Chasing the Dream: Dream Series, Book 3

by Isabelle Peterson

  My heart was pounding. Partly because he was Chase Fucking Smythe calling me beautiful! And partly because he thought he could play me.

  Chase and I stared each other down—him looking at me for a reaction to his charms, me staring at him determined to stand my ground. The last thing I needed was to slip up on this assignment and have Valerie be disappointed. He reached up and ran a finger down my jaw line. Intense electrical tingling, an EMP, or electromagnetic pulse, was left in the wake of his touch. Like tiny bolts of lightening, or static electricity, forming between his finger and my skin. My physics classes ran through my head again. Ohm’s Law and the physics lab from last semester came to mind. Ohm’s law is the principal that ‘the current through a conductor between two points is directly proportional to the potential difference across the two points.’ In short there was an electromagnetic force between us, and it could either be really good, or really bad. Adding up the variables here: Dana’s torn shirt, the tabloids, and his intense gaze…the answer I came up with was really bad.

  I tore my eyes from Chase’s to change the physics going on here and avoid an electromagnetic catastrophe. I focused my attention out the window, and noticed that the car stopped. The driver called back, “I’ll be back at four, is that right, Miss?”

  I looked at Chase, questioning.

  “Don’t look at me, babe. I don’t know my schedule. That’s your job,” he said, tapping on the clipboard in my lap; the one that I was gripping for dear life. Oh shit! The driver was asking me a question. The PA. Quickly, for the first time, I scanned down the schedule on the clipboard.

  COPS UNDERCOVER: CHASE SMYTHE (DETECTIVE YOUNG)

  TUESDAY, MAY 28, 2013

  CALL TIME LOCATION

  5:00am – 10:30am ON LOCATION: Spring St. and Mercer St.

  11:00am – 12:00pm LUNCH

  1:30pm – 4:30pm ON LOCATION: 5th and 82nd/ The Metropolitan Museum of Art

  5:00pm – 6:00pm DINNER, TBD (please stick to Midtown)

  6:30pm – 8:00pm LATE SHOW W/JIMMY FALLON TAPING, ROCKEFELLER PLAZA

  “Um, it looks like four-thirty, actually,” I stammered, trying to sound together, and grown up, and official. I looked at Chase. “Do I have that right?” I asked Chase.

  He shrugged. “Like I said, I don’t ever pay attention to schedules. That’s your job. Besides, time is relative,” he said winking at me and brushing his finger under my chin. My body temp shot up and my heart started to slam against my chest. I couldn’t think. His touch effectively erased my memory of everything going on.

  We sat in silence for a couple of moments more, sizing each other up. Did Chase know he had gotten to me? Did he feel the same thing when he touched me? Did he know I was going to fight whatever this was between us?

  We both jumped in our seats when there was a knock on the window. I looked out and saw a guy wearing a baseball cap that had the Law and Order: SVU logo on it, and a headset. It dawned on me that he must be a production person and that we had stopped driving because we’d made it to the set. The baseball-capped man opened the door, and I watched Chase literally transform before my very eyes. From steamy I-want-in-your-pants-and-in-your-pants-I’ll-be stare to the affable-everyone’s-friend that he seemed to be in the interviews I’d seen.

  “Hi, David!” he chuckled with his mega-watt superstar grin. He shoved his hand through his thick blonde hair tousling it gently and making my heart flutter. “We’re not late, are we?”

  He stepped over me and exited the car and I caught a good whiff of him. I let the scent swirl around me. How had I not noticed that delicious smell was him earlier? Spicy and sweet, a little cologne, and a distinct man smell. My heart started to race again. I took a few deep breaths, and just as I started to get my breathing, but that was futile. Now all I could smell was his scent in that car.

  Chase ducked his head back inside, extending a hand to me. “You coming? My babysitter is supposed to be on set with me,” he said with a wink.

  Um, babysitter? Yeah, I guess that’s what I was. Right. This was my job. I declined his hand, and got out of the car on my own. My heart couldn’t risk another electromagnetic touch.

