Star-Crossed Letters: A Celebrity Romance (Falling for Famous Book 1), page 1
STAR-CROSSED LETTERS
FALLING FOR FAMOUS SERIES
SARAH DEEHAM
Copyright © 2023 by Sarah Deeham
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents, other than those clearly in the public domain, either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
www.sarahdeeham.com
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Trigger warning: Please note that though this is a light contemporary romance, there are mentions of attempted suicide (in a character’s back story).
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CONTENTS
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
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Acknowledgments
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About the Author
CHAPTER 1
Chase
To the new owner of my fabulous writing machine,
If you’re reading this, it means you bought my grandmother’s typewriter. This old Remington may be worn, but it’s wonderful, as most worn things are. The A key sticks. Be gentle with the hard return. I’ll miss the soft K and the sound of those keys. Because I’m sentimental, I’m also giving you the first story I wrote on this. I wrote it twelve years ago, at the ancient age of eight. Save it as it may be worth money when I become a famous novelist. If you aren’t too busy, perhaps you could tell me how you and this Remington get along. You can write to me at the consignment shop where I sold my typewriter.
Sincerely,
Typewriter Girl
C/O Antiques Around the Corner
49 Cherry Blossom Lane
Noe Valley, San Francisco
It all started with a typewriter.
A vintage Remington, to be exact.
The therapist in my first and only session said to think of something that brings me peace in moments like this.
So as I sit in the back of the limo, trying not to freak the fuck out, I close my eyes, focus on my breath, and think of something good. I think of the typewriter. I think of that first letter. I think of her.
I’m not sure how long it takes. Seconds? Minutes? Time is marked only by the rhythm of my deep inhales and slow exhales. Eventually, my balled-up fists loosen, and the nausea begins to subside. I can’t put this off any longer, so I steel my jaw, swing open the door of the limo, and step out into the sticky New York City air.
A thundering wave of sound slams into me as three thousand people shout my name. A velvet rope holds the crowd back, barely. There are autograph peddlers and paparazzi, reporters and fans. All looking to take away some part of me to keep for themselves.
I blink against the flashes. Over the last several years of unfathomable fame, I’ve learned that the crowd has its own all-consuming energy.
A girl hurtles past the rope and grabs my coat.
“My God. It’s really you.” Tears stream down her face. Her words are a prayer, a benediction to the gods of celebrity.
My main bodyguard, Duncan, is there in half a second, prying the fan away. He’s always patient and ever watchful, a soldier in a suit with a buffed-up body and close-shaved head.
“He’s so hot. My ovaries are gonna explode!” a girl cries.
Duncan barks out a laugh. “Not the ovaries again. What is it with the ovaries?”
My lips quirk as humor wars with nerves.
“You ready?” Duncan asks, his face rearranging into its usual sternness, any expression of levity tucked away.
Four more oversize men surround me.
I nod. Over time, Duncan and I learned to communicate through looks and gestures, forming a secret language between us. He’s been my constant shadow since this insanity began. A wall of stoic muscle and steady confidence who comes between me and the world.
Up ahead, I see my costars already working the crowd for the premiere of the third movie in The Wanderers’ franchise. The small indie movie that launched my career was never meant to be a blockbuster. It was a time-traveler adventure that somehow struck celluloid gold, and I became an A-list movie star overnight.
I force myself forward, ignoring the sweat that crawls down my neck. I remind myself that most guys would kill to have thousands of girls screaming their names.
Making my way toward the red carpet, I stop to sign autographs and pose for selfies. I hate this part, but fans have been waiting for hours, some even days, camping out just to meet me. So I sign, and I smile.
Once my duty is done, I stride toward the protected space that separates me from them.
The star versus the crowd.
After all this time, I still can’t reconcile that this is my life. None of it makes sense because, in reality, I’m the opposite of special. Before, I was nothing but a statistic. A foster kid and runaway with shit luck—until that luck finally turned.
My phone buzzes, and I pull it out of my pocket.
It’s a text from her.
The crowd chants, “Chase, Chase, Chase.”
But the girl on my phone is the only one I’ll answer.
The only girl I want.
The only girl who really knows me.
And she doesn’t even know my name.
