Page 4 of Anyone But the Superstar

‘I insist.’ She shrugs. ‘An apology for the beard-taint comment.’

I nod with a small smile she probably can’t see with my facial hair. I mean, I did make the one-beer promisebeforea woman slinging vulgarity like poetry took his seat.

My curse-poet shifts her body to face forward, then pauses, as if thinking. ‘I’m Anne, by the way.’ She turns toward me again and sticks out her hand. ‘And you are?’

I sputter on my next sip, trying to think how to answer. The man on the other side of her catches my eye, his bright-green hat sitting high on his head.John Deerescrawled in yellow.

‘John.’ I take her hand. It’s slender but when she pumps our hands up and down, I feel strength in her arm.

When she returns to her cider, I give her a subtle once-over.

Anne’s trim, but fit. As someone who’s trained every day for the past five years, I recognize the definition in her arms and the firmness in her long, tan legs sticking out from her cut-off denim shorts as being from some sort of fitness routine. And while her blue eyes close dreamily as she drinks her cider, I keep thinking about the crooked smile she flashed at my reaction to her obscene humor. That and her polite, ‘and you are’ introduction adds to the abundant collection of contradicting personality traits that I’ve noted in a short amount of time.

Jack always said character study was my strongest strength as an actor. That I could spend hours mulling over a person’sactions, intent and motivation. I’d chalk up my unusual interest in Anne to that if it wasn’t for myotherhead’s interest.

A dimple pops on Anne’s left cheek when she catches me staring. I don’t need to have played the Man of Steel to know that the woman next to me could well be my kryptonite.

I know this because I do something I shouldn’t. Something my agent and my publicist would advise against. And something my lawyers would most defiantly order me to cease. Raising my glass at my pretty and foul-mouthed neighbor, I clink it to hers. ‘I think I’m going to need to hear everything about the wife with a penchant for sending pictures of, uh…’ I glance around, more self-conscious of our surroundings than she seems to be and lower my voice to a whisper. ‘Someone’s heavily maned nether regions.’

Her smiles widens and the way my heart jumps reminds me of the time I BASE jumped off Shanghai Tower for what the movie critics define as my ‘big break’. Which was before I became so famous studios insisted on hiring stuntmen, rather than risk the insurance payout if something were to happen to me. Before I had to grow out a beard to have a drink with a pretty girl at a bar without being accosted by strangers. And way before I realized the price of fame was the cost of having lawyers and public relations teams on call just to keep my personal life personal.

But when Anne clinks her glass back on mine, all that fades. ‘Listen, Johnny-boy. If you want to know about something, you have to actually say it. Euphemisms are for the weak.’ She shifts closer, her proximity bringing a sweet citrus scent that reminds me of my mother’s kumquat trees. ‘And just so you know, the wife in question is Alice, my sister-in-law, and the hairy pussy in question is my brother’s. One of my brothers.’ Finely arched,light-brown brows waggle lecherously. ‘My other brother’s pussy is bald.’

Years of improv classes fail me as I blink at her while my brain struggles to understand the words coming out of her mouth. ‘Your brothers’ pussies are hairy and bald?’ The mental image that conjures gives me the shivers.

She drops her head back and laughs. It’s loud, more of a cackle than a laugh. It also reveals a long column of throat. Both her inhibition and the exposed, pale freckles scattered along the curve where her neck meets her shoulder turn me on.

A rare occurrence during these past few stressful months.

Leaning back into her stool, Anne’s laughter fades to a smirk. ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

Ignoring her warning and all the others ringing in my head, I prop my elbow on the bar, bearded chin in hand. ‘I’m all ears.’

Liz

‘Mike Hunt is amazing.’ John gapes at me in awe after I finish retelling just a few of my brothers’ cat stories. ‘Also, your family wins for most perverted pet pussy names.’

I raise my glass at him ‘Excellent alliteration.’ I take a long sip, my happy buzz having more to do with the man next to me than the two ciders I’ve had. ‘Though in fairness to my niece, she wasn’t aware of the unfortunate nickname for Richard when she bestowed it upon my brother’s Bengal cat.’

John manages a small shrug, acknowledging the point. ‘Yeah, but when you add in the fact that Richard’s last name is Moore?’ Small crinkles crease around his eyes. ‘I feel like there was something serendipitous about it all.’

‘Serendipitous, huh?’ I chuckle while cringing internally at my slip-up.

While I would like to think that most people in Texas don’t read the New York City gossip columns or society news, it would be just my luck to find one who does. One who could easily make the connection between the cat’s last name and my brother’s first. Thankfully, I introduced myself by my middle name. The name I’ve gone by this past year after I transferred schools to finish up my master’s degree.

That, and with Chase’s cat named MikeHunt, hopefully John simply thinks King Dick’s surname is autonomous and unconnected to the family.

Leaning toward me, crinkles still in place, John lowers his voice. ‘Do you believe in serendipity, Anne?’

I snort, laughing a bit harder than I normally would in relief when John doesn’t make the connection. ‘If that’s a pick-up line, Johnny-boy, you should be ashamed of yourself.’

‘Yeah, that was lame.’ He leans back, a smile crawling up the sides of his whiskered face. I’m almost blinded by a mouth full of neon-white teeth. He’s laughed throughout our talk, but he must’ve been ducking his head because it’s the first time I’ve gotten a full blast of his smile.

My suspicion that Johnny-boy is a diamond of a hottie under his rough of a beard continues to grow.

Interest peaked, I tilt my head, trying to get a better look at his face, which he’s averted again, probably out of embarrassment for admitting he lacks pick-up game. Studying his profile, his thick lashes – lashes that women pay serious money to emulate – are backlit by one of the bar’s pendant lights, as is his clear complexion. At least the bit not covered in hair. And when he cuts his eyes my way, I’m struck by how dark they are, how reflective.

How sexy.

---