Chelsea appears unconvinced. “It’s not that. You’re a cling on.”
“An alien?” I say dryly.
“No. You’re all romance and sticking together forever.” She lifts her forefingers and draws a big heart in the air. “Whereas, I’d rather have choices and plenty of it.”
“I’m not programmed to play the field. It’s too much effort. How will sleeping with a string of blokes enhance my life?”
Chelsea glares at me without blinking. “And obsessing over a model from Canada will enrich your life?”
Apparently, she doesn’t understand why I’m so upset about Noah. It’s not my fault I’m a cling on. I’d rather call it dedicated or loyal. “It’s too late now anyway. He and Lucy probably have a secret thing happening. She’s winning him over.” I suck in my fingers one at a time. “What bar doesn’t serve nuts?”
“They ran out.” Chelsea rolls her eyes. “Your mood is like a fart in a spacesuit. Unwanted and rotten.”
The bottom of my pint glass thuds on the coaster. “That’s obviously one of Jonah’s comments. You can’t claim a ten-year-old’s joke as your own.” I act unimpressed. Her kid brother is a real cutie. “You’re supposed to be my friend, Chelsea. Make me feel better. Tell me Lucy is a witch or buy me another pint.”
“Why don’t you message her? Befriend the enemy,” she suggests.
My brows lock together. “And why the hell would I do that?”
“So you can find out if they’re getting flirty, or aren’t, as the case may be. Perhaps it will put your crazy mind at ease.” Chelsea sucks in a long slurp, wiping her mouth with her sleeve when she finishes. “You do know this is irrational and utterly fucked up?” The phone wings back across the table, clanking the base of my glass. “You’re obsessed over a guy who has no idea you even walk the planet.”
I glance at the phone. Perhaps I should message her for intel or an invitation to their wedding.
“You have a strange look on your face, Rowan.” Chelsea leans closer.
“Shh! I’m thinking.” My gaze lands on the group of guys at the next table. None of them have that certain indescribable yumminess that Noah exudes.
Fingers snap in my line of vision, breaking my daze. “About?”
I slump back in the bench seat and groan. “How best to word my message.”
“For real?” Chelsea covers her eyes with her palms and shakes her head. “You’re actually going to reach out to her?” She peeks out through slitted fingers.
“Yeah! You told me to. It’s one of your better ideas.” I don’t sound convinced because I’m still upset by the whole episode. Also, it’s just hit home—there’s more chance of me meeting Noah Adams than my eye color changing.
“I didn’t think you’d take me seriously.”
The story is right there, begging me to add a comment for Lucy’s attention.
I articulate the words as I type.
Rowan Hudson:
Hey, Lucy. How cool is the repost from Noah? I’d happily have him as my baby daddy too. The guy is beyond sexy. Although such perfection must be flawed…
“Where are you going with this, Rowan?” Chelsea warns, interrupting my thought process.
“I’m planting a seed of doubt.” I blow off her concern and continue repeating the last sentence to get my flow back.
Rowan Hudson:
Although such perfection must be flawed. Perhaps he has weird shaped toes, all gnarly and claw like, or he’s got smelly belly button fluff, or hates seahorses. There has to be something unlikeable beneath the hotness that is Noah. I could settle for fluff and messed up toes as long as his nails are trimmed, and he has a good soul. Anyway, have a great week. I’m so happy he finally saw you.
“There,” I say triumphantly, hitting send. “That leaves it open for Lucy to reply and gives her a little extra to think about.”
Chelsea scrunches the snack wrapper and sniggers. “You’re bonkers, Rowan.” She motions to the bar girl for another two pints and we settle back. “Do you like him that much?”
“I’ve been following him for a year. Every day without fail. It’s weird; it’s like we’re kindred spirits, even though he doesn't give too much away. The bits I’ve learned so far would make him the perfect date for me. I think we’d get on like a house on fire, like really get on.” I ignore Chelsea’s blow job mime, with her tongue pushing out her cheek and her curled fist bobbing back and forth.
“You’re disgusting.” I smirk.
“Oh, come on, Hudson. Let’s be honest here, you’ve added all his photos to your…” Two sets of fingers curl in the air. “Wank bank.”
My cheeks flash, not with a delicate pink blush, but with a fiery blazing red that screams, ‘caught’. “Don’t be silly. Who does that?”
Chelsea’s brows lift with a comical height, and she stabs a thumb to her chest. “This chick does—and do not pretend you don’t.”
I swiftly change the subject under the duress of heat tingling over my skin. “He’s a super-rich model who spends vacations in South America, and I’m a student who has to save just to buy a train ticket to the north coast of Ireland.” The bar girl carries our drinks over on a tray and sets them down. I welcome the new cider with a mini hand clap. “Sometimes he recommends songs and books. I loved everything on his hit list.”
“Oh, a match made in Heaven,” she mocks, this time directing two fingers to her mouth to fake a gag. “He is gorgeous. I’ll give him that.” Her phone beeps, and she glances at the message. “Guys like him have the choice of any woman they want. He only has to think of the perfect woman, and she’ll saunter into his life.”
“I wonder what his ideal woman looks like?” I think of my own physical appearance. Petite, short, hobbit-esqse, with pale green eyes and copper hair falling below my shoulder blades. There are threads of gold woven through the lengths left in the aftermath of a hair coloring experiment that went wrong. I make them sound more magical than they are. They’re simply dry and unfashionable. My clothing style is carefree and casual, mixing flat boots with dainty dresses.
“I bet he likes Cuban women, with curves and attitude, who prance around the room with mega confidence and killer heels. The kind of women who are stuffed into a bikini with only a scrap of material covering nipples the size of bullets. Apparently, that’s what female models wear on set. Oh, and a seductive purring accent that’s raspy and breathless.” Chelsea drifts off with a dreamy look in her eyes. She’s putting way too much detail on the table.
“Who doesn’t like Cuban women?” My forehead wrinkles. I’m not super sexy, and my broad accent is like nails scratching a blackboard, but I am cute and quirky, if those are appealing qualities to a hot male model.
I’m also an idiot for being so mentally involved with an unattainable public figure. He’s my secret addiction. A sexy stranger who calls to me from the depths of social media. When I try to rationalize my constant profile checking, I sound desperate. Perhaps the remedy is to get laid for once.