By the time I'd gotten off work, I'd been sneaking text messages to Andrew all day. I don't know what happened, but once we started talking I didn't want to stop. I told myself that I wouldn't be pushy, that I would only continue the conversation if he pursued a conversation with me. I didn't want to be the driving force, asking him questions and shooting him texts without any real initiative on his side to keep it going, but sure enough he stayed interested.

He asked me about my family, moving from Texas, my job, my hobbies, my love of music, my favorite foods - anything and everything. It was all superficial information, but he seemed to drink it up en masse.

Everything was natural between the two of us. There was no point when it felt like a weird round of twenty questions, because the conversation flowed from one point to the next. He teased me relentlessly about my headphone addiction, claiming that I needed to 'find the music in the world around me,' while I poked fun at his jetset lifestyle and the few rumors I'd heard about him through Val.

I learned that he was from Fort Wayne, Indiana, where his parents still lived. He was an only child, and he joined the local community theater at a young age. After high school - during which time I was tickled to discover he was in show choir - he went to UCLA to double major in theater and history. After he was cast in the show, he decided to drop out of school in the off chance that the show would be a success.

Turns out his gamble paid off, because the show lasted four seasons before it was cancelled, and his career took off at that point.

I didn't know what to say to that. It wasn't something I'd thought of before, the struggle for identity when you're in the spotlight, especially when the world sees you in a certain way. For Andrew, being Lincoln Shepherd meant being the guy every girl dreamed about. He was funny and charming, two traits that came naturally to him, but he was also outgoing and very put together. The real Andrew wasn't anything like that, I was rapidly learning.

He hated crowds, and he suffered from horrible stage fright. He'd been invited to present at award ceremonies in the past, and he'd turned down every opportunity except those the network insisted he take. Even then, he tried to minimize the amount he had to say by joining a cast member on stage who did most of the talking.

I kept thinking about it for the rest of my shift, about the pressure to be perfect that he must feel, and I forgot to respond to him by the time I clocked out. When I pulled out my phone, I had another message from him.

There was a twenty minute gap between my last two texts, and he still hadn't responded by the time I got home. I was tempted to send him another message, but I'd already broken my rule by sending him several without hearing back from him first, and I didn't want to give the wrong impression. I kept checking my screen, almost as if I might have gotten a text message and missed the loud 'ding' of my phone even though I'd already checked four times that it wasn't on silent.

Finally, I forced myself to toss my phone on my bed as I kicked off my shoes and flopped down on the sofa. Val was closing tonight, which meant she wouldn't be home until almost eleven, so I turned on the TV and opened up Netflix. Her profile was already selected, and I could see Andrew's show in her watch list, tempting me.

I groaned, pushing the thought from my head, and stood up to grab my laptop. I needed to keep my willpower, which meant I was going to need food.

Right when I sat back down, my phone rang and I rushed to grab it. "Some Guy" popped up on the caller ID, the name I'd put Andrew's phone number into my address book under after Lilly snooped in my phone, and I grinned as I accepted the call.

"Hello?" I answered.

"Hey," his voice greeted me through the phone. "I'm sorry it took me so long to get back to you. I had an interview after the photoshoot that went long."

I shrugged, then I chided myself internally for being so stupid. He couldn't hear me shrug.

"Don't worry about it," I told him.

He took a deep breath, exhaling audibly, "So. Have you had dinner yet tonight?"

"No," I replied. "I was about to order something."

"Oh, okay. I, uh...I won't keep you then," his voice sounded slightly strained, and I bit my lip to prevent myself from laughing.

Plucking up my courage, I tapped my free hand on the back of the sofa as I responded, "Do you want to join me? I mean, it's just going to be Chinese food, and my apartment is ridiculously tiny, but you're welcome to come here and hang out. Take a break from being Lincoln."

Andrew hesitated, and I instantly regretted asking him. Just as I opened my mouth to say something, however, he told me, "That sounds great, actually. Send me your address."

"Wait, so you're not even 21?"

Andrew lifted his beer to his lips, taking another sip, as I shook my head.

"Nope," I told him. "Not for another year and a half."

He grimaced, "Damn. Here I am promoting underage drinking."

"Don't worry, I won't tell the press," I couldn't help but tease him.

