AUTHOR'S NOTE:
Just want to say a quick thank you to all those who commented and emailed positive responses to my first story featuring Emma Watson. That was originally meant to be a standalone story and was therefore written in a way that made a sequel unlikely (notwithstanding the epilogue). But I fell in love with the characters and apparently so did many others, and so here we are. While I could have gone back and rewrote the ending to make things easier for myself, I felt that was a cheat and decided to make the best out of what I had. As a result, I'm not entirely sure the story that follows completely works on a narrative level (too bloated and verbose), but then I guess narrative isn't exactly a priority in erotica. However, I can promise that if there's any interest, future instalments will be less longwinded and more fun.
Anyway, hope you enjoy the story. Comments and votes are appreciated.
***
Emma Watson...
It was the best day and a half of my life; and I can't tell anyone about it. Not that they'd believe me. Hell, sometimes I don't believe it. It sounds like some kind of sleazy fantasy I had dreamed up on a lonely night. And yet, I have her panties hidden in my wardrobe at home like some sort of trophy. Beneath it sits my copy of 'Harry Potter & the Prisoner of Azkaban', with a handwritten message from her on the inside of front cover thanking me for a lovely time and telling me she might call one day.
Of course, when paparazzi shots showed up online of her and I sitting at a hotel bar having a few beers, my friends and family started talking. I showed them the signed copy of the other Harry Potter book I had her autograph which contained a much more innocent message. My friends asked me if I "put the moves on her". I simply replied, "she's Emma Watson". Those words translated to "I struck out" to most people; and I'm more than happy for them to believe that. Just the memories of what we got up to in that hotel room are enough.
She said she might call me one day if she got the chance to come back to Australia. I admit that for awhile I kept a close eye on her Twitter feed and fansites for any news, but there was no hint that she would be coming back anytime soon. It was now seven months later and whatever miniscule hope I ever held that she would call was gone. But as it turns out, life is strange.
One day while I sat in my office at work, I received a phone call. The caller ID was blocked and I just assumed it was one of my clients.
"HMH Lawyers, Nate speaking."
"Ooh, very professional," said a girl with an English accent.
"Hi, can I help you?" I asked while absentmindedly thinking about what I wanted to eat for lunch.
"Nate, it's Emma."
"Emma...?" I asked without much enthusiasm.
I heard a soft chuckle on the other end before she said; "Do you really not recognise my voice?"
I started paying attention and suddenly it dawned on me who was on the other end. I sat up straight and peeked out of the door of my office to make sure no one else was listening.
"Emma... Hi," I said, my mouth suddenly dry.
"Hi. How've you been?"
"Great. You?"
"Great."
There was silence on both ends. Neither of us spoke for a few seconds. I couldn't even hear her breathing on the other end, although I did hear the very faint sound of traffic, which led me to ask,
"Where are you?"
"London," she said, before adding, "I uh, I'm heading to Australia soon."
"Really?" I said, struggling to curb my enthusiasm.
"Yeah. I'll be in Sydney for the Australian Premiere for my new movie."
"Oh yeah, I saw some early reviews for that the other day."
"And?"
"Well, Variety hates it."
"Of course they did," Emma sighed. "Any positives?"
"Well, everyone seems to love Russell Crowe."
The sound of Emma laughing came through the phone. It was music to my ears. Just hearing her voice again brought back memories of our time together. I was beginning to wonder if history would repeat itself. But I wasn't about to lead off with that. Instead, I said,
"Will he be at the premiere?"
"Who? Russell? I imagine so. He's one of your lot after all."
"My lot?" I asked.
"Australian," she explained.
"Oh of course," I chuckled nervously. "Can I meet him? He's one of my favourite actors."
"Get to Sydney on the 24th and I'll make sure the two of you end up having a beer together."
"Thanks Emma."
Again, we lapsed into silence. I strained to hear her on the other end. Nothing. There was nothing said for at least 5 seconds; and when you're on the phone with Emma Watson, 5 seconds feels like an eternity. Suddenly, I thought back to what she had just said and ask,
"Hold on. You said the 24th?"
"Uh-huh."
"This month or next?"
"This month."
"Emma, that's this Monday," I said whilst double checking on my computer.
"Yeah."
"That's only four days away."
"Yeah. Can you come?" she replied quietly.
"I'd have to take a day off work."
"Take the week off. I'll fly you out."
"Notwithstanding how emasculating it is to have a girl by your airplane tickets for you; what do you have in mind?"
"I need company. And we had fun last time I was in Australia."
I took a moment before answering. Not because I didn't know how to reply, but because I was genuinely baffled why she was calling me. We did have fun during her last visit to Australia. But I'd be lying if I said it was anything more than casual sex. She said she might give me a call next time she was in Australia, but I never expected she would. Hollywood actresses don't seek out the company of junior lawyers in Australia who they've only knew for an accumulated total of only 40 hours. But when Emma Watson asks you to come to Sydney to meet her, you don't say no.
"Done," I replied.
***
It felt strange to sit the lobby of the Park Hyatt Hotel in Sydney Harbour at Emma Watson's invitation and knowing we were likely going to continue where we left off was a strange situation to be in. This was beginning to feel like the most elaborate and expensive booty call in history. And why I was the lucky recipient, I'll never know. In any event, it was significantly preferable to being at work.
I had been waiting for about 15 minutes when I saw her. And as if this situation wasn't strange and dreamlike enough, the sun shone through the doorway as she walked in, giving her an almost ethereal quality. She waltzed in surrounded by her entourage and pursued by the paparazzi. Hotel security ushered Emma inside and barred any of the paparazzi from coming in. Things had suddenly become very hectic. And here I was hoping for a quiet and intimate reunion. Once inside, Emma greeted the concierge and hotel staff. She looked as if she had done it a thousand times (and probably had). Inside the (relative) privacy of the hotel lobby, I managed to get a better look at Emma. Just like the last time I saw her, she wore a pair of large sunglasses which she had only just taken off. Her clothes appeared modest; leggings and a long green shirt.
I wasn't sure what I should do. I couldn't just walk up to her and say hello. I sensed she wanted my visit to be incognito. So I decided to place myself between her and the elevator and hope she would notice me on her way past. This was something I hadn't resorted to doing since high school when I had a crush on the girl in my history class. And wouldn't you know it, just like in high school, it worked.
She was preoccupied with her phone as she walked towards the elevator and only glanced up momentarily to wave at some fans. As she did so, our eyes met. Her eyes lit up as a wide smile spread across her face. She was clearly debating whether or not to stop and talk to me but was also noticeably concerned at the lack of privacy. Her eyes darted back and forth from me, to her entourage to everyone else who was watching her every move. She was about to walk past me when at the last second, she stopped dead in her tracks and turned to me.
"Nate! How are you?" she said happily in that posh English accent of hers.
"I'm great," I replied; both surprised and at the same time smug to be the source her attention.
She walked up to me and hugged me like an old friend. This too took me by surprised. That same perfume I remembered from all those months back filled the air again as her hair brushed against my face and her arms wrapped around me in a warm embrace. As she was about to let go, she whispered in my ear,
"Just play along."
Before I could reply, she indicated to a middle-aged woman in her entourage and said,
"Nate, I'd like you to meet my publicist, Wendy."
Wendy and I shook hands as I suddenly remembered her from Emma's last visit to Australia. She had interrupted us in the middle of our amorous activities and ushered an abrupt end to our dalliance. If Wendy remembered me, she gave no indication. Emma continued,