#1 Crush

by T Gephart

  #1 Crush

  Published by T Gephart at Smashwords

  Copyright 2017 T Gephart

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  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and scenarios are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Cover by:

  Hang Le

  Editing by:

  Nichole Strauss, Insight Editing Services

  Interior Design & Formatting by:

  Christine Borgford, Type A Formatting

  To Alexander Skarsgård—For three fleeting minutes I got to be part of your world. You were a class act, and I will never forget your kindness.

  To Lilliana Anderson—This started as your bedtime story but now you will have to share it with the rest of the world. Thanks for the laughs and listening to my crazy. You are a queen among women.

  To Monica James—Thank you isn’t enough. You were with me in spirit for the journey, and your support was irreplaceable. I adore you. #Bulgaria

  #1 Crush was the fastest and one of the most enjoyable books I have ever written. I don’t think I have ever laughed as much as I did writing this book. Not because I think it’s the funniest, but because of the situations the main character finds herself in.

  However, this is a work of fiction.

  While some of the events, places, names, people or anything else may have a startling resemblance to something in real life—they are not real.

  Not even a little.

  So, put your lawsuits away and enjoy possibly the most ridiculous thing I have ever written.

  Contents

  #1 Crush

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Books by T Gephart

  HERE’S THE THING.

  I’m a smart girl. I don’t suffer any delusions of grandeur nor do I have difficulty separating fact from fiction. In fact, I would consider myself a realist with a healthy side order of feet-firmly-on-the-ground. But that didn’t mean I was boring, oh hell no. There was no lack of surprise when my antics landed me in a hot mess. Because, while I had a complete grasp on reality, I had trouble coloring in between the lines.

  It could be that I was a middle child.

  My type-A older sister was a successful dermatologist who married an even more successful cosmetic surgeon. Both of them beautiful and brainy, and if I didn’t love them so much I’d be secretly plotting their demise. They had also given me a nephew and niece I completely adored, so there was that.

  And my younger sister was an über-talented artist who was able to pull off the seemingly impossibly pairing of contemporary with impressionism. Critically acclaimed, with impeccable fashion sense and a loft apartment in Paris. Sure, a complete overachiever, but once again, I was more than happy for her.

  So, it was natural that with all that brilliance filling up the branches of my family tree that I’d had a pretty tough legacy to live up to. Which I did with my own personal brand of flare.

  Despite graduating from Columbia with a degree in journalism, I was working for the New York Post as a columnist. Sure, I usually got the eye roll reaction when I announced my occupation, but I needed more than just a career. And as much as I wanted to write for The Times or Time, I wanted to enjoy what was left of my twenties before I became responsible. Writing a column gave me flexibility; I could work from anywhere. And I could literally write whatever I wanted. Dude giving me crazy-eyes on the subway—last month’s entry. New waxing lady giving me second degree burns—two weeks ago. Cute guy I met at Starbucks who espresso’d my orgasm, yes it was as terrible as it sounded—Tuesday. As long as I turned it in on time and kept it fun and flirty, my editor was happy.

  And no, I wasn’t like Carrie from Sex and The City. While I liked looking good, I wasn’t obsessed with fashion or shoes. I didn’t own a gorgeous Brownstone in Greenwich Village either, instead preferring my modest Brooklyn apartment. And my friends weren’t freaks. Oh, and most importantly, I hated cosmopolitans. Hated them.

  But like Carrie, I wasn’t ready to settle down.

  In any way.

  And out of the three Monroe daughters, it was me my parents worried about the most. Because more than anything—a career, money, security—I craved adventure. And not the lusting-after-Manolos-from-the-store-window kind—thanks a lot Sarah Jessica Parker.

  I wanted real, heart-stopping adventure.

  “Hey Tia, you want to go drink at a bar tonight? I haven’t been hungover since Tuesday, and I write better drunk.” Lila, one of my closest friends, collapsed on my bed beside me as I continued to navigate the interwebs.

  We had graduated together, but unlike me, she had taken a job at The Times. She could drink most men under the table, and despite her lamenting about lack of inebriation, she wasn’t an alcoholic. She just liked to act dramatic, channeling her inner Hemmingway and swirl martinis like she was an extra on Mad Men. Really, I was in no position to judge.

  “Hey, did you see the latest shots?” I swiveled my laptop around so I could show her the photo in question. “He landed in LAX and was wearing that charcoal V-neck sweater that clings to his chest like body paint. I swear it just makes him look even more delicious.” I really was very fond of that V-neck, it did things to me no knitted sweater should.

  “I’m sure he wears it purely for your benefit.” Lila snorted as she navigated through the other photos. “How did you even get these?” She studied the monitor closely, probably noticing they’d been time stamped two hours ago.

  Yes, I knew I had a problem.

