Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
If I thought the roads in New York City were busy, London is on a different, very chaotic scale. They don’t follow a pattern, so blocks aren’t easy to make out, and there aren’t places to cross at regular intervals. What are you supposed to do? Fly across the street? Even the sidewalks are confused—sometimes cobbled, sometimes asphalt, and sometimes slab. Pick a lane, Londoners!
I fall in behind an American family—mom, dad, and two teenage children—and try to be subtle about following them as they’re clearly trying to cross the mammoth road in front of us called Piccadilly. Not Piccadilly Street or Piccadilly Road—just Piccadilly, like we have Broadway back home. The family look as if they’ve been here a couple of days already and have a map without Daniel De Luca’s face on it, which probably means they have a higher probability of crossing this road without being run down by a red bus. Good enough for me.
We finally reach a crossing and get to the other side. They head left, but according to Google Maps, I need to go right. “Thank you,” I call out in their direction before realizing they didn’t even know I was following them.
When I reach the park, my guilt fades and my insides start to fizz with excitement. I can’t remember the last time I felt this . . . light. Inside, the park is magical. Pathways meander in all directions, all covered in a canopy of bright-green leaves. Sunshine finds its way through the tunnels, reflecting a web of tattooed leaves on the ground. It looks like a setting for a fantasy story, because real life couldn’t possibly be this beautiful. Somehow, even though the road is only a few paces away, I can’t hear the traffic. All I hear is birdsong and the whoosh of a passing cyclist.
I stand on my tiptoes to try to make out the sign up ahead. I’m trying to find the Canada Memorial. It was in the background of the scene where Daniel’s character, Tom, ran into Julia Alice’s character. As I glance through the trees, I spot the metal structure lifting from the ground, almost like a half-open trapdoor. I’m on the exact road where Daniel De Luca must have walked.
I try to picture the scene in my head so I can find the exact right spot when something—or someone—catches my eye.
As the stranger nears, my heart lifts in my chest, the ground tilts, and I have to stop to make sure I don’t fall over. It can’t be . . . Can it? Coming toward me is the one and only Daniel De Luca.
Holy shit.
His almost-black hair is swept up and back from his face, revealing high cheekbones and the square jaw that sends my stomach up, up, up, like I’m inching toward the summit of a roller coaster. He’s dressed in a navy suit and looks ready to boss someone around. I mentally raise a hand to volunteer. His stern frown suggests he’s far from the easygoing, charming, smiley Daniel De Luca I see on TV in interviews and on the red carpet.
Maybe his cat died.
He’ll reach me in just a couple of seconds. I have to gather myself and say something, but what?
“Daniel,” I call out when he’s a couple of yards away. “I’m a huge fan of your work and loved you in Love Me Like a Boss. You were simply—”
He doesn’t slow down, but he turns his head toward me and deepens his scowl like I’m a rodent he’s trying to will away. That’s when I realize: I’m not talking to Daniel De Luca at all.
The man in front of me isn’t a movie star. Granted, he’s hot and looks like Daniel De Luca’s twin brother. But he’s just a guy. A guy who has just been accosted by an American woman. “I’m sorry,” I say, flashing my best smile, hoping he’ll skip past my humiliation and chalk up my faux pas to American friendliness. “I thought you were someone else.”
He doesn’t stop.
He doesn’t say a word.
He doesn’t even smile or nod an acknowledgment.
He just stalks on by, as if I’m a lunatic and he’s got somewhere to be.
Embarrassment creeps over me. What is the matter with me? I’m actually hallucinating and starting to see Daniel De Luca in random men on the street. At this rate, I’ll be hiding in the bushes of Daniel De Luca’s front yard in an attempt to orchestrate a casual, totally coincidental meet-cute between us before the week is out. I might fully revert to my preteen self and start covering my notebooks in Daniel De Luca scribbles again.
I try to muster up some grace for myself. Between the breakup, job stress, and my hotel being plastered in memories of Mom, it’s no wonder I’m flirting with the edge of reasonable behavior. The time in my life that involved Daniel De Luca was so carefree. There were no student loans. No cheating fiancés. No possibility of losing my job. And my mom was still the person I relied on for everything—from makeup tips to pocket money.