  The next three hours went quickly as Chase was on set charming everyone around him, except maybe the director who was annoyed that Chase needed to be reminded of his lines every time the scene changed. However, from the girls in the wardrobe and makeup trailer, to everyone else on set, Chase was treated like royalty. No wonder he behaved like he did; that everyone loved him and that he didn’t really have to work for anything. I sat in a chair that was offered to me, took the water that some crew person handed me, and sat back to watch the buzz on set. It was fascinating to watch the filming.

  For starters, we were at The Metropolitan Museum of Art. So surreal. I’d seen this building in a few movies, and now I was sitting here, as it was the set of a TV show. Secondly, I kind of knew this area. It wasn’t too far from my apartment. Ah, I sighed. My apartment. How I wished I could run over there, curl up in my bed, and take a nap. I was exhausted after this crazy internship day.

  The pace on set was crazy. Sometimes wicked fast, other times slow and almost painful. In between takes, sound, lighting and camera people got busy adjusting things. Chase, the other actors, the director, and a few other people who looked like they were in charge, poured over the script book that they referred to as ‘the bible.’ Then they started shooting. Would shoot the scene several times, often because Chase would forget a line, and then they would do it all over again. All the while, New Yorkers walked by, most acting as if everyone on set were homeless bums, not giving the extravaganza a second glance. Some had stopped and craned their necks to see if it was anyone famous, a few girls recognized Chase and stood watching his every move. When Chase noticed them, he would call “Cut,” driving the director out of his mind, and Chase would go over to sign autographs and take selfies with the elated teens.

  Everywhere Chase went, people watched. Truth be told, I couldn’t keep my eyes off of him either. He wasn’t taller than six-feet, but he stood like a seven-foot man, built solidly with broad shoulders and a trim waist. His thighs filled his jeans well enough to let you know he was sturdy, but not husky. His snug shirt and jeans made quite a statement as he moved. He moved effortlessly, either taking direction from the director or interacting with cast members or fans. There wasn’t an awkward ounce about him.

  Around four, a text from Jenny came through my phone.

  4:18pm

  Wanna grab dinner after

  work? Mexican?

  Hmm, what to text back? I’m apparently having dinner with Chase Smythe? Nah. That’d sound like I’m bragging. Besides. I was convinced that any moment I’d wake up and find that this was all an elaborate dream brought on by whatever was on the TV while I was asleep in front of it.

  4:19pm

  I’ve got plans, but how

  about tomorrow?

  That was a good reply. Not showing a hand, a dreamt hand.

  She texted right back.

  4:19pm

  Sounds good.

  The director finally called “wrap,” and the crew started to break down the set, coiling up cords and packing up ‘bounce boards.’

  “And that, my girl, is how you shoot twelve and half minutes of a TV show,” Chase said, plopping down in the chair next to me.

  “All of that was for twelve and a half minutes?!” I asked.

  “Yup. Welcome to showbiz.”

  “But you shot for three hours!”

  “Yeah. Wide shots. Close ups of me. Close ups of Jared. From the left, from the right. And the odd take where the sound guy caught a horn overriding our dialogue.” And the times when you needed to be reminded of your lines, I thought in my head, but wouldn’t dare say out loud. “On location single camera shoots have to be the most exhausting. I’m starving! What do you say we get a bite to eat? You like onion rings?”

  “It says here,” I said looking down at the schedule again, “that we’re su
pposed to eat in Midtown?”

  “Meh. It’s fine. Trust me,” he grabbed my hand and the instant our hands touched, I felt my heart skip, like I’d been hit with a defibrillator. This damn EMP was going to kill me!

  Chase snatched a baseball cap and a jacket off the back of the director’s chair. He stuffed his gorgeous thick blonde locks inside and seconds later we were running, hand in hand, past the Town Car and down Seventy-ninth Street.

  “The car is back there,” I said, thumbing behind us.

  “Town Car equals fans following. I need a break,” he said, tugging us along, slipping the jacket he’d just swiped onto his back.

  Making Dreary Dana quit was fun. If I had to endure another day of her sucking up to me and fan-girling, I was going to lose it. Granted, my little performance of swigging back a flask I told her was filled with vodka, and coming on to her like she was begging for it, was a bit much. I didn’t mean to tear her shirt, but once I slip into a role, sometimes it’s hard not to go full throttle. I wouldn’t have had sex with her. I would have come up with something before I ‘had my way’ with her. But the slap she delivered me, and my fake passing out from it, worked well. Best improv ever!

