Blue Door Cafe

@William Ellis Hope walks over to the closest table to the counter- just coincidentally, really- and sits down. Resting her head in her hand and leaning in closer to him, she laughs at his endless nervous chattering. Honestly, she's flattered. It never fails to her ego when people talk about being fans of both her acting and singing. Granted, she would be offended if people didn't like it- she's been working at them for decades, now.

"I'd love to sign something for you! Would you like a picture, as well? We can use my phone for it." She says kindly, surprising herself when it's more genuine than her acting.

She flashes him a smile, making sure that he wouldn't be aware of how much her own excitement shocked her. Usually, yes, she does enjoy taking pictures with fans, if not just because she feels good standing next to someone who's so enthusiastic about her work. But she surprises herself with how quickly she offered to take the photo.

It must just be his palpable excitement, she dismisses. It's contagious, almost. She clears a little. "I'd love a slice of Tiramisu, really."

The cake here is heavenly, she thinks to herself. She swears she'd marry the baker if he just made her cake every day.

@Hope Taylor Will manages a strangled sound that's somewhere in between a grunt and a "yes" and gestures towards an empty table.

"So, Miss Tope Haylor- I mean, Miss Hope Taylor," he says with a cough. "We, uh...do have some free tables. Please sit. Also, can I get your autograph? I'm a huge fan of your work, I mean, I've watched all of your videos and movies and I have all your songs. I mean, not all of them. I promise I'm not creepy. Sorry, am I being creepy? You must, uh, get this a lot? From paparazzi?"

He briefly ends his word vomit to take in the situation. Hope Taylor in his bakery. Someone pinch him. She's even more gorgeous in person: clear eyes, flawless skin, regal features, blonde hair falling in perfect ripples over her shoulders. Will, in all of his gangly, freckly wonder, suddenly feels very self-conscious.

"Oh right, sorry, I forgot to ask," he manages. "What are you here for? No wait- that came out wrong. Um, what's your order? I mean, what can I get for you?"

@William Ellis Hope can't help but smile while the cashier goes on. It's adorable. She can see his ears turning red when he abruptly stops talking, and it soothes the sting to her ego from his originally curt greeting. Of course, she thinks to herself, brushing her hair back self-assuredly, it was a mistake. She smothers a small giggle and tries to pass it off as a small cough. He's cute. All 5 foot... 11 (her best estimate, though truthfully, she's no good at gauging height) of him stumbling around for words, a little like an overgrown puppy. She's not short, but she can tell even from across the counter that he dwarfs her- and well, it's intimidating and endearing all at once. She nods along, still smiling a little.

"Flour... fire hose, mhm," she says, teasing glint dancing around in her eyes. "But you're right- I am Hope Taylor the actress... Unless you're going to call those pesky paps on me, in which case I'm not Hope Taylor." She winks for dramatic effect. "No, if you're going to call them over, I suppose I'm Tope Haylor." She taps her index finger on her bottom lip.

She's having too much fun with this.

@Hope Taylor Will looks up to apologize for his clipped greeting and has a sudden coughing fit at the sight. Of course, the one time he issues a less-than-polite hello to a customer, said customer happens to be Hope Taylor. The Hope Taylor. The darling of the country, the one whose songs populate the entire, meager selection of songs in Will's iPod, and the one whose movies have made him cry like a baby (though he's never going to admit that out loud). He's half overjoyed that she's actually here, in the same room as him, and half horrified that he's actually had the audacity to be rude to her. Albeit unintentionally, but he was still pretty rude.

"Um, sorry, I wasn't really thinking straight, and it's been a long day, and there's flour in the air here, and there was a fire hose, so I really didn't mean for that to come out so...curt, I guess? Yeah," he babbles, flustered. "I'm...uh, you're, uh, you look a lot like Hope Taylor? You know of her? The actress? Well, I guess you would have to know her. Anyway, uh, are you? Hope? I mean, are you Hope Taylor? I'm pretty sure you are but I mean I had to make sure-"

He cuts himself off. Heat rises to his ears. Oh god, he sounds like an idiot.

@William Ellis Hope sighs quietly. She's been up since 4 am, just for her make up and hair. It's the first time she's been able to sneak off set today, and really, honestly, she's just praying she won't have to deal with the paparazzi today. God, she thinks, tilting her head and working out the creaks in her neck. She hates filming flashbacks. They're always so tiring- there always has to be an air of impenetrable optimism about her when she acts younger. Of course, given her appearance, there's honestly no choice but to cast her as a younger character. And she knows she should be thankful. Grateful for this opportunity to be the main character (even though she's barely ever casted as a side- thank you genetics), grateful for the opportunity to work with her director (even though he's a totally misogynistic ), and grateful for her fans.

But when it gets down to 15 hour days, it gets real hard to be grateful. The fact that it's silent and peaceful for once is already a blessing. Breathing in, she lets the scent of fresh baked pastries waft over her and improve her mood. She had found this little hole in the wall bakery one time escaping the paparazzi and honestly, never looked back. The baker (though she had never met him or her in person, bless their soul) worked magic or something, because she had never tasted better pastries, even in the five star restaurants her agent insisted on sending her to.

She walks in, and is met by an almost-curt greeting, and call her spoiled, but she'd never gotten as cold a greeting as this one in her whole life.

"Oh," she breathes. "If it's not too much of a bother, I'd like a table, please."

@Hope Taylor Will leans against the countertop, coughing. He's pretty sure he's inhaled enough flour to suffocate a man (not that that's anything new), the part-time worker who is supposed to be working the register is late, and he's had a grand total of two hours of sleep in the last twenty-four hours thanks to some idiots with a firehose. After two years on this job, Will has already become accustomed to waking up at three o' clock in the morning and looking like an abominable flour-man all the time and the general y-ness of being something he'd really rather not be, but today somehow seems to be much higher on the scale of than most days. Will blames the firehose. It has to have been the firehose.

Normally, Will would attempt to count his blessings at this point: at least he still has a job, at least he has a bed to sleep in, and at least he gets to bring back extra food to the Flats and feel like Santa Claus for approximately half an hour, if Santa were an awkward, freckly eighteen-year-old with an unhealthy obsession with chemistry textbooks. At this point, though, he decides the firehose is justification enough for him to abandon all optimism and wallow around in self-pity for a bit. He's not even supposed to be working right now. He should be on break, but a certain part-timer decided to bail, so now he's stuck with their job, too.

The bell on the door jingles softly, snapping him out of his uncharacteristically snarky internal rant.

"Hi and welcome to the Blue Door Cafe how can I help you would you like to take your order to go or would you like a table?" Will asks in a single breath, almost out of reflex.

[[ Wow this is the first time I've written something creative-ish in about a year. Will has much more snark then I planned for him to have. I guess I'm not very good at being nice. ]]