Page 19 of Anyone But the Superstar

As if hearing my thoughts, Anne looks up.

The dawning horror in her eyes as she realizes she’s been discovered mirrors my own internal crisis.

But just when I’m about to do something stupid, something my lawyers, manager and even mother would advise me against – stand up and shout something, anything, to expel the growing swell of emotions inside of me at seeing my one-night stand holding the phone that took the scandalizing picture of me standing so close to reporters and cameras – someone beats me to it.

Someone loud, Southern and heavily pregnant.

6

LIZ

Fuck a duck.

Too late, I realize that Tall Guy has failed the one job I gave him (that he didn’t know he had) – block me from view.

And now my numbing-cream nemesis is staring me straight in the eyes.

There’s a spark of satisfaction from being proven right: heishandsome under that God-awful, unruly beard – freaking unfairly handsome. But that spark is quickly extinguished at the light of recognition illuminating his stupidly soulful, dark-brown eyes.

Feeling suddenly hot in the fully air-conditioned, hangar-like building, I fight the urge to shift under his intense stare while my annoyance at the situation, and myself, makes me want to scream,Fuck you, limp dickat him in front of all these people and cameras.

Not the most mature of urges, I’ll admit. But one I’d like to think is understandable.

Because if I was standing in front of him as Elizabeth Anne Moore, former heiress to the largest American luxury retailconglomerate and charity princess, I’d be able to hold my own against anyone, including A-list celebrities with a penchant for anesthetized prophylactics.

However.

Right now, I amnotElizabeth Moore, I’m Anne Moore, a money-strapped grad student with scholarship requirements and a half-sister to meet. So as much as I’d like to tell the award-winning asshole staring me down to fuck off, I instead inhale for a count of three-two-one, filling my belly with breath, then exhale long and low. It’s a trick I used whenever nerves got the best of me at public events and galas Stanley Moore insisted I attend. And a trick I use now in an attempt to stop myself from doing more physical harm to Felix Jones’ junk.

Thankfully, when the first deep breath doesn’t cure all my violent impulses, I’m saved by a woman with more shine than my t-shirt.

‘Howdy, y’all!’

Everyone starts, including me, at a woman with strawberry-blonde hair blown out with enough volume to reach the heavens.

Blinking past the dryness from my stare down, my brain needs a moment to gawk at the newcomer’s substantial pregnant belly which she has encased inside a fuchsia spandex jumpsuit. She’s a technicolor vision in the otherwise black, white and gray building.

Just as entranced, the crowd parts to make room for her as she sashay-waddles closer in platform, high-top sneakers, coming to a stop with a slight pant of exertion.

‘We made it.’ She flips her hair back over one shoulder, her heaving chest on full display as she tucks her hand where her waist should be.

The ‘we’ she referred to must mean the shorter brunettebeside her. A woman who, as she turns sideways to talk to Em, I realize is also pregnant. She doesn’t seem as far along as the large-and-in-charge blonde, but it’s hard to tell with her flowy, floral, ankle-length sundress.

That, and Em’s amused smile, are all I register before my brain finally kicks into gear and I do the more mature thing and escape notice while I can.

But, just to make myself feel better, I itch my nose with my middle finger as I go.

Felix

As much as I’m dumbfounded by the pregnant duo before me, it doesn’t stop me from noticing Anne turning to walk away in my peripheral.

And – I frown at her swishing ponytail – was she flipping me off?

Covering the microphone with my hand, I stand, drawing the attention of Amanda and Jack. ‘I’ll be right ba?—’

‘Audrey Cole!’ Ron stands and circles around the table. ‘I’m so glad you made it.’

‘Oh.’ Amanda turns back to the women. ‘The writer’s here.’

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