ADA

Beads of sweat trail down my face. I can feel my heart pounding in the strangest places: the tops of my feet, the inside of my ears, even the tips of my fingers. I might be on the verge of passing out. Or throwing up. Possibly both.

I wipe the back of my wrist across my damp forehead. It's just past seven in the morning, but it has to be eighty degrees out here. My morning routine usually consists of devouring high-sugar coffees and the biggest pastries I can find. But apparently, I should've taken Mom up on her offer to go jogging. I severely underestimated the amount of running I'd have to do as a paparazzo. I can't believe people do this as a hobby.

My camera bag smack, smack, smacks against my hip in time with my steps, leaving what I'm sure will be a glorious bruise tomorrow. The soft morning sunlight streams through the leaves of the trees overhead, casting fragmented shadows across the paved trail. The sound of birds chirping rings through the air. Apparently, I've entered a scene from The Sound of Music.

Agnes couldn't have been vaguer in her text about where I should go this morning. Central Park is massive. I've been running aimlessly—if you can call this weird shuffle-footed thing I'm doing running—for the past hour. I've yet to spot anyone remotely famous.

I've seen plenty of ridiculously fit people jogging, more dogs than I can count, and a mommy and me yoga class where the toddlers seemed much more interested in blowing spit bubbles at each other than in their tree poses.

But celebrity sightings? Zilch.

All of a sudden, my lack of fitness catches up to me. The threat of vomit seems imminent. I stop, bending forward and grabbing my knees, chest heaving in and out.

"You all right?" a guy wearing lime-green running shoes calls as he jogs past me. He doesn't bother waiting to hear the answer.

"Oh, I'm fantastic. Thanks so much for your concern!" I yell after him, but he's already rounded a corner and jogged out of sight. I straighten, taking a deep breath and rallying what little energy I have left. I attempt my shuffle-jog again, but my stomach instantly revolts. That awesome thing happens where a tiny bit of puke creeps up the back of my throat, and I force myself to swallow. Bluuurgh.

If I didn't have so much riding on getting these shots this morning, I would've turned back already. Maybe I should try a different part of the park. I'm trying to decide what direction to go when two shirtless dudes come jogging around a bend in the path ahead of me. I don't recognize them at first. They're far enough away that I have to squint to make out their faces.

Their abs, however, I can see clearly even from this distance. They wouldn't be out of place on the set of 300—one of Grams' all-time favorite movies. It's Wesley Grant and Liam Anders.

Wesley plays Liam's know-it-all best friend on Cipher. With his sculpted cheekbones and soulful eyes, which are usually bordered by thick-framed glasses, he's got the sexy-nerd vibe locked down. He's not wearing his glasses today, though. I wonder if they're a prop for the show or if he's wearing contacts.

I'm suddenly very aware of my appearance. Drenched in sweat and puffy-eyed, I look worse than I did covered in green juice yesterday. Part of me wants to crawl behind one of the park benches rather than have two A-listers see me like this. But I'm pretty sure professional paparazzi do not hide from celebrities.

Just seeing Liam has me reliving all the outrage and embarrassment of having him yell at me in front of all those people yesterday. It's like rubbing a raw sunburn, painful and annoying. But I force myself to shake it off and pull out my cell. I drop a pin of my location into Agnes's group text from last night and cross my fingers the other interns see it.

Me: Found Liam and Wesley. Hurry.

Tipping them off is a risky move. If things go well, they'll get major points from these shots. But if Agnes can make enough money off them, she might agree to my new plan.

I suck in a breath and unbuckle my bag, whipping out my Nikon and firing away. Liam appears every inch the Hollywood Golden Boy he is. His tanned muscles ripple as he moves, and his damp, blond hair is pushed back out of his face. Next to him, Wesley's skin glistens in the early-morning sunshine. He's even more built than Liam. It's hard to decide which one of them is better looking.

I have a feeling millions of people will be trying to do exactly that after I sell these pictures. My lips spread into a grin at the thought. My internship may not have gotten off to a smooth start, but the shots I'm getting more than make up for it.

I do some wide-frame photos, capturing both of them. Then I zoom in and get close-ups of each guy in all their ab-tastic glory. I slow the shutter speed for some motion shots where Wesley and Liam are in focus, and the background blurs behind them. Agnes is going to die when she sees these. I'm in the zone.

They're thirty feet away when Wesley notices me. He nudges Liam's arm and jerks his chin in my direction. It's immediately obvious Liam both recognizes me and didn't expect to see me here.

"No fucking way." He throws his hands up like my existence is somehow excruciatingly bothersome to him.

God, this guy is the actual worst. He doesn't care that up until yesterday I was a fan. That I invested hours, days, of my life watching his show. I forget about taking pictures, crossing my arms, and glowering at him as they approach.

"I'm sorry. Have I not given you enough free publicity this week?" I shout, glancing around to see if I can spot the other interns. Where are they?

