Love Song

Hey, people! I THINK this is going to be my new story - I can't be sure. Until you guys comment and tell me if you want it to carry on. So COMMENT AND TELL ME IF YOU WANT ME TO CARRY ON!!! Love you. Enjoy.
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If he didn’t want me to fall in love with him, why did he ask me out in the first place? I mean, any girl is bound to fall for a six foot mound of sweet talking muscle, right? Apparently, according to him, wrong. This is how the conversation went;
Me: Mum’s cookies turned out right for once – try some.
(I reach up to feed him chunks of chocolate chip biscuit)
Will: Hm. I can think of something tastier than a cookie.
(He puts an arm around my waist and pulls me close)
Me: Oh really? What’s that, then?
(I tease him, pulling back a little and smiling as he laughs)
Will: It’s better if I show you.
(He leans down and kisses me sweetly, before proceeding to tell me how special I am to him)
Me: Stop being silly. I’m nowhere near like that. You, on the other hand...Mm. You’re just lovable. I love you.
(I snuggle closer to him, hiding my tomato cheeks in his side, trying to ignore the way he’s frozen)
Will: Um...did you say what I think you said?
(He has a laughing tone, like he’s trying to brush it off, making me go on the defensive straight away)
Me: What? It’s true.
(I’m embarrassed beyond words while Will looks like he’s trying to calm down by clenching and unclenching his jaw)
Will: Why do you always have to ruin a perfectly good moment? You know what? I’m going. Let’s just forget it.
(He pulls away from me abruptly, stands up, grabs his jacket and stalks angrily out of the house.)
Totally overreacting, right? We could have talked about it, sorted it out, changed things. But now it’s too late. You can’t alter the past. And Will Santos is in the past. I have to let the memory of my first love go. It’s the only way to move on.

"And then what did he say?" My best friend, Mary Clarisse, asked - her tone raising a slight octave higher as she showed her apparent enthusiasm on the subject of conversation.
"Oh, he asked for my number, told me to call him up, said he’d call me up, the usual. They’re all the same." I mumbled back uninterestedly, fiddling with the phone cord and biting down on my lip. Tom, the guy I had met last night, was nice enough. Good teeth. Okay sense of humour. Sensible, in a good job, just the kind of guy my parents would love. So why wasn’t I yearning to call him back? He was another clone, that’s why.
"Are you going to call him, Crys? You’d better. Because if you don’t, I will!" Mary said, giggling a little as she remembered last night’s second eligible bachelor. The first rich kid that had tried to hit on me was just that – a kid. The second was, of course, Tom, and the memory of his blonde hair and blue eyes didn’t seem all that appealing even now.
"Go ahead, Mary." I replied with newfound vigor. It’d be cool if Mary got together with him; he was exactly her kind of guy and she had been looking for a long time. She was one of those bouncy red heads with never ending energy that had to have a man on her arm no matter what. Tom was exactly her kind of guy because, even I had to admit, he was nice eye candy, and that Mary was shallow when it came to her choice of partner.
"Really, can I?"
"Of course. I’ll give you his number later. But right now I have to go, okay? I’ll see you later. Bye."

After slamming the phone down, I walked to the kitchen to feed the cat. Daisy, my grey tabby kitten, was growling quietly and rubbing herself up against my legs, a sure sign that she wanted food. "Here you are sweetie," I cooed, scooping out some rank smelling stuff from a tin into her silver bowl.
It may have smelled rank to me, but she seemed to like it enough, and began to lick at the little pink chunks. I grimaced at her enthusiasm and set about making myself a cup of tea.
"You know, mum thinks it’s time for me to get married. But it’s not. I’m only twenty three. Besides, who do I get married to?" I told the cat over the rumble of the kettle. Talking to animals; a sure sign of madness. "Tom, maybe?" I scoffed, pouring the boiling water over the teabag.
Daisy growled in sarcastic agreement but didn’t say anything – I didn’t expect her to. She bent her little head and carried on scoffing the pink stuff down. Smiling, I leaned over to stroke the soft white tuft of silky fur she had on her head; Mary called it her Mohican.
I finished making my tea and picked the steaming mug up, curling my fingers around the warm outside and breathing deeply. The milky liquid smelt sweet, tea-like and inviting. I took a sip.
As the blazing warmth traveled down my throat, I reveled in the sudden and absolute silence; it was a rare solace. I hardly ever heard quiet like this. And then the phone started ringing.
"Ugh!" I slammed my cup down onto the counter so hard that I feared I’d broken it. But this, really, was ridiculous. I’d woken up at twelve in the afternoon (just plain tired – I don’t drink) and now it was one, and the phone had rang five times. FIVE times! It was insane.

