Free Flirting With Fame (Flirting With Fame) by Samantha Joyce Page A

shook my head as he disappeared down the stairs and into the night, trying to rid myself of the sensation of his formidable lips and hands. I didn’t have time to think about what had just happened and what it all meant. What I really needed was my laptop. My fingers tapped against my leg, itching for the keys.
    It was time to find myself.
    •   •   •
    When my editor first started badgering me for a photo three years ago, I’d run to my computer and tried to find someone the exact opposite of me. A search for “gorgeous brunettes” took me first to a whole bunch of sites and photos I’d rather have forgotten, but I’d finally stumbled upon the one I chose. She was the first girl I could find who had a look about her that said, “I’m super pretty, but I’m also smart enough to write a book.”
    “Gorgeous brunettes” once again brought me to photos of girls looking for dates and more, so I filtered my search with words like “emerald eyes,” “high cheekbones,” and “too perfect to be real.” I clicked through hundreds of images before finally coming to the conclusion that I was never going to find the original again. Even Clint’s suggestion of a reverse image search came up empty—and Google usually had an answer for everything .
    Resisting the urge to hurl my laptop across the room, I decided to start with where I’d first learned she’d been impersonating me all this time. I typed in my pen name and “Bookworm,” which littered my screen with results. I scrolled through pictures of the woman at the bookstore, signing my books. Of course, since everyone thought she was me, no one was helpful enough to actually provide me with her real name.
    The bulk of the photos belonged to a guy who owned a bunch of Aubrey Lynch fan sites. I followed one link to a Facebook fan page.
    Since I’d spent much of my career hiding from my fans, I’d also resisted stalking them. I’d been curious, of course, but also afraid. People could be cruel when they were allowed to hide behind a keyboard. I had enough cruelty hurled directly at my face. I didn’t need it online, too.
    I was about to exit the page without reading when something caught my eye. Post after post littered the feed as people declared their love for Aubrey and her books. They swooned over Dag and Thora, and both cried and cheered over Elof’s death ( SPOILERS ! ). But although the posts made my insides feel like warm honey, those weren’t the words that caught my eye.
    Aubrey just moved next door to me.
    The post was from a Dean Adams and had thousands of likes and people begging for the address, but Dean had never replied.
    I opened a private chat and typed Dean’s name in until his profile picture appeared. My heart beat like a jackhammer stuck on high as I composed a message claiming to be Aubrey Lynch’s biggest fan. I told him it would make my life if I could meet her and I swore I wouldn’t reveal the address to anyone. I slipped in a few key facts about Viking Moon to prove my fandom. Then I hit Send.
    Time seemed to slow down as I waited for a reply. I opened my new manuscript, but the words wouldn’t come, so I closed it almost instantly. I played games and read.
    Reggie returned home, smiling and describing poems about birds, bees, and Beyoncé. Even after she’d run out of steam and crawled into bed, my messenger remained silent.
    I showered and brushed my teeth in the shared bathroom and took my time slipping on my flannel pajamas.
    Still no reply.
    Darkness swallowed the light as I flicked off the bedside lamp and closed my laptop. My eyes remained open until a whisper of daylight peeked through the blinds. Sleep came and went. By the time I opened my eyes and sat up for good, the alarm clock on the desk read almost noon.
    I pulled my laptop onto my knees. After it had booted up, I clicked open Facebook and held my breath as I saw a message from Dean Adams. It was only five words, but it was all I needed:
    1803 Gentry