“Guess what,” you say.
“Um, dinosaurs have found a way to travel forward in time to steal all of our pudding.”
You slam the paper down on the vanity. “Crap, Tom! How do you always know?!”
He shrugs. “It’s what I do.”
Letting out a laugh and standing, you start pulling out all of the stuff you’ll need to redye his hair. “Come and sit in the chair, my darling.”
When he dutifully does, you exclaim, while brushing out the tangled mess, “Look at the ginger roots!”
“I’m not ginger. I’m blond.”
“Look.” You lean down to put your face right next to his in the mirror. “When this”—you tap his chin and jawline with your index finger—“grows out, it’s red. And brown. Not blond.”
“Well, I used to be blond.”
You laugh to yourself. “I know, dear. And if you want it stripped back to blond, I’ll do it for you when this is over.” His hair is still a little wet from the shower he took that morning, making the little curls spring up everywhere. “I’m surprised that these little guys are still around after I straighten your hair so much.” You grab the scissors and trim a piece.
“You should’ve seen my hair when I was younger.” He smiles, crossing his arms over his chest. “If I had ever gotten gum in it, Mum would’ve lost her mind.”
AT SOME POINT heading into the third month of filming, Tom’s and your relationship drastically changed. At least, for you it did.
Somehow you felt like you’d been around Cora too much. Something must have rubbed off, because nothing about Tom seemed the same. Everything that you’d thought before had gone out the window, and new thoughts had emerged. New, scary, alarming thoughts.
You’re not entirely sure what did it either. It had to have been gradual, because you don’t remember waking up and just thinking it. But you are thinking it. Now. No matter how much you try to distract yourself, everything relates back to him. Everything. Relates. Back. You don’t even know how that’s possible. The piece of toast you had for breakfast made you think about him.
It’s a strong possibility that you’ve started to go insane. Stress at work, perhaps. Long hours. Repetitive applications of makeup and hair dye on one of the sweetest people you’ve ever known. High cheekbones. Large blue eyes . . .
Stop it. Now.
You woke up this morning, at four just like every other day. Made coffee. Got dressed. Grabbed your sneakers. Your green sneakers. Jumped in the car after checking the weather. Listened to the radio.
Your pep talk this morning went in this general direction: Everything’s fine. I do this every day. There’s no need to be nervous. He’s just a person. There is nothing that is significant about this. Once the day is over, that’s it. I’ll go home. I’ll shower. I’ll forget about Thomas William Hiddleston for the entire weekend. He will not enter my thoughts.
You take a deep breath to steady yourself, and when it exits, it’s shaky. This doesn’t help you at all.
Regardless, you have a job to do. An important job that hundreds of people expect you to do seamlessly. No matter if you feel like you’re going to explode while you do it.
You run by the breakfast tent, ordering a piece of toast and jam before running to your trailer and throwing your stuff on the floor. Checking your supplies quickly, you notice a new note on the wall:
Don’t forget your earbuds for the drive.
It’s in his writing. And it wasn’t there the day before yesterday. Oh. Crap. With this in mind, you hit the door, jumping down the stairs and running to your friend MacKensie’s trailer, beating on her door. She answers after a second, asking why you didn’t just come in like you always did.
“Are we going to wherever today?” you ask, eyes wide.
She gives a throaty chuckle. “Yes, you forget?”
“Dang it.” You sigh and slide down to sit on the stairs, head in your hands. “Of course I did,” you reply, exasperated. You’re very angry at yourself.
MacKensie nudges you with her foot. “Not life-or-death. Go get your suitcase.” And then she’s back inside, door closed.
You pick yourself up slowly and dash to your trailer and check the schedule on the door. You leave in an hour. As his makeup and hair stylist, you’re expected to ride in his car. With him. Granted, there will be a driver and his publicist, Luke, but still. It was a four-hour drive.
There goes the “forgetting Thomas William Hiddleston for the weekend” plan. You’ll be spending the next three days with him.
You were supposed to forget about him, but he was making you forget things. You never forgot stuff like this. Was he the one who told you about it, and that’s why you don’t remember? It’s possible, but highly unlikely.
You start putting together all of the stuff you’ll need for his makeup and hair while on the road, knowing that he’s not going to be filming anything but interviews about the movie. When he gets back, he’ll be battling Captain America. That is, if the schedule goes according to plan. You grab the toast, considering its integrity before taking a bite.
Shoving the hair spray in the bag, yet knowing he’ll try to get you not to use it, you hold the toast between your teeth. As you zip pouches and stuff items in the large black tote bag as fast as possible, it starts to fall out of the vanity chair, and you barely catch it as the door to the trailer swings open.
A familiar tune meets your ears, the whistle dying down when he finally steps in. He’s wearing dark sunglasses, though you don’t know why because it’s still halfway dark out. Earbuds are planted firmly in his ears, a black gym bag on his shoulder, and on his phone in his hand he’s typing with one thumb. “ ‘Thursday I don’t care about you,’ ” he sings softly. “ ‘It’s Friday I’m in love. . . .’ ”
His tongue pokes between his lips, nose scrunching because it’s hard typing with just one finger. You’ve frozen unconsciously. It’s hard not to drink in his appearance: red plaid button-up shirt, dark jeans, barely brushed black hair, sunglasses.
