Page 7 of She's the Star

“Ugh…no. They aren’t here.” I nudge the open bag at my feet. “And neither is my phone.”

“Is this your car?” He uses his pinkie to point at my Range Rover. “Because if it is, I think I know where your phone is.”

I follow the direction of his pinkie, and yep, my phone is sitting on the dash. Because that’s a great place for it to be.

My hands fly to my face, and I rub my eyes.

Operation Independent Mom: massive failure.

“I’d give you a ride, but I don’t have a car seat,” he says. “Is there someone you can call?”

There are lots of people I can call. My assistant. My manager. My head of security. My driver. Teddy. Scratch that—I can’t call Teddy. If I call him, he’ll think I want to get back together. Which I don’t. Ever.

The guy shifts Maddy into the crook of his elbow so he can dig his phone out of his pocket. “You can use mine,” he says as he extends it toward me.

I reach out but then hesitate. My phone has all my numbers programmed into it, and I can’t think of a single one off the top of my head.

I don’t even know my number.

Operation Take Care of Myself: also a failure.

“I don’t know anyone’s number,” I admit.

“Oh, well…that makes sense,” he says slowly. “You could…call your label?”

He knows who I am. It’s not surprising, and honestly, it was naïve of me to think he might not recognize me.

There’s nothing I can do about it now, so I smile weakly and shake my head. I’m definitely not calling my label. There are more leaks in that building than a strainer. The last thing I need is for this to become news.

“I guess I could call my parents.” I start to dial my childhood phone number when I remember that I gifted them a twenty-one-day Mediterranean cruise for their anniversary. They won’t be home for two more weeks. Sigh.

I tip my head back and wrack my brain. There must be another number in there somewhere.

Slater Jones.

My high school boyfriend is now a professional football player. I used to dial his number every night when I was a teenager—my parents wouldn’t let me have a cell phone. I hold my breath, enter the nine digits I’ll never forget, and bring the device up to my ear.

It rings and rings and goes to voicemail.

I relax when I hear Slater’s voice on the recording, but don’t bother leaving a message—I wouldn’t answer an unknown number either. Instead, I hang up and send a text: This is Amber…I need a favor.

A second later, the phone vibrates in my hand.

“Amber?” a high-pitched voice says as soon as I answer.

“Who is this?” I ask suspiciously, hoping it’s Slater’s girlfriend but not willing to assume. With the way my luck is going, someone could have stolen his phone and they’re the one calling me back.

“It’s Ellie,” she confirms. “Slater’s filming a commercial. He was supposed to be done thirty minutes ago, but they’re running late. What’s up? Why are you calling from a random number?”

“Funny story.” I laugh unconvincingly. “I took Maddy to swim class this morning, and I locked my phone in my car—and then I lost my keys. Or, I lost my keys and then locked my phone in the car. I don’t know. The order isn’t important.”

“You’re alone?” She says it like she can’t believe I took Maddy by myself.

It’s hard not to be offended by her tone—I mean, I get it, but also, I’d like to be the sort of person people regard as competent.

“Yes. I thought I could handle it. The pool is exclusive, and the property has security.” As I say it, I wonder if I should have thought to walk down the winding road to the entrance gate and ask the guard for help.

Too late now.

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