It'd taken him less than thirty minutes to show up at my apartment, freshly showered with still-wet hair, and a brown paper bag with a six pack of beer in it tucked under his arm. I ordered us a selection of entrees and appetizers from my favorite Chinese restaurant in the neighborhood, and it arrived less than 5 minutes after he did. We were now settled on the couch with our food in our laps as we continued our text message conversation from earlier in the day.

"I'm trusting you," Andrew grinned, taking another bite of the chicken lo mein.

We plowed our way through two entrees, an order of crab rangoon, two egg rolls, and an order of pork dumplings, and he was somehow still able to finish off the rest of my lo mein. I'd given up about fifteen minutes ago, pleasantly stuffed, and - instead of boxing up my leftovers for lunch tomorrow - I'd noticed the way he was eying my food and offered him the rest.

"God, I miss real food," he mumbled, closing his eyes and resting his head on the back of the sofa. "I've been eating grilled chicken and steamed broccoli for too many months."

"So you don't naturally look like this?" I teased him. "Are you going to get in trouble?"

He shook his head, leaning his head back to relax on the sofa as he laughed, "My trainer has worse eating habits than I do, so I don't think he has room to talk."

"So Chinese is good then?" I asked with a smirk.

Andrew nodded, lifting his beer to his lips and taking a drink before replying, "Chinese is very good."

"Good," I grinned.

The conversation between us had been so fluid, none of it as awkward as I expected it to be, and we fell into a comfortable silence just as easily. Instead of feeling strained, like I needed to fill the space between us with platitudes and pointless conversation, I found myself smiling simply because I was having a good time.

Andrew, I discovered, was intelligent and charming, a little bit self-deprecating, and he was obsessed with reading. He carried a book with him at all times, usually a paperback tucked into his back pocket, but he would rely on his phone or tablet if absolutely necessary. He preferred the classics since they had already been 'vetted' as he explained it to me. These were the books that stood the test of time, which meant they must be good.

His career made him insanely busy, and he was constantly moving from one place to the next. Five months in Atlanta filming one movie followed by two months for the next, flying to New York and Los Angeles for interviews and photoshoot, and none of that included active promotion for the films. Once the press tour started, depending on the size of the film, it would end up being a stream of promotional events for weeks on end. Two days in Tokyo, running from interview to interview, promotional events with the fans, the film's premiere, and the press junket.

From what he told me, the press junket was the worst part. Even though they're held in massive cities in the middle of hotels or event spaces, the actors were placed into a room where they met journalist after journalist - essentially like speed dating - for three to five minutes to answer the same basic questions, over and over again, without reprieve.

"It's the worst part of the job," he told me, "not that I can admit that publicly. The press would hate me, and my career would probably tank."

I grimaced, "It sounds exhausting though. Speaking with sixty journalists - on a good day - would make me feel like I was a broken record. How many times can you say the same thing?"

"And with enthusiasm," he says sarcastically.

"So, Mr. Shepherd, may I call you Lincoln?" I attempted my best interviewer voice, gripping my beer bottle like an imaginary microphone.

He shook his head with a grin, "Andrew, actually. My friends call me Andrew."

"Are we friends now?" My eyebrows lifted, and my accent disappeared in my surprise as he nodded.

I tried to contain my smile, taking another sip of my beer, before straightening my shoulders and reassuming my fake persona.

"Well then, Andrew," I emphasized his name. "What is your absolute least favorite question that you are asked over and over again?"

I expected him to say something like "what did you like about this film" or "what do you do to stay fit," but his answer surprised me. He didn't say anything about filming locations, costars, or anything related to filming a movie.

Instead, he looked straight into my eyes, without hesitation, and said, "Are you seeing anyone right now?"

I gaped, and for a moment I completely lost my train of thought. Logic left me as I forgot that he was answering my question, not hitting me with one of my own, and my cheeks tinted pink. I looked away from him, staring at my lap, and took a deep breath to help me recover. Taking another drink of my beer allowed me to mask my discomfort, and I glanced back up at him.

"And how do you answer?" I asked him, not bothering with the fake accent.

"Well, normally I decline to answer or say that I'm not seeing someone," he took a deep breath. "But I've gotta admit, right now I'd like to say otherwise."

So, are you Team Candrew [Cait + Andrew]?

Buckle your seatbelts, folks. If you've read the Metamorphosis Series, then you know that things are about to get a little intense.

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