Page 44 of Anyone But the Superstar

My hand, interrupted by Mike’s whine, flexes around the graphite, eager to keep moving. So much for thinking I’d be too conscious of Felix to draw him if we were in the same room together.

That real Felix would be safer than my imaginative one.

Because if I’m honest with myself, which I haven’t been very often in the last year, my opinion of the real Felix Jones has altered significantly ever since I saw him scream like a peacock in the face of Mike Hunt.

And his attitude, after realizing Iwasn’tout to sell nude photos of him, has been… charming.

I close my eyes, cutting off the view of my inappropriate muse, the last two days playing out in my head.

He’s cooked for me. He’s walked me to work. And then arrived like a knight in shining armor riding in a black SUV, saving Mike and me from potential sunstroke.

My anger and pride have mellowed. Mellowed enough that I can now look back on our unfortunate night together and see Felix’s reaction to my wanting medical attention for what it really was – panic.

On top of which, he never asked for an apology for my own act of panic that night. That of kneeing him in his Hollywood jewels.

All this adds up to a possibility that’s hard to swallow,especiallyas, if true, it isn’t going to help me with my new erotic artistic imaginings.

Felix Jones might be a nice guy.

‘How can we have avocado cilantro dressing without ripe avocados?’ the newly anointed nice guy murmurs to himself while loading the sink with small dishes, knives and utensils. ‘This is why grocery delivery services can’t be trusted. You need tofeelthe avocados.’ He picks up the cantaloupe that was delivered yesterday off the island counter. ‘Smellthe melons.’

At that, I finally lose hold of my laughter.

Startled, he looks up, his annoyed expression melting to amusement when he realizes what he said. ‘What?’ He shrugs, smile still in place. ‘I like ripe melons.’

I make a show of rolling my eyes before closing my sketch book. ‘You might not be ready to play Casanova, but I think you’re a cinch if Hollywood ever makes a Gordon Ramsay biopic.’

He snorts. ‘Yeah, you’ve mentioned my less than stellar pick-up game before.’

Our eyes meet and a rush of heat hits as I remember the night we met. And not just the pre-face-numbing bedroom part. The conversation. The shared laughter. The chemistry between us when I thought he was just a regular cowboy.

Regular cowboy.

As my idea takes hold, I toss my sketch pad aside and stand, clapping my hands for attention. ‘You want ripe melons?’

I roll my eyes again when Felix’s drop to my chest.

Mike licks himself.

Disregarding the two perverted males in my life, and the secret satisfaction they bring, I pull my phone out from my pocket and open the navigation app. ‘Then ripe melons you shall have.’

‘Jack is going to kill me.’

I lift the cowboy hat off the nearby mannequin and place it on Felix’s head. ‘Isn’t he already going to kill you for renting a car?’

His eyes meet mine under the large, cream, ten-gallon hat.

Almost as if he’s embarrassed, Felix turns to the nearby full-length mirror. ‘Yeah, but getting caught looking likethis—’ he gestures at his reflection ‘—would make him want to kill me even more.’

Ignoring how trim his waist is after he tucked in his plain, black t-shirt, I decide the contrast of the cream felt is too noticeable. ‘Dead is dead, JD.’

He rolls his eyes with a smile. ‘Why do you keep calling me that?’

I glance around the shop. ‘Would you rather me use your real name?’ While not particularly crowded, it isn’t empty.

‘Hell no.’ His eyes cut to the nearest person, the cashier at the counter who’s busy rearranging belt buckles in the glass case. ‘But I am curious over your choice.’

Grabbing a black hat, I swap it for the cream. ‘It’s not my choice.’ I step back and consider the difference. ‘You’rethe one who introduced yourself as John to start.’

---