“Theresa, I need your help.”

“What for?”

“I met someone,” Tilda explained.

“Oh, my, who Tilda, is he a singer, actor, sportsman?”

“He’s human,” Tina replied, knowing Theresa was awaiting a name which would make the headlines.

“You mean, he’s a nobody, just an ordinary guy?” Theresa asked without hiding her disappointment.

“Yes.”

“Where did you meet him?” Theresa asked, quickly playing a recap of Tilda’s schedule in her head to pinpoint a potential encounter.

For her, Tilda did not have the time slot to meet someone, so she lent a keen eat to hear the tale.

“At the Lone Horizon bash and he wasn’t freeloading,” Tilda answered in anticipation of Theresa’s remark.

“Then he’s somebody, as your agent and PR if you want me to do my job properly, you will have to speak.”

“He’s a community manager,” Tilda added and hoped it satisfied Theresa’s gossiping appetite.

“Tilda.”

“I swear Thereseー.”

“Tilda, whatever you don’t tell me, the vultures will dig up, now who is he?” Theresa asked, popping out her eyes like a mother waiting for you to admit you ate the last muffin.

“Promise you won’t tell the world without my consent,” Tilda said with her natural shyness.

Theresa smiled, “it’s in my contract, who is he?”

“It’s Weston Edmonds.”

“Never heard of him,” Theresa returned bluntly.

“He’s known as Gabriel Saint Clair.”

“Oh, my God,” Theresa exclaimed as she took Tilda’s hands in hers, “poor thing, Tilda, you’ve fallen for a con artist.”

Tilda pushed away Theresa’s hand, “no, Theresa Weston Edmonds is Gabriel Saint Clair; I saw the next manuscript.”

“Tilda are you serious, if this is true it’s the scoop of the century. The man’s a ghost; reporters have been fighting for an exclusive for years. How is he? Short, tall, bald, and bad-tempered?” Theresa asked, eyes gleaming with excitement like a shark whiffing blood.

The agent was a fan of anything sensational.

“He’s perfect.”

“Oh, my, you’ve got it bad for him.”

Tilda nodded.

“Okay, I’ll help you; I’ve already got my little idea of how I’m going to deliver your real-life Notting Hill. Oh, Tilda, this is terrific; you’ll make all the romantics weep with your story.”

Theresa knew better than anyone how bashful and clumsy in love Tilda was. Tilda was the type of woman who would let the other person dump her not to hurt their feelings. Being quiet of nature and always holding in the things Tilda suffered much in her past relationships. One only knew that something was up when Tilda became insomniac or complained about chest pains or stomach burns.

Doctors concluded that her anxiety manifested itself by these sickness symptoms. Once she found the solution to her problem, the singer usually went back to being her happy-go-lucky self. Tilda had avoided dating for the past three years; she perfectioned her art and gained fans.

Many would say she was better of alone, but like most people, once the beautiful gowns and makeup were taken off and Tilda found herself confronted with her reflection in the mirror, she dreamt of living the greatest love of all.

Tilda believed in loves power, and it was one of the reasons she adored singing ballads. The tweets Tilda received from fans telling her how they got their marriage proposal, or how they danced at their wedding to one of her tracks were gratifying.

She was even happier when people told her her songs comforted and gave them strength.

Tilda was the one left out of the cycle of bliss; there was nothing or no one who did the same for her until Weston came.

The man’s gaze upon her made her feel unique, and his voice appeased her. Some would say Weston did nothing special, but they could never be so wrong.

For Tilda, Weston’s existence alone was the greatest gift she could receive. The woman knew from the moment their eyes crossed that Weston was the one.

“Please, Theresa, I don’t want a big press conference. I just want you to be ready if we’re exposed, and please, I beg you, do not reveal he is Gabriel.”

“Why?”

“Because it will be too much to deal with for him, he lives a modest life. If he desired to be out there, he would have shown off at the premiere.”

“Well, he should have thought about it before seducing a star.”

“I’m rising, I’m not up there yet,” Tilda replied.

“But you will be there soon; I got great echoes for your James Bond girl tryouts. It’s a shame the character dies halfway through the movie.

“Please, Theresa, they haven’t even chosen who will play Aita Cole.”

“Well, it better be you.”