  “Ahhhhh, you know I’ll never tell my sources.” Or admit I took secret pleasure in scouring the internet for prized candid snaps. “And quite frankly I’m surprised you think I would give that information so easily, didn’t we take some kind of oath in school?” I turned the keyboard around and gazed upon his ridiculously beautiful face. Who looks that good after a ten-hour plane ride? Maybe he really was a vampire?

  “Eric Larsson is a fine piece of ass, I’ll give you that.” Lila threw her head back and laughed. “And this is a new record for you. I can’t believe you still have it as bad as you do.”

  Lila was correct on two counts. One, his ass was most definitely fine. And two, he was my longest reigning crush.

  Not any crush either.

  Eric Larsson was my number one.

  There had been other men—both regular and celebrity—who had garnered my at
tention over the years. Blond guys, dark haired guys—I didn’t really have a type. But none of them had even come close to Eric.

  That man was perfection. All blond haired, blue eyed, six-foot-four inches of him—so perfect he almost didn’t seem real. Like the hand of God himself had crafted him, his body so insanely toned I wasn’t sure if it was sculpted from muscle or marble. And when he smiled, it was like staring straight into the sun. Those eyes. That mouth. The way the delicate lines of his face dipped and curved with a symmetry that seemed virtually impossible.

  He was too much.

  Too much.

  No one deserved to be that good looking. It was greedy. And yet by the power of Odin and all the Viking gods, someone in the heavens had seen to it that he was. Which is why I mumbled my thank yous every morning to them as I stalked the latest installment of photos that found their way into my inbox.

  Sure, my obsession with him was slightly creepy. Fine, a lot then. But I felt completely justified. It wasn’t just his ridiculous good looks that had the ability to reduce me to a mess of nonsensical stuttering. Oh, no. Because being a walking, talking piece of man-art wasn’t enough. He had to be really greedy and add charming, polite and funny to the list. And if that wasn’t enough, he had a slightly weird, dorky side I found adorable. His well-documented geek-outs making me giggle like an idiot.

  Which I clearly was.

  Because not only was Eric Larsson delicious in a way that made my girly parts tingle, he was a Hollywood movie star.

  The famous kind.

  Who was unattainable.

  Oh, and we’d never met.

  Yep, I know what you are thinking. I’m crazy. Wrap me up in a straight jacket and lock me away in a padded cell. Because I wasn’t sixteen anymore, and crushing on a guy I’d never been face-to-face with was tragic. And all of that would be completely valid if I harbored delusions that we were actually going to be a couple. But . . . I actually didn’t.

  I wasn’t looking to fall in love. Please, I wasn’t completely insane. No, we weren’t going to magically see each other across a crowded room and be drawn together like a cheesy rom com. There wasn’t going to be a one-night stand where he decided he couldn’t live without me. Nope, none of that was going to happen. And I was fine with all of that.

  Chances were his public persona was nothing like I’d built him up in my head. All those qualities that had me gaga like a moron possibly weren’t even real. He was probably an egotistical asshole with a small penis. I mean, come on. You didn’t get all that and be gifted in the pants department, somewhere there had to be a trade off.

  There was also almost zero chance he was a nice guy. Nice guys didn’t look like that. And they sure as shit weren’t famous. No, I’d dated plenty of nice guys. And while it was pleasant and even enjoyable, I got bored quickly. Because obviously there was something wrong with me. Note my unhealthy attraction to a man who doesn’t know of my existence.

  And if that laundry list of misdemeanors wasn’t enough to convince me this wasn’t going to be a happily-ever-after, there was also the fact he had a GIRLFRIEND. Yep, and not just a regular girl who sits on the couch and sucks down tacos like the rest of us either. No, you know the kind. Amazing body, perky breasts, perfect hair, supermodel whose legs had their own zip code. God help us all if they ever procreated, their children would be so genetically blindingly adorable we’d need polarized sunglasses just to look at them. How nice for them. Ugh.

  “I need to meet him.” The words spilled out of my mouth at the same rate they tumbled around in my head. It was a habit, and one I was trying to break. Because my mouth needed to learn it wasn’t a good plan to make spontaneous and rash decisions. At the very least not announce them to the world.

  Truth was, I’d been close to meeting him no less than three separate times. Three. Not like we were sorta in the same state one time, I’m talking three separate occasions where we’d been in the same location only minutes apart. Minutes. If that wasn’t a cruel twist of fate then I don’t know what was. So either I had been a jerk in a previous life and was paying for my asshat behavior or fate was the asshole. I couldn’t confidently guess which one.

  “Yeah, yeah. Of course you do.” Lila laughed, rolling over onto her stomach enabling her to look at me more clearly. “It will be great. And the two of you will ride off into the sunset. And you will set me up with his hot friend Ryan and we can have a double wedding.”

  “What are you talking about?” My attention snapped to Lila, my focus on the information that I didn’t seem to know. Could she know something about Eric I didn’t? “What friend Ryan?”

