She's been debating saying something for a solid fifteen minutes. Pretty much since he'd come in, take a seat at the bar, his eyes darting around the sparsely populated room like he was braced for attack. But it's 3 PM on a Tuesday, and the only customers are the regulars, more interested in their beers and heckling tv than the fact that Veer Oberoi, actor, and last year's India Today Magzine's Sexiest Man Alive, was in their midst.

Prathna had only noticed him because it was technically her job. And because he seemed a little crazy, with the twitchiness and the black hoodie he hadn't bothered to take off. But she'd recognized him, the firm jaw and full lips, the little hint of a tattoo peeking out from his chest. Controlling her inner thirteen-year-old girl, that wanted to squeal and ask for an autograph. He'd seemed stressed, and she didn't want to make that worse.

So she'd asked him if he wanted anything to drink, when he'd settled, casually as she could, and he'd ordered a glass of bourbon (the most expensive brand they carried) on the rocks, without even glancing up at her.

Rude, but not something she was unaccustomed to. She'd managed a polite, "Coming right up," and had crossed her fingers that Mr. Bollywood wasn't a crappy tipper like most of the customers who were dicks right off the bat.

She'd gone back to her textbooks, once he was nursing his drink, but had kept an eye on him, and noted that he tensed up whenever the bell over the front door clanged, or someone walked behind him, on their way to use the restrooms.

Eventually, she can't resist anymore. It's a flaw, one she acknowledges, but Prathna had never been very good at keeping her mouth shut. She grabs a rag and makes her way over, wipes down the section of the bar top nearest him. She murmurs, "If you're trying to be inconspicuous, you're doing a terrible job at it."

She doesn't look directly at him, when she says it, but turns enough to see his head swivel slowly in her direction, eyes narrowed suspiciously, "I'm not sure what you mean, babe?"

"Oh, please." Prathna rolls her eyes and moves down so they're facing one another. She plants her hands on the counter and leans over, speaking quietly. "Everyone in this room, other than you and me, is at least sixty years old. No one's going to recognize you. Someone might call the cops, however, if you keep acting sketchy. Probably think you're here to rob the place. At least lose the hat."

Grudgingly, he reaches up and pulls it off, and Prathna bites her lip, trying not to giggle at the mess of it. It's kind of adorable, but she doubts he'd appreciate that sentiment. He runs a hand through the curls, until their slightly more orderly, then asks ruefully, "So what is it that gave me away?"

Prathna shrugs, "I was watching one of your movies on Netflix the other night. Guess your face was just fresh in my mind."

It's a lie. But she's not going to confess to the giant crush she'd harbored on him as a teenager. How his face (and shirtless torso) had been plastered on her bedroom walls, in her locker, and even on her phone. Or that even today, when she was flipping through the tabloids that accumulated in the breakroom, Prathna always, always, read the articles about him.

Because that would be embarrassing. And she's doing such a good job of playing cool.

A little voice in the back of her head pipes up to remind her that, according to the aforementioned gossip mags, Veer Oberoi was currently single. And set to begin shooting a movie in the city next month. Prathna ignores her pesky subconscious, because that was crazy, even if he's looking at her with something like interest.

Shifting on her feet, she nods down to his glass, "Refill?" she asks, pasting on a smile.

"Please," he replies, and Prathna whirls away to pour his drink. He reaches for it when she goes to set it down, and the brush of their fingertips feels deliberate, his "Thank you, sweety," low and warm and not making her blush.

She darts away, after a hurried, 'You're welcome,' ducking out from behind the bar under the guise of checking on the other customers. She just needs a second away from him. He's attractive on the big screen, but disconcertingly magnetic in person. It's kind of not fair at all.

She takes a couple of orders, banters with her favorite regulars, and is just about to head back over to the bar, nerves sufficiently steeled, when she notes a commotion outside of the bar, a clump of guys with cameras and cigarettes camped out on the sidewalk by the entrance.

Ah, that explained why he looked like he was being hunted. She feels a little bad for him, for the fact that he can't go about his afternoon in peace. And so she decides to do something about it.

Prathna throws open the front door, and leans against it, "Can I help you, gentleman? Or is there a reason you're clogging up my sidewalk? This is a business and your lurking doesn't exactly make the place seem welcoming, you know?"

The one closest to her eyes her up and down dismissively, "Relax, Girlie. We're just looking for a shot."

Tipping her head to the side, Prathna pulls out her best dumb act, "Well, it's a bar. I've got plenty of those if y'all wanna come and spend some money."