Saliva starts to make the toast soggy, and you hardly notice it when it starts to fall from your mouth. Wanting to keep yourself from looking like a complete idiot, you grab it and throw it in the trash can, no longer hungry.
“Good morning, love.” He smiles, pulling the earbuds out with one swift jerk. The nickname he started to call you two weeks ago does not help your current dilemma.
“Morning,” you reply with a smaller smile, and then remember what you’re supposed to be doing.
You hear his stuff land on the floor and the laugh that follows as he watches you scramble around for items. “You forgot, didn’t you?”
You wince and feel your face get hot. One glance in the mirror tells you that it’s pink. “I’ve got to run back to my apartment.”
After a short moment of silence he says, “We can just leave a bit earlier and drop by on the way.”
His accent melts you. Your stomach has a flutter that you want to squash with your foot before it spreads. The simplest thing that comes out of his mouth is like poetry, and it makes you want to scream.
This is not healthy.
You nod to him, not su
re what you’re supposed to say. Then you check all the drawers to make sure you’ve got everything.
“What did you pack for?” he scoffs, looking at the overstuffed black bag. “I’m not competing in a beauty pageant, love.”
It’s times like this you wonder if he uses the name as a way to demean you.
“Just packing what they tell me,” you manage without blushing, and slip past him to grab your jacket. A chill had run up your spine, making goose bumps appear on your arms. You’d decided to leave your hair down today, and its loose strands get caught in the jacket as you pull it on.
Shaking them out, you pass him again to get the bag.
“How’s that sound?” He raises his eyebrows at you.
Your face turns beet red because you haven’t been paying attention to what he’s been chattering on about. “Mm-hmm” is all you can manage in a halfhearted reply, and you try your best not to look at him.
But your eyes betray you for a split second and you see his face light up in a grin. “I just said I was going to make out with you in the backseat the entire ride.”
So he knew you weren’t listening. But his statement causes you to shed the jacket you’re wearing because it just got really hot in the tiny trailer.
“Sorry.” You shake your head and pick up the bag. “My mind is everywhere this morning.”
“I’ve noticed.” He chuckles and follows you out the trailer door into the rising sun. “So no make-out session then?”
You snort, glad that some sort of semblance of your old self has decided to surface. “Nope.”
Some part of your brain tells you that the answer you just gave him was the wrong one. And you squash that before it spreads like the stupid butterflies. He does not have the right to overtake everything you think about. It’s not nice.
“Wonderful.” He sighs. “Four hours in a car and I don’t even get to kiss my lovely girl.”
If you weren’t blushing before, you are now. It’s like when he says your name and it sends all these chills through you. Every time. And if you were the person you used to be, before he completely turned you to mush, you would’ve had a sarcastic comment to tease yourself with.
But being the trembling loser that you are, all you manage is a weakly sarcastic “I’m flattered, Tom.”
“You really are preoccupied, aren’t you?” He laughs as you both haul your stuff out to the black SUV.
“I don’t know what it is,” you tell him honestly. “Everything’s like Jell-O.”
He opens the trunk and throws his bag in the back before taking yours. His long fingers clasp the strap, brushing against yours. After tossing your bag in as well, he slams the hatch and turns back to you.
“Are you sick?” He pauses, and now he’s looking intently at your red face.
Yes. I’m very, very sick. There is something seriously wrong with me. Because everything you do makes me want to scream.
You press your hands to your cheeks and sigh. “No.”
“Sure?” He’s not supposed to be around anyone that’s sick. Yet, he steps forward and places a hand on your forehead. “You feel a little hot.”
You’d love it if maybe you were just delusional because of fever.
“No”—you lower your hands, thinking he’ll lower his also, but he feels your cheeks too—“I’m not.”
“Promise?” He’s skeptical now, like he doesn’t believe you.
You nod and smile. “Yes, Tom. I’m fine.” Maybe it’s PMS. Is that a valid excuse? Then you realize you almost told Tom that you were PMSing, and that makes you blush deeper.
“You look like a tomato.” He bends down a little to look in your eyes. Does he have some medical degree you don’t know about?
“Would you excuse me for a minute?”
He nods, and you turn around and walk to the trailer as fast as you think you can without seeming weird. You feel his eyes on you the entire way.
In the safety of the bathroom, you stare at your reflection. “Stop. It.” You splash your face with cool water, which makes the redness go away, and you feel much better afterward. As you dry off with the green towel, your brain clicks that you’ve got a job to do. And you can’t afford another conversation like the one you just had.
“No more,” you tell your reflection, thinking that’ll help. “You are not allowed to blush in his presence.”
The image that stares back at you doesn’t object, so you take that as a hopeful sign. Gathering yourself, you let out a breathy sigh that can only mean that you’ve passed through the worst of it.