Tilda shook her head, the role was exciting, but it was the type she desired to start with on the big screen.

The singer wished to play a character who had depth. Also, she didn’t appreciate the papers tagging her: The Body.

It was as though she was a piece of meat, and Tilda was convinced if they choose for the role, many would say it was because of her plastic.

“So when will you see your new fling?”

“Weston isn’t a fling, and the answer is later when we return to London.”

“Okay, listen, Tilda, I’m going to prepare the statement if ever you feel you’ve been exposed, or you’re ready to let the world know, call me. You know I work round the clock even with Paul snoring next to me.”

“Thank you, Theresa,” Tilda said and the woman.

“Stop it, dear, you will crease my linen shirt, and I already have enough wrinkles on my face.”

Despite Theresa’s stern exterior and verbal toughness, she cared about her client’s well being. They were what paid her mortgage; she had to pamper — seeing Tilda grow from an awkward teen with a powerful voice into a mini diva Theresa felt like her Godmother. The woman wanted to support Tilda in her new relationship because cruelty rained on the world, and love was the perfect umbrella.

Theresa knew she wasn’t enough; everyone’s eyes were on the singer who didn’t dare do anything which would comprise her career.

Tilda avoided parties or anything which could ruin her image, in Theresa’s eyes, Tilda lived in captivity. The woman needed a shield, and perhaps this Weston Edmonds could be that for her.

Tilda couldn’t stop fidgeting with excitement on the plane back to London, eager to see her lover. What made her heart sink was to know every day drew her closer to that instant.

Still, she was looking forward to being locked tightly in his arms, where everything else faded, and only Weston’s heartbeat thumped in her ear.

If only Weston knew for how long and how much she loved him. The man couldn’t imagine what he represented.

This time Tilda arrived in broad daylight, Weston called in sick at work to be there on the steps of his apartment to welcome her.

As expected, Weston displayed the broadest smile as he approached and locked Tilda in a hug, the one she had dreamt of during every song she sang in Germany.

The public there was enchanted, and the critics said the performances were the best to date, but Tilda didn’t sing for the fans. Every note and word which came out of her mouth was wrapped in the thoughts of love for Weston.

“I missed you,” Tilda whispered.

“Not more than me,” Weston replied. He pushed her back to take a look at her, Tilda shone, she was dazzling.

Weston had never read the book of love and was unaware of any rules concerning how one ought to fall in love or admit it. All he acknowledged was the fact there was no doubt he was passionately and irrationally in love.

Weston pulled Tilda close and kissed her, pushing back the hood she wore to hide her face. A few passers-by stopped doubting about her identity only to continue on their way, shrugging off the idea, which seemed unrealistic.

What could a celebrity like her be doing in there area?

Only one teenager stopped, poked her friend with her elbow and lifted her head in the couple’s direction, “doesn’t that woman look like Tilda Brentwood?”

The freckled blonde girl stopped looking at her tweets,” she does a little, but these days everyone wants to be like Tilda Brentwood. Have you seen Laura she went got a six months subscription to the tanning center and a perm to try to resemble her.”

“I know, that’s crazy.”

“Anyway, might as well take a pic for Snapchat, they’ll surely be an idiot or two who will believe it’s Tilda Brentwood.

The girl had the time to take six clichés from the kisses to the few steps they took to enter Weston’s apartment. Tilda glanced over her shoulder as she entered the building “tomorrow’s going to be complicated,” she mumbled.

“Is something wrong?” Weston asked, opening his door.

“No, nothing. Do you mind if I take a shower?”

“No, not at all. The shower isㅡ.”

Tilda was already walking down the corridor, Weston frowned he had no memory of having shown her. Tilda seemed to know where everything was; this was another detail Weston added to what he considered odd.

As a writer who tried to transcribe human behavior in his stories, he was very observant, and there were a few things he noticed concerning Tilda.

“Weston, do you want to take a shower with me?” Tilda yelled, standing in the hallway with her lace shorty only where Weston could see.

“Yes, please,” Weston replied.

Weston took off his t-shirt and jeans at the speed of light and went to join Tilda in the shower.

The questions he had could wait, Weston’s inquiries found themselves dismissed by the lips which kissed him under his shower as the water fell like a blessing on both their heads and they gazed into each other’s eyes which reflected the same message:

LOVE