CHAPTER 2
Olivia
Dear Typewriter Girl,
I’m the new owner of your typewriter. After I read your letter, I wrote all night, thanks to the magic of the Remington—soft K and all. It unlocked words in me I didn’t even know were there. I liked your story, but I hope your spelling has improved in the last twelve years since you wrote it, and that you now use far fewer exclamation points. Since you sent me your first story typed on this machine, I’m sending you mine. Maybe you can write back and tell me more about yourself. But not too much. Sometimes a little mystery is good.
Sincerely yours,
Remington
PO Box 143
Malibu, California
It all started with a typewriter.
My grandmother’s typewriter, to be exact, when I sold it at my neighborhood antique store.
I typed that first letter on a whim and left it in the typewriter for the new owner to find. Then, the unexpected happened.
The new owner wrote back, which somehow sparked a five-year friendship I could never have imagined. For the first year, my mysterious pen pal sent me letters to Mr. Jensen’s antique store. I hoarded every one, rereading them over and over. And I wrote him, as well. Our words filled my lonely days.
Back then, I only had to walk into this antique store and hear the jingle of the bell to make my heart full of anticipation and hope, as if it were tethered to a helium balloon, wondering if there would be another letter from him waiting. The rising thrill when there was. The deflating disappointment when there wasn’t.
But today, five years later, there’s no buoyant rush when I walk into the shop. There are no letters anymore, at least not the typewritten kind. We’d switched to texts long ago.
So much has changed since that first letter. Yet the shop remains the same. The familiar cluttered surfaces of antiques and artifacts passed down through time. The fine layer of dust in the air that never quite dissipates, giving the afternoon light filtering through smudged windows an otherworldly character. As a child visiting the store with my grandmother, I’d twirl in that light-filled mist on our frequent visits, making up stories about the past lives of the furniture and jewelry, tchotchkes and treasures.
Now, Mr. Jensen sits at his long mahogany desk in the front of the shop as he always does, a welcoming smile on his weathered face.
“Olivia! I’ve missed you, my girl.”
“I was just here three weeks ago,” I remind him with a grin. I set a cardboard box on his desk with a loud thump and brush the bangs back from my eyes.
“Exactly. It’s been almost a month. You used to visit every day. But that was so you could collect correspondence from your beau, not chat with an old man.”
I shake my head, smiling at his grumping and choice of words. Beau. Correspondence. I’ve had this conversation with Mr. Je
“He’s not my beau.” I wish. “He’s just a pen pal.” And I don’t even know his name.
“You two still writing?”
I blush. “We text now.”
He shakes his head in disapproval. “Texts. Bah. They don’t last. Now, letters are forever.” He turns his attention to the large box. His frown deepens the lines of his brow.
“More from home?”
I nod and swallow the lump in my throat. “Some of Nanna’s jewelry. A few first edition books. And this.” I hold up a framed black-and-white print.
“Your grandmother’s Adam Reynolds!” He reaches for the photograph, his hands shaking with age and eagerness. I will myself to let go of the photo that has been in the landscape of my life for so long. A picture of a naked woman lying amid sweeping sand dunes. Light and shadows stark, flowing curves sensual. The woman is my grandmother, taken when she was in her twenties. She had an affinity for photography, bohemian artists, and getting naked back in the day. It was her kind of luck that she modeled—and possibly more—for Adam Reynolds, one of the most celebrated American photographers. He gave her a few prints over the years, but this was the first and most famous of the photographs from their collaboration.
“How much do you think it’s worth?” I swallow.
“This is way out of my league, my dear. But I do have a friend who might be able to appraise it and find a buyer if that’s what you truly want. He owns one of the best galleries in San Francisco.”
“Thank you. That would be great.” I smile, pretending not to care that I’m talking about selling my legacy. Bartering the last tangible threads that connect me to my family piece by piece.
While I busy myself by carefully stacking the jewelry and the books on the counter, Mr. Jensen evaluates each item for consignment and makes notes in a leather-bound ledger.
She would have wanted this, I remind myself. My grandmother would have wanted me to keep our home in our beloved neighborhood, even if it means selling a few things. She left the house for me, and it’s my job to make sure I keep it up and don’t lose it. The photograph could pay to fix the leaking roof. Or the iffy plumbing. Or make a dent in the taxes. If I’m really lucky, maybe all three.
Just a few weeks ago, I graduated with my master’s degree in creative writing, a process that took years longer than planned as I cared for Nanna through her long battle with cancer. All our savings had gone to medical bills.
Guilt stabs me. I probably should do the practical thing and take a job that pays better than working at a local bookstore. A former classmate offered me a position as a technical writer. If I took it, I could afford the upkeep on the house without selling my grandmother’s things.