THREE DAYS CAN’T PASS quickly enough, you think. Especially with your newly found crush on the man that you partially work for. The drive up there is like torture because you have to sit in the back with him. The conversation among the driver, Luke, Tom, and you never dies down, and so you’re forced to listen to that accent. That delectable accent.
You and MacKensie share a room at the hotel, thankfully, and Tom is a floor below, so you don’t pass him much. The only times you see him are when you’re supposed to be doing his makeup or riding with him to interviews.
Even so, those butterflies still remain while you’re alone in your room.
On the return drive, however, the pitch-black interior of the SUV encloses you in the tiny space with nowhere to go, nothing to do, nothing to distract you. Three and a half more hours on the road. Squinting your eyes, you try to make out shapes outside the window, but the only thing that greets you is your own dim reflection.
Luke has fallen asleep in the front seat, and Roger isn’t paying attention to anything but the road. Calculating the time difference in your head, you decide that it’s too late to text Cora, or anyone else back home.
Nonetheless, you begin to reach for your phone that you placed in the middle seat between you and Tom. The only light is from the radio up front, and even that isn’t bright enough to illuminate your black cell phone against the dark leather. Instead of grabbing the device, you grab a warm hand.
“Sorry,” you whisper quickly, and pull your hand away, “looking for my phone.”
There’s no reply, only a shift in his movement that you can’t see well, and then you feel his hand on your leg, the phone between his fingers. It makes you jump slightly, and you hear his breathy chuckle before he lets the phone drop into your lap and retracts his hand.
When you click the Home button, the lock screen tells you that it’s 1:04 a.m. It’s a good thing that you don’t have to be at work tomorrow. You yawn, feeling completely worn-out, but not daring to fall asleep like Luke. You slouch in your seat and prop yourself up on your elbow and stare at the dark mirror of the window.
A few minutes later the car comes to a tunnel. The yellow lights brighten the inside of the car, so you can see Tom reaching for his earphones and Luke drooling into the upholstery. Roger is just in his own world.
Tom had shed his jacket when he got into the car, deeming it too warm to wear one. Now it’s nothing but a T-shirt and jeans. You can’t help but think he’s much too skinny, not that he’s lacking in muscles.
You are not even. No. Stop it. Now.
Tom’s face is so serene. There’s no smile. Yet, no frown either. Just a set mask of indifference. It’s sickeningly simple to you. His long fingers grasp at his tangled headphone cord, fixing it quickly before the light is extinguished.
Quickly, the darkness settles back again, leaving you with the satisfaction of knowing that no one can see you blush now. Because even that smallest little thought about his biceps has set your face on fire. You take back your original position against the door and force yourself to calm down and to not fall asleep. You talk in your sleep.
That’s a very, very bad thing with Tom in the car.
That’s when you feel a tap on your shoulder, and you look up to see Tom’s face illuminated by the dimmed screen of his iPod. He’s not looking at you, but his hand is still extended toward your shoulder.
Then he pats the middle seat, looking up and
giving a closed-mouth grin.
You steady your nerves before unbuckling your seat belt and hopping to the next seat and buckling the lap belt loosely. He takes your hand and puts an earbud into it, but before you put it in, he’s leaning over.
Leaning over. Leaning over for what? Everything’s happening all at once, and you feel his hot breath on your ear and down your neck. A delicious chill shoots up your spine, and he’s whispering something soft and low. But what? What is he saying?
You don’t register a word that comes from his lips because you’re thinking about what he’s doing. When you think he’s going to straighten back up, he whispers something else that you barely catch: “. . . because you don’t want to make out . . .” There’s a low rumble of a chuckle that makes your heart race so fast you think it’ll beat out of your chest.
You swallow hard and he sits back up, scrolling through songs again. You force yourself to laugh a little, just so he doesn’t think you’ve lost your mind.
Your train of thought has taken a new track. It’d be so easy to kiss him right now. Too easy. And you’re not supposed to, but you start thinking about him kissing you back. This train explodes.
You press the earbud into your ear, still feeling the tingles of his breath. The song he’s chosen is slow, with beautiful violins filling the quiet background. Tom runs a hand through his hair before putting it on the back of your seat and looking out the window.
It’s a long song, and when you reach the end, you’ve yawned three times and put your feet up in the empty seat beside you. The next tune you recognize, “Moonlight Sonata,” and it’s all you can do to keep your eyes open. But soon enough, his arm falls on your shoulders and presses you into his side, and it’s so warm that you’d like nothing more than to fall asleep.
Trying to keep some composure, you hesitate in deciding where to place your hand. And as you’re making the decision, he slouches farther into the seat, taking you with him. You weren’t expecting it, and your fisted hand flies to his stomach, where it stays.
He lets out a breathy laugh again and reaches up to open your fingers. Your face is burning.
Then your senses give out, and fatigue sets in quickly. Like flipping off a light switch. All judgment goes out the window when you’re sleepy. Suddenly, the warmth his side is giving off is so comfortable. You’re not even aware you’re doing it, but you snuggle closer into his side, and he starts fiddling with your fingers. He looks down at you, although you don’t see, and smiles and starts to move you so you’re lying down, using his lap for a pillow.