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Celebrity Encounter

The mall is much busier than usual, even for a Saturday afternoon.

“What’s going on?” you ask one of the many young girls crowding around a stage that’s being prepared in the middle of the main hall.

“Don’t you know anything?” the girl says. “Jake Thorne is coming today. I’m going to get his autograph today, but one day I’m going to have his baby.”

“R-right.”

You’re not quite so starstruck as this girl is, but you have to admit that you’ve often thought about what it would be like to spend half an hour with Jake Thorne. You think about his beautiful eyes and imagine running your fingers through his hair. It would be cool to get a glimpse of him. Maybe you’ll even get lucky enough to be close enough to touch him!

Yeah, you admit it, you want him bad.

You whizz around the supermarket, performing your shop in record time, to return to the main area, but he still hasn’t made an appearance yet.

After twenty minutes being shoved and jostled by excited adolescent girls, you decide that you’ve had enough of this. Maybe they’ll be some highlights on television, you think. If not, you could always put on one of your DVDs of him and sit back with a glass of wine and your hand down your panties.

Satisfied with your plan, you hail a cab and give the driver your address, but before you’ve got your belt on, the passenger door opens up again and a man jumps in.

“I’m sorry about this,” Jake Thorne says. He’s crouching as if to stay out of sight and gestures to the mall. “You’ve got to get me out of here!”

Oh my God.

You can’t believe that Jake Thorne is in your taxi. He’s wearing a smart suit with a crisp shirt undone at the collar. He looks incredibly handsome, even sitting at your feet like this. Especially at your feet like this!

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“Fiona,” you say.

“Listen, Fiona,” says Jake. “Forgive me for the intrusion, but I want to get away from all the cameras and microphones for a while. I don’t care where we go, as long as it’s away from here. Please?”

Outside, you see several large guys in black T-shirts and jackets talking excitedly into walkie-talkies and surveying the street.

“I was going home,” you say.

“Great, Fiona,” he says. “Let’s go.”


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