"Charles? Charles?" Click. Clickclick. Clickclickclickclickclick.

Click.

Jesus.

Charles McAllister ducked into the waiting car with a brief wave to the crowd that surrounded him. There were a few fans mixed in, but they were mainly paparazzi, hoping to get a photograph of him.

Doing what? Did they think he was going to pick his nose, or accidentally flash his junk while walking to the car? At six in the morning?

He sat back in the car to relax for the fifteen-minute ride to the set, picking up the tea that was waiting for him out of the cup holder. He would much rather have grabbed a bagel and hoofed it, but there was no way in the world Charles McAllister could wander the streets of Manhattan on foot and remain in one piece.

The car got caught at a red light, and a few of his more athletic fans caught up with him. He rolled his window down and smiled at them, sticking his hand out to shake with them. The photogs were right behind the girls, however, so he quickly pulled his hand back in and slid the tinted window up.

He arrived at the set in a foul mood. Why did photographers even have to exist? He really liked interacting with fans; he didn't even mind the super-friendly ones who sometimes got grabby or cried or whatever. It was all part of the job.

The photographers, though. They didn't want the nice photos, the fun ones of him holding a baby, or shaking hands with a fan's dog or whatever. They wanted pictures of him having dinner with his mum, or grabbing a pint with his mates. They wanted pictures of him when he was "off", when he was just being himself.

They'd even snuck on to his parents' neighbor's property and climbed their tree to try to get a picture of him at his little sister's birthday party. He'd yelled at them, and his management company had paid a small fortune to keep that out of the papers.

He arrived on the set, and was handed a revised sheet of today's shots on his way to his trailer. He walked straight there, ignoring the few girls who knew someone on the crew and had managed to get on the set. Charles looked at the page and saw that it was blank after eleven.

Thank the baby Jesus.

He couldn't remember when he'd last had time off. Maybe he could go for a jog around Central Park. Or check out the new exhibit at the Guggenheim. He thought about the girls outside.

Maybe not.

He really just wanted to be alone.

Someone knocked on the door to the trailer, but it was just a courtesy knock, as whoever it was just pulled the door open a second later.

"Good morning!" an energetic voice chirped. His manager, Arlen Waters, entered the trailer the same way she entered every room, the way she'd entered Charles' life, for that matter. She was like a tiny hurricane, a human dynamo.

"Hi, Arlen," Charles raised his tea at her.

Her bouncy, curly black hair bobbed crazily as she beamed at him. "Good, you're early," she said, as if it were unusual, when in fact Charles was known for his punctuality. "I just want to go over your schedule for today, okay?" She sat next to him on the tiny sofa.

"Not much to go over, is there?" he responded. "I'm only here for four hours today."

"Right, but you need to get changed and over to the restaurant in forty-five minutes, so it's going to be tight." At his blank look she continued. "Lunch with a fan? The essay contest?"

Oh, fuck.

A teen magazine had come up with the idea of the essay contest, thinking it was a clever twist on the standard "win a date with a celebrity" spiel. They were going to run the winning essay in their magazine, along with a photo spread of the actual date.

"That's today?" he asked helplessly.

"Afraid so, love," Arlen responded. "Noon at the River Cafe. It's all the way in Brooklyn, too, so you're going to have to hustle, okay?" She gave him a sympathetic look. "You have some time off next week. Enjoy your cuppa." And she patted his shoulder on her way out. "Tony will be waiting for you here to take you to the car," she said from the door. Tony was security, his body guard.

As fast as Arlen left, there was another peremptory tap on the door. "Five minutes to make-up, Mr. McAllister," he heard through the door.

Charles sighed and rose to head to make-up.

*************************

"Are you excited?" Jane asked Camilla. They were in a shiny black SUV for the trip across the Hudson River into the city. It was a sunny day, very mild for the beginning of November, and Jane could see the last of the fall colors in the foliage on the Manhattan side of the bridge, which was spread out in front of them.

"Yes. I feel like I'm going to throw up," Camilla replied, grabbing Jane's hand.

"Well, you'd never know it," Jane assured her. As usual, her friend looked gorgeous. Camilla was wearing a wool sweater and black leather skirt with matching boots that accentuated her slender legs. Her figure looked perfect, and her hair was straight and shiny, with just the right amount of bounce.

"You look nice, too, you know," Camilla said, squeezing Jane's hand. Jane shrugged. She was wearing a pink sweater dress with lace overlay along with converse in the same shade of pink. Today was Camilla's day, she was just along for the ride.

Though she was kind of excited to meet Charles McAllister.

Now they were driving across the Brooklyn Bridge. Wow, they must have passed through lower Manhattan already. Jane had been to the River Cafe once, for some sort of family celebration, and she remembered how beautiful it was, how perfect the Bridge and the city looked through the huge windows. Of course, today she'd be there in the daylight, so it would look different.

They pulled up in front of the restaurant, and were escorted in. Charles must already be here, then. Camilla reached again for Jane's hand, her grasp tight. "Don't let go, okay?" Camilla asked.

"Promise," Jane replied with a smile.

They were led outside, to a table right next to the East River, and Charles McAllister rose from his seat as they approached.

Oh my god was he handsome.

Jane's heart lurched as Camilla leaned over and whispered two words in her ear: "Man-bun!"

"Hello, ladies," he said, smiling as he held their chairs for them. He was wearing skinny jeans and a pink silk shirt.

The photographers took pictures of them while they drank water and perused their menus, and continued when the waiter came to take their orders. Jane found it very off--putting to have a camera pointed at her constantly, and wondered if she'd be able to eat. Then, thankfully, the photographers left, leaving only Charles' security to observe them, though they didn't look happy to be doing so.

