An Unexpected Kind of Love by Hayden Stone

Chapter Twenty-Four

I race to the taxi queue outside of the hotel, barely remembering to take my wallet and key cards as I head out. The evening’s warm and close. I slide into the next available taxi.

“To the library on Forty-Second Street in Manhattan, please.” I’m breathing hard from my sprint as I attempt to settle into the back seat. It’s exciting—till we’re caught in a traffic crawl.

Unfortunately for us, New York traffic is as dreadful as London’s no matter the time of day. Eventually I give up on the taxi in favor of my chances on the subway. I’m blindly relying on the map app on my phone. It’s not far on the subway, but this is the most off-script thing I’ve ever done in my life. There’s fares and gates and far too many people—people who clearly know where they’re going.

Before long, I rush up from the subway to the library. Looking wildly around, I scan the scatter of people for Blake, but of course he’s not there. Granted, his photo updated at least an hour ago, and he probably didn’t linger outside in the very unlikely event I appeared out of the blue, unannounced, to pounce on him.

After a lap of the imposing library building and even a peek inside, I’m Blakeless.

Glum, I sit on a bench.

Idly, I scroll through the phone again. I need a new idea. Maybe casting calls? There’s a website that’s got loads of casting calls, but it’s hard to figure out where they actually are without signing up and getting screened in. Hopeless. I don’t think I could convince anyone, least of all myself, that I’m an actor. I might be able to fake being a musician for about five minutes, but that’s about where my performance skills end.

The madcap adventure was all madcap and for nothing.

Do I stay to keep looking or do I leave? Is there any point to holding on to the unlikely hope that I’ll find Blake in a city of millions?

I have no idea where he lives, aside from his family being back in Georgia. I don’t know the name of the town, even if I drove the fourteen hours down south to make a grand spectacle. If he was there. But that seems like a more unlikely scenario than the current one, so I stay here.

How could I have such strong feelings about a man I know so little about?

In the hotel that night, I toss and turn, not just from the jet lag, but because my brain won’t stop. Where exactly did my feelings start to change? Was it the first date dare? The dancing that night? His challenges to me? Like he could see some part of me that slumbered for ages like a hibernating animal.

I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to give up.

I don’t want to give up.

…

Early the next morning, I shower and go for breakfast at a little café not far from the hotel. The night passed one restless hour after another while I tried to figure out how to find Blake. Even the impressively comfortable mattress, an entirely different universe than my old sofa bed, couldn’t lull me into sleep. By morning, I have a plan. Better yet, I have a growing constellation of plans, because I’m determined.

I look over the detailed list of casting calls, agents, and local studios I put together over a pot of tea. I’ve made five calls so far without any luck, but I’m going to call every last place an actor might be connected with if I have to. I don’t care how many people I have to call. I’ll even try Alice Rutherford, the set designer from the last film, if I need to. Or media Andrew, who brought the news to us back in London that dreadful day about the paparazzi photos.

Last night, I also tried to sort out what to tell him when I find him. In my head, I replayed my speech a hundred times. Every time it sounded daft. But I need to tell him in person how I feel, no matter who’s there. Obviously, I won’t burst onto a film set mid-scene, but if I can find his location, and with a little luck on my side, I might get to talk to him.

I miss Blake so much. His energy, kindness, fun. The bean jokes. The drawl of his voice. The taste of his kisses. I miss his ease, the fun we have together, his attentiveness. His kind heart and living with such openness.

The way it feels to lie in each other’s arms, in turns debauched and reverent.

In two short weeks, he made a permanent mark. Indelible. Not that I want Blake to be delible—not even close.

To that end, I’ve got loads of work ahead of me today.

I only have…forty-seven more calls to make this morning, according to my list. That’s totally doable. I’ve got purpose. It’s not just any random sort of call. These are calls that matter. Forget I’m an introvert and that I hate making even one call. It’s only forty-seven more pleading, shameless calls for a very important Blake-shaped cause. I don’t care how desperate I sound, or how much groveling is in my future, or how unlikely any of this is to turn up Blake.

I can’t think like that.

After all, I’ve literally just crossed an ocean for him.

If none of my calls pan out, I’ll go to a couple of casting events that I’ve seen advertised on social media. It doesn’t matter if I’m shit at auditions. I’m willing to go through that and embarrass myself like I haven’t ever embarrassed myself in my life if it gets me in the door.

It’s a long shot, but I figure if Blakes’s not there, maybe I can find out where actors usually hang out in New York. Maybe I’ll get lucky and someone will say, “Hey, he’s always at this bar or that coffee shop,” and I can pretend to run into him by accident.

Or, you know, I could go the simplest route—figure out who his agent is, and come up with a watertight, compelling story that only someone truly coal-hearted could deny. Like, say, Blake forgot something very important in my shop while he was filming, something that’s irreplaceable. Maybe a watch from his family. Or, say, a lucky figurine that he always has to have on set. But it’d have to be really outrageous, like a Barbie Ken doll or a baby Yoda or even a My Little Pony. Something so silly that it’ll be bound to get his attention, that his agent will think is so ridiculous it has to be true.

Worst case, I’ll very predictably send him a book if I can’t find him. But not just any book—that damn poetry book he returned on the day we met in my shop. It’ll be my turn to put a note inside and I don’t care who reads it. Because I’m in love and I want him and, God, we just need a chance, a proper chance, to try to make this work.

Please, universe. I don’t ask for much.

We’ve just had a handful of days together. Enough to tease of a promise of a future together. Enough that he’s impossible to forget, to see a million possibilities of a future together, of what things might be like. I’ll learn every bean on the planet to impress him, learn fluent vegan and ethical zero waste, and be an all-around better human.

Okay, let’s try to keep this a little real.

So, I might lapse and have the occasional guilty kebab like I did on our first date, but he’ll totally understand, because he’s Blake and he’s cool like that. Way, way cooler than I am, that’s for sure. And that’s only one of a million reasons why I fell in love with him.

Which is what makes coming to America and risking making a fool of myself so worthwhile. Because I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t go all out in search of him.

My heart couldn’t bear not taking the risk.

Out of habit, I open up Instagram as I have the last of my tea. And I’m rewarded, because the algorithm knows what I want. Right away, there’s a dramatic black and white shot of Blake. He’s glorious, his bare chest peeking out from an unbuttoned black shirt in the obvious heat, that navy cap.

I’m starting to sweat just looking at him.

God. He’s gorgeous, all svelte muscle and serious smolder. Top shelf selfie. A++ would recommend. I shake my head, flustered. Even here, by myself.

And then I notice something important about that Blake photo. Forget the summertime swelter and Blake raising the heat by at least a hundred degrees in one selfie. Or that it’s fine material for a consolation wank later on. Forget all of that.

I groan. “Motherfucker.”

He’s standing in what clearly is Trafalgar Square, a broad expanse of space by the fountains in front of the National Gallery in London. It takes a fraction of a second to register the scene, the accompanying caption.

Back enjoying the sights because I can’t stay away.

Blake’s back in London.

God help me—I’m in the wrong damn country.