"Get a life," Liam snaps without breaking his stride. I dart into his path. I can't let him leave before the others have a chance to get here.

"Pro tip. If you want to avoid attracting attention, try putting on a shirt." I jog backward, weaving back and forth in front of him.

Wesley barks a laugh, slowing to a stop to keep from slamming into me. He claps Liam on the shoulder. "Man, that's gotta be the first time a girl's ever told you to put your shirt back on."

Liam does not look amused. He shakes off Wesley's hand and tries to dodge me. I mirror his movement, planting myself in his trajectory.

"Move."

"I don't think so." I hold up my camera, taking a close-up of his flushed face. He's so tall I have to stand on tiptoes. 

"Are you always this annoying, or is this shit just for me?"

"Oh, get over yourself, Leonardo DiCaprio."

A couple of women pass, pushing jogging strollers and gaping at us.

"Me?" Liam's voice is incredulous. "You think because you're playing paparazzi, you have the right to get in my face and start taking shots?"

"You're in a public park. Literally, everyone has the right to take photos of you here."

Wesley's eyes ping between the two of us. He's got a hand clamped over his mouth like he's trying not to laugh.

Liam's face turns to stone. His lips clench together in a hard line. He feints to the right, attempting to side-step me, but I'm all over him like gold on an Oscar. He growls in frustration. His eyes blaze electric blue.

I hear footsteps pounding behind me, and flashbulbs reflect in Liam's eyes. Finally.

I glance over to see the other interns. My shoulders sag in relief. I don't know how much longer I could've stalled Liam and Wesley.

But when I turn back to Liam, the expression on his face gives me whiplash. It's entirely transformed. I've seen that look before. Instead of glaring at me like I'm something he stepped in on the trail, he's gazing at me like I'm one of his love interests on the show.

And here's the thing. When a half-naked, soul-meltingly gorgeous guy you formerly had a crush on looks at you like you're a cold glass of lemonade on a hot summer day, your brain shuts down. Regardless of how irritating that guy might be.

Liam steps toward me, reaching out and setting a gentle hand on my arm.

My stupid, traitorous heart flitters and my lips part in surprise. "Wh—what are you doing?"

"You got in my face, now I'm getting in yours." His tone doesn't match the softness in his eyes.

"Why?"

"Why don't you figure it out there, Ace? Isn't that your job?"

"I...You...Ummm." My mind chugs, whirs, fails. I can't think through the heat of his hand on my skin. I fight to keep my eyes fixed on his face.

Do not look at his body. Do not look at his body. Do not look at his body.

Liam glances past me at the flashing cameras. "I'm gonna go now. Don't follow me."

He drops his arm and looks at Wesley, nodding toward the trail. They take off, sprinting around me. I don't attempt to stop them this time. Now that Liam isn't touching me, my brain reboots, firing back to life.

"Yeah, well, try not to trip over your own ego!" I yell after him.

Liam doesn't reply. He holds both fists in the air and slowly raises his middle fingers.

Ooooh. Frantically, I search the ground for a rock to hurl after him. But before I can find one, I realize that could be considered assault here in the great state of New York. I settle for sticking my tongue out after him instead. For all of Liam's insistence that he hates the tabloids, he sure knows how to work them.

No magazine will buy pictures of him flipping me off when they can buy shots of him looking like he's head-over-freaking-heels in love with me. That's the story people want to be told this week. That's the story that will sell magazines and get hits online. The question is why Liam would want to push that story.

I'm relieved he is, but I have this itchy feeling in the back of my mind. What could he possibly be getting out of this?

Someone slow claps behind me, and I spin around. It's the girl from my internship. Her frizzy, blond hair is pulled back in a low ponytail. She doesn't look nearly as disheveled as I feel.

"Nicely done," she says.

Man Bun is standing next to her, scrolling through the shots on his camera.

"I'm Chrissy, by the way." She clips the cover on her lens and slides it into her bag.

"Ada."

"Oh, I know." She laughs.

Of course, she knows. Last night, someone—probably one of the kids I went to high school with—tagged me in the posts about Liam and me. Waking up to an avalanche of notifications was an experience I doubt I'll ever forget. My parents were not super happy about the thousands of new followers I'd collected by the time I left this morning.

"This is Tyler." She nods her head toward Man Bun.

"Hey," he grunts without looking up at me.

"Hey." I turn back to Chrissy. "So, did you guys get the shots?"

"Obviously." She grins at me. "The two of you were basically posing in the middle of the trail."

"He was posing," I correct. "I was trying to stall them."

"Yeah, what was all that about anyway?" Chrissy glances down the path in the direction Liam and Wesley ran off.

"I have no idea." I follow her gaze, majorly weirded out by my latest celebrity encounter of the douchey kind.

Whatever's got Liam hamming it up for the cameras, though, I'm going to take advantage while I can. I just need to convince Agnes to give me points for the shots of us in the meantime.