Jane looked questioningly at the photographers as they packed away their equipment.

"I asked them not to photograph us while we were eating," Charles explained with a smile. "I don't like having my picture taken while I'm consuming food," he continued.

"Oh. But I thought that was the point," Jane replied. "That they wanted to do a spread on you guys having lunch?"

Charles gave her a little grin. "I pulled rank," he said with a small shrug. "Now we can enjoy our food."

Camilla showed a dazzling smile as she picked up her water glass. "I don't like having my picture taken while I'm eating, either," she agreed.

"But they looked upset," Jane continued. "What if they get in trouble when they get back to headquarters?"

Charles, who was taking a drink, snarfed his water at Jane's words.

"I'm sorry, did you say 'headquarters'?" he asked as he wiped his mouth with a blindingly white napkin.

Jane just looked at him. "It's not very polite to make fun of someone you just met," she said, picking up her own glass and getting a drink. She raised an eyebrow at him as she placed her glass back, wiping her mouth daintily, as if to say that this was how a civilized person drank out of a glass.

He raised his eyebrow back at her.

"So, are you enjoying your time in the city?" Camilla asked, trying to pull the conversation back to more cordial waters.

"Well, I like New York, but unfortunately I can't see as much of it as I'd like, you know?" he responded.

"Yeah, I guess crowds must be out of control," Camilla commiserated.

"Oh, you know, my manners are appalling," Charles said abruptly. "I'm so sorry. I mean, obviously we all know each other's names, but--" He held out his hand to Camilla. "I'm Charles Michael McAllister," he said, smiling the smile that had melted the hearts of teenagers all over the world.

"Camilla Laine Parks," Camilla responded. At his look, she added, "I know, sounds kind of like Prince Charles' wife," with another beautiful smile. She took a breath to say something else, but Charles was already holding his hand out to Jane.

"Oh, I'm Jane," Jane said, holding out her hand. Charles took her hand, but didn't let go when she expected him to, and she nearly fell onto the table.

"I gave my full name, I believe it's only, erm, polite to reciprocate in kind?" he said with a little smirk.

Jane huffed out a breath. "Jane Bennett Carroway," she said, looking him dead in the eye, daring him to say something. She ostentatiously pulled her hand out of his and sat down.

He remained standing, looking at Jane in surprise. "I'm sorry, but did you say 'Jane Bennett'?" he asked in disbelief.

Of course, he would know who that was, wouldn't he? Jane gave a little eye roll. "Yes, mm hmm, that's my name," she responded, as it were completely normal to be named after the sister of one of English literature's most beloved heroines.

"Cute name, right?" Camilla said conversationally.

Charles flashed Jane a grin. He couldn't help it. And his eyes remained on Jane as he spoke. "You must have very interesting parents," he remarked.

Their food arrived then, and the conversation was interrupted for a few minutes as they got situated, but Charles spoke again, just as Jane took a big bite of her lobster ravioli. Oh my god, it was good. Jane suppressed a moan.

"Do you have any siblings?" he asked interestedly. At her nod, he continued, "And what are their names? Darcy? Lydia?" And she could see the beginnings of a smile on his face.

"Her brother's name is Barrett," Camilla interjected. She, of course, had only ordered some kind of salad, easy to eat, not messy, and definitely not smelly.

"Barrett? As in Robert Browning?" he asked, again looking at Jane. "Are you joking?"

Jane swallowed another bite of ravioli and stared at Charles. "No, not like Robert, like his wife, Elizabeth." She huffed out a breath. "My mother was an English lit major in college," she added. Let's see if he could turn that into a joke.

"Bear's a great guy," Camilla said. "He's only a sophomore, but he plays varsity football and baseball. Super fun," she concluded.

The sun had moved enough that it was now shining in Jane's eyes, and she squinted as she finished her food.

"Please, um, Jane," said Charles, rising. "We can switch places, so the sun won't be in your eyes?" He looked at her questioningly.

"No, then the sun will be in your eyes," Jane said. She realized after the words had left her mouth that she sounded petulant and ungracious, so she added, "Thank you very much for offering, though," with a smile.

"At least take my sunglasses, then," he said, passing them over.

Jane looked at them, and at him again. He motioned for her to put them on. They looked expensive. She looked at her again, and he raised his eyebrows at her.

"I'm sorry, are they not to your liking?" he asked, looking offended.

"Jane, put them on," Camilla said, gesturing with her fork.

So Jane put on the sunglasses, and they were very comfortable, and cut the glare. "Thank you," she said belatedly. He gave her a little two-fingered salute in response, with the little grin.

"I guess you liked your food," he said, looking pointedly at her empty plate.

"I guess you did, too, Charlie," Jane responded evenly, gesturing to his equally clean plate.

Whoops.

He was Charles, now, had been for the last few years. Jane knew that. Why had she called him by his boyband, childhood name? She decided to pretend she hadn't said it. Hopefully he hadn't noticed.

"In fact," she continued, gesturing for the waiter, "I think I want dessert." And she gave Charles an openly challenging look, nothing subtle about it. "How about you, Cam?" she asked her friend.

Camilla shook her head, demurring.

"Hey," Charles said with a laugh. "Yes, finally, a girl who likes dessert!" And he, too, requested a menu.

Charles knew that the girl with the perfect make-up and pretty brown hair in front of him was the girl who'd won the contest, the girl he was supposed to be talking to.

But he found his gaze drawn again and again to the tall, thin girl sitting next to her, with the wispy blonde hair, huge appetite, and beautiful eyes, eyes that held a glimmer of fun, of attitude. He couldn't even remember the last time anyone had talked back to him, had said anything remotely disagreeable to him.

And she'd called him Charlie.

Interesting.