One of them snorts, and a few laugh, "Photographs," the first one says, enunciating the syllables obnoxiously. "Veer Oberoi's in there, and a candid of his goes for about two thousand."

"Um, except he's not here," Prathna tells them, widening her eyes. "Trust me, I would know. I've watched Fannah he's in a hundred times." They eye her skeptically, and annoyed grumbles float over, so Prathna decides to push it, "That ass in those tight pants? Come on. I slow-mo-ed it. A lot." A few begin to shuffle. Sensing victory she heaves a big sigh and continues mournfully, "There's just me, a cook, and a couple of retirees. No eye candy in sight."

They buy it and the complaints get louder, a couple of curses and general bitching about time wasted, while they pull out cell phones. Prathna hides a smile, and waves sunnily, "Have a good day!" she calls after them, waiting for them to disperse before going back inside.

And immediately meets Veer's eyes. He looks both impressed and amused, and oh god, did she say that about his ass? Out loud? And he'd heard it?

Her face feels burning, and there's no way it's not bright red.

Prathna lifts her head, stubbornly refusing to look away as she crosses the room. She holds her breath, waiting for him to speak, as she gathers up the orders she'd taken before she'd shooed the paparazzi away, placing them on a tray.

He should be grateful and do her a solid and not question her effective methods.

But the quick furtive glance she shoots him, just before she hefts the tray, finds him looking far more relaxed, a smirk pulling at the edge of his lips, as he watches her movements. Still, he doesn't say anything, and Prathna hurries away.

She stalls, making conversation, arguing about politics, for as long as she can. She half hopes he'll leave, now that she's removed the obstacle, but she knows it's a futile wish, can feel his gaze on her back.

Finally, when the small talk has run dry, and everyone has a fresh drink, Prathna knows she can no longer avoid facing the music, or the mockery. And she needs to finish the assignment she'd been working on, so she might as well get it over with. She avoids looking at Veer, hops onto her stool, and gazes down at her notebook.

Veer shifts over a few stools, into her line of sight, and she braces herself. But when he speaks it's not what she was expecting, "Thanks. For sending them away. I was looking at an apartment a couple of blocks away and I think someone must have tipped them off."

Warily, Prathna looks up, "You're welcome," she says slowly.

"What's your name, babe?" he asks, leaning forward, his elbows on the bar.

She blinks because this is not how she'd thought this conversation would go. "Prathna," she tells him.

"And what are you studying, Prathna?" he asks curiously, gesturing to her books.

And ugh, also on the list of things that aren't fair? The way her name rolled off of his tongue, like an unintentional seduction.

"Journalism. At DU," she answers.

He makes a noise, a hum of acknowledgment, "And are you very busy, babe? Or would you like to have a drink with me, sometime?"

It's a struggle, to keep her jaw from dropping. It's hardly the first time she's been asked out (though sadly most of her invites come from drunks these days) but she can't say she's ever been asked out by someone famous. Who's starred in more than one of her dirty dreams.

"I…" she stutters out, under his expectant gaze.

His eyes lighten, grow sly, and that annoyingly attractive smirk slides back over his face, "Come now, take a chance. Play your cards right and you could very well get the opportunity to inspect my ass in person."

Prathna cringes, covering her eyes with a palm, "Bappa. Could you please forget I said that? It was only for dramatic effect!"

He laughs, reaches over tugs her hand away from her face. And he doesn't let go. Prathna looks up and likes the sight of his smile, the dimples in his cheeks standing out, "I take it as a compliment," he informs her. "And proof that the awful diet and thirty hours of working out I did every week leading up to shooting paid off."

He seems genuine, the words easy and open, not the least bit accusatory. Prathna supposes he'd likely heard worse, and lewder if he's ever Googled himself. She finds herself smiling back, sucking in a breath as his thumb strokes over her knuckles, "So? Drinks," he prompts, looking hopeful.

She bites her lip, "I really can't tonight," she says, gesturing to her notebook, "I have to finish…"

"Tomorrow, if you'd like," he interrupts. "Or this weekend, even. We can make it a proper dinner."

Prathna blinks, "Okay, wow, you're very…"

"Direct? Guilty. But people, women especially, don't usually talk to me like you have, love. I find I like it, and I'd like to talk to you some more."

She swallows hard, and who's she kidding, she's already mentally planning her outfit. "Dinner sounds great. Friday?" she asks him.

He grins like she's just made his day, "Perfect. I'll pick you up at eight."