  “It’s Hollywood, there’s always a Ryan.” Lila scoffed like she knew it to be a fact. “Or Scott, or Taylor, or Josh. Or whichever devastatingly handsome stereotype he chooses to hang out with.”

  “No, I’m serious.” I waved off her notion of hooking up with fictional Ryan in favor of a real meeting with Eric.

  The more the idea marinated the more I liked it. Because it would actually solve a lot of problems.

  “Think about it. I meet him, I see what an asshole he is and I move on with my life. Simple. Because we both know he’s going to be a disappointment.”

  Boom.

  Cured.

  It was brilliant.

  “So you want him to be an asshole?” Her eyes narrowed in either shock or disbelief. It was hard to tell which, and honestly, either was acceptable.

  “It’s not about what I want, it’s about what is.” I shifted in my seat clarifying my position. “I’m not sure why, but there is something about Eric Larsson that makes me short circuit. Like I’ve taken stupid pills and my brain cells drop out of my head.”

  “I’d say it’s because he’s hot.”

  I ignored Lila’s statement of Eric’s obvious hotness and pressed on. “So the best way to fix that is to see that he isn’t so special. I’m sure he’ll be just as good looking as in those pictures—let’s not get crazy. And that body of his, I mean he’s basically an amusement park for my vagina.” Not a lie, given half a chance I would find out the true meaning of slippery dip. “But, he’ll probably be a rude and arrogant prick. He’s an actor who looks like that.” I waved my hand in front of the screen presenting the evidence in case she’d forgotten. “And because he’s an actor, all that adorable stuff is probably fake too. When I see all of that, whatever allure he has will be lost. Spell broken. And then maybe my libido will stop dictating my attraction to him and I can move someone else into my number one crush position.” Hopefully someone I had a chance of getting naked with.

  “Why don’t you just listen to your own pep talk, convince yourself he is probably a dick and save yourself the hassle?”

  She had a point, but not one I was willing to contend with.

  “Nope, I can’t work with probability or hypotheticals. I need to see it firsthand. I need hard evidence.” And not the kind that was housed in his pants. Or maybe—No, I had to stick with the plan.

  “Fine, so you need to meet him. One small problem.” Seriously, Lila could only think of one? I could list a dozen off the top of my head. “You live in New York and he lives all the way on other side of the country. And I don’t think you can just Google his address.”

  “Oh, I’m sure I could, but turning up on his doorstep would be too creeper even for me.”

  Fine, I’ll admit I had narrowed it down to a general location without even trying. But that was as far as it went.

  “It has to be a chance encounter or something.” I eased back into my chair, my mind flipping through possible scenarios. “And he can’t know I’m a fan. And there has to be conversation involved. And I need at least two minutes of eye contact and an acknowledgement.”

  “What a list.” Lila laughed. “Still, if anyone is going to do it, it will be you.” She’d always had blind faith in me, even if at times I wasn’t sure I’d deserved it. “So now that we’ve established you are going to stalk and accost Eric Larsson in the near future a
nd possibly end up with a criminal record, I insist we go out drinking. We need to celebrate your freedom while you still have it.”

  She had a point. It could end badly. I’m talking mug-shot-end-up-in-a-cell badly. Not that I would focus on the negatives. Pfft, that wouldn’t be like me at all. So all the odds that were stacked against me could be sidelined for responsible Tia, if she ever decided to show up. I wasn’t a quitter. Nor did I weasel out of something because it was too tough. Whatever was going to happen, would happen, and I knew I could count on Lila to start a GoFundMe page if I needed legal representation. And it would make a good story, right?

  “Agreed.” I nodded, mentally arming myself for the copious amounts of alcohol I would be consuming. “Because tomorrow I am going to need some serious strategy.”

  MY HEAD HURT.

  I lifted it slightly off the pillow as the morning light—or it could have been afternoon, I really didn’t know—pierced my eyeballs like a dagger as I stupidly raised my lids.

  Bad move. Sight was overrated, and there was nothing I needed to see.

  My eyes slammed shut again as I inwardly groaned. I outwardly groaned too, cursing myself—and Lila, those shots were such a bad idea—as I willed the room to stop spinning.

  Ah, next day regret. It had been a while but there we were. At least I was alone in bed. Or I hoped I was.

  My hand tentatively reached over to the other side of the mattress and sure enough, it was empty. Good. My stupidity had been limited to—my tongue rolled around in my mouth—vodka? Tequila? Gin? Probably all three.

  “Ugh. Such a bad idea.” I hoped my future self was taking note. This had been a hell of a lot easier when I was on the other side of twenty-eight. I guess some things didn’t improve with age. Hangovers, being one.

  While lying in bed and complaining about my aching body and head sounded like a solid plan for the day, I had more important things to do. Namely working out a way I could get myself to the premiere of Eric Larsson’s latest movie where he was going to walk the red carpet in two days.