  And my reward? Phoebe.

  Phoebe was so cute, so innocent. And she seemed like a caring girl. She had a sparkle in her eye. She wasn’t full of herself and giggling like every other twit that came my way. She wasn’t constantly complimenting me, and telling me what a wonderful actor I was. She wasn’t having me pull out the various accents and talk to her like a Brit, or Aussie, or my favorite, the Jersey guy.

  Maybe she was playing hard to get. Oh, I’ll get her all right. I always get the girl.

  CHAPTER 8

  I couldn’t believe my eyes when we stopped in front of Ed Scott’s Steakhouse. My mother worked here when she was in New York for her odd, month long stay back in April.

  “I know onion rings, and this place has the best…stacked on juicy filet mignon,” he said, licking his lips, his gorgeous full lips. I suddenly wasn’t thinking about my mom anymore. The sight of his tongue and those lips…My stomach was doing that flippy thing again.

  Chase opened the door and stepped back, sweeping his arm across his magnificent chest. “After you m’lady,” Chase said in his British accent. I shuddered with excitement. Why did accents do goofy things to girls?

  “Thank you, Mr. Smythe,” I said, raising a brow at him, and walked into the restaurant.

  I had fond memories of the place when I was here five weeks ago. The staff had been really nice to me, and the food was great. My mom looked like she really liked working here, too. It was weird watching her work. She had never worked outside the home while I was growing up. I looked behind the bar and saw a gal I remembered, but couldn’t remember her name. Cheyanne? Charlotte?

  The hostess at the front stand spoke. “Table for two?” she asked. Table for two, I repeated to myself. A table for two—me and Chase Freakin’ Smythe! How impossibly romantic! Stop it! You are his personal assistant. This isn’t a date or anything, I chided myself.

  “Yeah,” Chase answered, pulling the cap off of his had and re-arranging his mop, flashing the hostess with his camera-worthy smile.

  The hostess gasped and blushed. “You’re….”

  “I am,” Chase answered with a wink. And before the hostess could find the rest of her sentence, he put his finger up to his lips, and ‘shushed’ her, letting her know that our being here was a secret.

  She started to pant a bit, and wildly searched the main restaurant area and the seating chart on her stand. “Um, it’ll be about ten or fifteen minutes for a table to open up,” she said hopefully.

  Chase glanced at the bar. “We don’t really have that kind of time. I have to be back on set in an hour, and my girl is starving,” he said, draping an arm around my shoulder and pulling me into his muscular form, practically electrocuting the whole side of my body. We fit perfectly, I mused. “Mind if we sit in the bar?” Chase asked pointing at a high top over in the bar section.

  “Oh, um, sure, but—” she stammered, glancing at me, with a touch of… jealousy?

  “Great, thanks,” and Chase pulled me off to the bar before the hostess could object.

  As we approached the open table, Chase dropped his arm from my shoulder and jumped ahead of me, pulling a chair for me to climb into. “Fifi,” he said. I grimaced at the nickname, but hopped up into the chair regardless.

  “What? You don’t like the nickname?” he asked, sliding into the chair opposite mine.

  I shook my head. “No, not really. My brothers used to call me that when they were teasing me.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ll stop,” he said. “It’s just cute, like you. But I suppose Phoebe is more beautiful, also like you.”

  The bartender lady, whose name I couldn’t remember, came up to us setting a pair of beverage napkins and menus on the table. “Phoebe, so good to see you! Your mother told me to keep an eye out for you. I’m glad you stopped by. She’s not here right now, though.” She quickly looked guilty like she’d said something she wasn’t supposed to say.”

  “Oh, I know. She’s back in California. I talked to her yesterday,” I smiled. The look that flashed on her face was an uncomfortable one, but for the life of me I couldn’t figure out why.

  “Hi, kinda short on time,” Chase spoke up, stepping into our little reunion, pulling the menus up from the table and handing them back to the waitress. “We’ll both take a Goose Island, in the bottle—cap on, filet mignon, medium, those amazing onion rings, and a side of veg.” Then without any further ado, he started tapping something into his cellphone.