But I think my soul would die writing software instructions all day, and I fear it would be the end of my dream of becoming a novelist. My job at the bookshop doesn’t pay much, but I love it. It gives me the time and mental space to write, and I’m surrounded by inspiration all day.
I don’t have to decide my future now, I remind myself. By selling the photo, I can buy more time to write and live the life I want.
This shop had been lucky for me in the past.
Five years ago, I sold a vintage typewriter.
In return, I got a pen pal, a best friend, and a hopeless crush.
It was as if this dusty store somehow knew I needed a little magic, so it brought me Remington.
Now, here I am again, needing another miracle.
Mr. Jensen’s eyes twinkle as he pulls an envelope from a drawer. “Did you think I forgot your birthday?”
“Thank you, Mr. Jensen,” I say, both embarrassed and touched. “But you shouldn’t have gone to the trouble.”
“It’s not from me,” he says as he passes me a letter.
If it’s not from Mr. Jensen, it must be from Remington, which is a surprise since we haven’t exchanged an actual letter in years, but maybe he remembered my birthday and sent me a card. I look down at the envelope, and my breath catches.
“But—how? It’s from…” I trail off in confusion.
“Your grandmother gave this letter to me for safekeeping shortly before she passed. She wanted you to read it on your twenty-fifth birthday. I’d planned on visiting you later today, but you saved me the trip.”
I take the envelope with one hand, careful not to wrinkle it. With my free hand, I trail a reverent finger over Nanna’s elegant script, tracing the familiar loops and curls. A wave of longing to hear her voice cuts through me.
Grief is a funny thing. It’s not linear. I’ll be fine, just making my way through my day, and then a small detail that reminds me of her will grip my heart. Tasting her favorite tea. Hearing a beloved song on the radio. Seeing her familiar scrawl on an envelope.
“I can’t believe it,” I say, holding the letter tight to my heart. Part of me wants to tear it open now, to share this moment with Mr. Jensen. But another part wants to be alone when I do. I’m sure there will be tears. A fountain of them.
Mr. Jensen seems to sense my dilemma. “Open it at home, in the place your grandmother most loved,” he says. “Happy birthday, sweet Olivia.”
I say goodbye, push my way out the door in a daze, and walk the block back to my house in that lingering moment before dusk turns to twilight. Streetlamps flick on, while the last bit of light hangs stubbornly in the air.
When I get to the corner, I wait for the light to turn green and try to view my house across the street from a stranger’s perspective. What would they see? In the soft glow, the faded pink Victorian I grew up in looks like a genteel lady of a certain age, one who was once the toast of the town, but now has few prospects. Its pale-rose paint and white trim are dim and peeling, the steps sag to the left, and the large bay window in front is in need of a wash. It feels out of place now among the impeccably restored Victorians around it, a vibrant mix of family homes and locally-owned shops.
When I was young, Nanna made our house bright with laughter, a gathering place for her artist friends. They’d knock on our door at all hours, stumbling in, drunk on wine and life. She’d get to work, cooking a midnight feast. At some point, hearing the tinkle of glasses, the strain of music, I’d creep downstairs, hair in a braid, feet bare, pajamas on, and curl up in my favorite window seat in the living room, letting the voices and guitar strumming wash over me.
Now, it’s just me in the old, cluttered house echoing with too many memories. The elegant bar cart is always filled and ready, though no one comes for a party anymore. The pie cupboard with green glass and delicate china, the baskets and books, the collection of cameras and typewriters that line the built-in shelves. It’s all still there, minus the things I’ve had to sell.
I shake my head clear of the memories and cross the street.
My phone rings, and I dig into my bag as I reach my front steps. I look at the number. Despite my contemplative mood, I smile when I see it’s Daisy, my exuberant neighbor who adopted me as her friend years ago.
“Hey, Daisy,” I say into the phone.
“It’s your birthday, bitch. You better be out at the clubs already, having drinks and flirting with boys.”
“Um, it’s like you don’t even know me,” I say.
She snickers. “It’s your twenty-fifth birthday. You should be partying. Please don’t tell me you’re not going out?”
I don’t want to admit that I have no plans. That makes me sound way too lame. “How’s wine country?” I ask, changing the subject. Daisy owns the vintage clothing shop next door to my house and spends most of her weekends traveling to estate sales like the one she’s currently at.
