Page 37 of Anyone But the Superstar

Which may seem insignificant to most, but considering all I was going to do was eat shabbily cut raw veggies and pray to the chicken gods that my eggs didn’t burn when I tried to hard-boil them, I’m feeling better about the absurd deal I made with the Portuguese Don Juan last night.

He hands me a fork before circling the island to sit next to me.

I lower Mike on the floor between us, as if that will somehow diminish my awareness of the lack of space between his bare torso and my current overheated one.

As I hoped, he keeps his eyes on the cat who, for once, is sitting politely on the floor. When Mikey remains still, Felix takes his first bite.

I follow suit, the taste of breakfast enough of a distraction to help me block out all the visible skin beside me. Felix’s and Mike’s. ‘Where’d you learn how to cook, anyway?’

‘My mother.’ He lifts the open-faced toast, taking a large bite.

‘Yeah?’ A stab of jealousy hits me. I’ve never cooked with my mom. Not because she wouldn’t if I asked, but I never did, knowing full well that my father was of the opinion that cooking wasn’t something New York City society queens and princesses did. We hadstafffor that.

I swallow another bite as I watch his lips roll as he chews his. ‘What else did she teach you?’

‘Most everything.’ He licks the crumbs from his lips. ‘My dad died in a car accident when I was young, so she raised me on her own.’

My fork pauses on the plate. ‘I’m sorry.’

Felix’s shoulders lift in a smooth, well-practiced response. ‘I don’t really remember him.’ His brows knit together for a fleeting moment. ‘I’ve never been sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing considering how torn up my mom always seemed whenever I asked about him.’ He forks a strawberry then pauses, as if considering what he just shared.

I stab my own strawberry, angry at myself for asking. ‘You don’t need to talk about it if you don’t want to. I didn’t mean to pry or anything.’ I chew hard, knowing full well what it’s like to have daddy-issues, then pick up my toast.

‘No.’ Felix straightens in his seat. ‘It’s not that.’ Lowering his fork to the plate, he gives me a small smile. ‘I was just thinking how long it’s been since I had to tell anyone about myself like this.’ He huffs a laugh. ‘Usually people already know all these things before they even meet me.’

‘Sorry.’ I pause my next bite, the eggs on my toast wobbling as I shrug. ‘Not a big movie buff.’

‘Don’t apologize.’ His small smile transforms into a full-blow grin. ‘It’s great, actually.’

His happy expression is more genuine than all the professional smiles he flashed at the press junket. It reminds me of Johnny from the bar, except the effect is ten times as powerful without an atrocious beard in the way. Strong enough to have me shifting in my seat.

Shoveling the rest of the food in my face, I jump off the stool and bring the plate to the sink. I have it loaded in thedishwasher before I’ve even finished chewing. ‘I better get going.’

He glances out the still dark window. ‘Already?’

‘Yep.’ Internally cringing at how disturbingly perky I sound, I hustle back to my room to brush my teeth so I can get the hell out of here.

It’s just for a little while. I only need to put up with the Hollywood sex symbol long enough to meet my sister. After which I’ll be able to figure out who I am. To become anchored after a year of feeling adrift.

Even with my little pep talk running through my head while I move the brush fast and furiously around my mouth, it still takes me reminding myself that while the upper part of Felix Jones is hot, heavy and hard, the bottom half is only two of those things.

So don’t start acting dumb now.

Felix

Why am I so dumb?

I continue to berate my intelligence as I watch Anne’s jean-clad backside retreat to her room.

I’m cold, tired and my back hurts, and yet, thanks to the reflective microwave door, my large, goofy grin is proof positive that I’ve lost a few thousand brain cells between here and the guest room.

I’m equally disgusted with myself and dumbfounded by my situation as I get up to wipe down the counters.

Ripping off a paper towel and grabbing the cleaner fromunder the sink, I scrub harder than necessary while I contemplate all the ways in which I’m dumb.

I didn’t lie when I said I’m an early riser. I am. But I also never set my alarm when I don’t have to be on set until the afternoon. Something I did last night after Anne informed me what time she’d be leaving for work today.

I reasoned that if Anne only granted me permission to stay because she couldn’t cook – and her weird thing for astronauts – then I had better get up and cook.

---