The first was my mother, asking how I was and if I had a nice time being young and wild yesterday since she’d called me three times at midnight and I hadn’t picked up any of the times. She wanted to tell me the schedule for my sister’s bridesmaid dress fittings. Which were today. Short notice or what?
The second was my father, asking if I’d run down to see him tomorrow – something about some new movie he was directing. Yes, my father is an incredibly famous, incredibly rich, incredibly nice movie director. That doesn’t make me a snob.
The third was a mystery caller – I picked up and they asked for me. When I said it was me, they giggled and put the phone down. Weirdos.
The fourth was my mother again, telling me to wear something ‘pretty’ to the fitting as she had a nice surprise for me there. Her nice surprise was probably something like she sent somebody to follow me last night, looked Tom up and invited him to come spend the day with us. Ugh. That would not be the first time she’s done that.
And the fifth and final call was from Mary, who wanted to mull over yesterday’s events and begged me to pick up some aspirin for her as she does drink, and she had a killer headache or, more precisely, a killer hangover.

I stomped over to the phone and picked it up for my sixth call – this would be my last one, since I made a spontaneous decision to yank the phone cord out after I had finished talking to this person.
"Hello?" I barked, rather irritably, down the handset.
" Hi! Oh sorry, it seems that I’ve disturbed you..." A deep, smooth voice apologized down my ear. I froze. This wasn’t someone I knew. I’d heard about fans that track down the famous person’s family and stalk them and, ultimately, result in killing them.
"N-no, it’s okay. May I ask who’s speaking?" I said, ignoring the chills that the stranger’s voice gave down my spine. It was weirdly familiar, and yet had an edge of danger to it, of roughness.
"One of your father’s accomplices. I believe he wanted to keep my identity a surprise, for tomorrow’s meeting." The stranger laughed. It was a deep, reassuring sound, and all my tense, rigid muscles relaxed immediately.
"Oh. Right. So...um, why did you ring?" I asked, immediately regretting it. It sounded like I was being rude; and knowing my dad, this guy was probably one of the world famous music producers or something that he seemed to know. The stranger, though, only laughed again.
"I thought I should get to know something about my new assistant." The man said, and I was immediately frozen again. Dad had got me a job. I could quit my long hours at the dead end cafe that I’d worked in since my teen years. Dad had got me a job. With somebody famous. Okay, maybe not with somebody famous, but with somebody important! And dad had got me a job!

Okay, before I go any further, let me explain something to you. I’m not one of those rich little daddy’s girls who gets favors just because her father is something of a big shot. No, I’m the same as any other person that applies for it, except, of course, my father gives in my CV and qualifications, and if the person likes them, he/she gets back to my dad about an interview. I go through all the normal procedures, except my dad does some things for me. He’s kind of like my delivery service into the fame’ n ’fortune world.
But anyway, back to the story.
"Y-your new assistant? H-how-?" I stuttered; slumping down onto the stairs in pleasant shock.
"This is kind of like your interview. But I needed a new assistant, and you fit the bill. My age, a music fanatic, and experience. Thing is, though, this is standard procedure. But I have no doubt that you’ll end up working alongside me, Miss Giovanni. No doubt." The man explained cheerfully, his words making me slump even further into the uncomfortable bump of a stair I was leaning into.
Life was suddenly looking up.