  “Um,” I was stunned. He was ordering for me? And I knew that the waitress knew I wasn’t old enough for beer. “I’d prefer Diet Coke, and I’ll take my steak medium-rare, please. I’ll pass on the rings. Can I have a baked potato instead? The vegetables are fine.”

  “Great,” the bartender said. “I’ll get that going right away.” She turned to Chase, but without fan recognition, she just thought he was a regular guy. “My name is Shelby if you need anything,” and she was off. Ah! Shelby. That was her name!

  “Medium-rare, huh,” Chase asked.

  “I like my steaks juicy,” I said.

  “Juicy. Good to know,” he said, smirking. Suddenly I blushed realizing that he interpreted that as sounding dirty. “So, how does Shelby know your mom?” he asked, saving me from my embarrassing slip of the tongue.

  “Oh. Well, my mom was in New York for a while last month, taking a break from life, I guess, and she worked here. I’m living in the apartment she was living in. It’s just a few blocks up.”

  “Small world.”

  “Very,” I agreed.

  I couldn’t believe I was sitting at a table and chatting with Chase Smythe. Chatting like we were old friends. Unreal. When our drinks were delivered a moment later, Chase pulled out a keyring and pulled the cap off of his bottle.

  Chase noticed my questioning expression with his using his own bottle opener on the beer. “There’s just somethin’ about poppin’ the top off your own beer,” he shrugged, and took a long drink. Again, watching his lips on the bottle, and his jaw and throat work was a thing of beauty.

  As we waited for our meals, Chase practically grilled me about my upbringing, my family and my brothers, my school… my boyfriends. I admitted that I was currently single, and staying single for this summer, which seemed to interest him greatly. I didn’t go into details about Dickwad.

  Once our delicious steaks arrived I was grateful that my appetite was back. I tried asking Chase similar questions about his family, school, and girlfriends, but he gave his canned, sometimes humorous TV interview answers. About his family: “For all the time that has mattered, it’s been just me and the best mom in the world.” About school: “Still deciding on what to study, looking for a school that I’d like to go to, and one that would accept my application.” But when he got to the girlfriend answer, his interview reply has al
ways been: “Ah, the girls. I love ’em all.” His reply to me was: “I don’t know right now.”

  Just then, the table was rushed by four girls about my age who recognized Chase and were begging for his autograph. The first girl had Chase sign her phone case, the second girl had a magazine in her purse with an article about Chase that was published just this month. The third girl got very brazen and tugged down the front of her shirt to the top of her black-lace, demi-cup bra and had him sign her chest. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Chase ate it up.

  “What’s your name, beautiful?” he asked her with a wink, making her squeal.

  “Candy,” she giggled.

  “Ooo. I bet you’re sweet like candy, too.”

  “I am,” she said as she bit on her lower lip and batted her eyelashes. She grabbed a bar napkin and scribbled something on it when Chase handed the Sharpie marker back to her. “Call me and find out. I’m single, too,” Chase took the napkin, stared her in the eye, and tucked it into his pants pocket with his trademark smirk.

  Yeah, our past half-hour conversation was fake. He loves all the girls.

  Chase looked at his watch. He wears a watch, I noted. How had I missed that? I don’t know why it struck me as a novelty, but most of my friends, myself included, used their cell phones as their watch. “Sorry girls, but Phoebe, what time do we have to be where?”

  I pulled the clipboard that I had tucked under my leg and checked the schedule again. “Six-thirty. Rockefeller Plaza,” I confirmed.

  “Oh! We should get going,” he said, pulling out his cell phone and tapping away. “Watch me tonight on The Late Show with Jimmy Fallon, okay? I’ll have a message just for you,” he said, winking at the boob-autograph girl, then picked up his beer, drank a long sip, then handed it to the girl who had the magazine to be signed.

  He stood and walked over to Shelby, handed her two fifties and said, “I hope this covers it. We gotta dash.” Chase pushed our way through the girls, and we walked out the doors to an assault of paparazzi. Flashbulbs and shouts everywhere.