Anyone But the Superstar (Anyone But You #3)

Chapter 1

1

LIZ

My panties are wet for all the wrong reasons.

‘Sorry, ma’am, there’s a forty-minute wait.’ The hostess points behind me at the picnic tables I passed on my way from the parking lot as I hurried from my rental car toward the salvation of the restaurant’s air conditioning. ‘But there is availability on the patio.’

It takes serious effort not to scoff at her suggestion as I pull at the front of my damp, cotton t-shirt.

Of course , there’s room on the patio. Only crazy people would sit outside in ninety-eight-degree weather with a heat index of a 107.

And yet, when I follow to where she’s pointing, I find a small crowd scattered around the restaurant’s picnic tables.

This time, I can’t hide the sound of incredulity as I survey the jean and boot clad customers acting like two free-standing water misters are sufficient to keep them from having heat stroke.

I mean, honestly, who wears long pants and boots in the middle of a record-breaking heat wave?

Texans, that’s who .

But then again, from what I’ve seen so far of the Lone Star state since I landed yesterday –Texans are certifiable.

Take my sister-in-law, Bell. First, she married my (former) playboy brother Chase. Then she became obsessed with his pet sidekick – a hairless cat named Mike Hunt (see what he did there?). Obsessed enough to let the cat motorboat her on the regular as a form of affection.

It suddenly makes sense that Bell is Houston born and raised when I look at these crazy Texans not noticing the insufferable heat.

Yet as much as I love my sister-in-law, I’m not crazy. Or at least not Texas-level crazy.

Turning back to the hostess, I flash her a polite smile and prepare to do something I’ve never had to do in all my years in New York – put my name on a waitlist. ‘Thanks, but?—’

My phone buzzes. And while I would really like to ignore it, it may be from my boss, aka my professor, about the internship he arranged for me. One I’m due to start in three days. ‘Excuse me a moment, please,’ I tell the hostess, stepping aside and tugging my phone out of my jean shorts’ back pocket.

The screen lights up with a text notification from my other sister-in-law, Alice. It may not be my professor, but as I consider Alice the nicest woman on the planet (how my eldest dour brother Thomas managed to score her is a complete mystery), I’d feel guilty not responding.

Opening the phone, I’m rewarded with a picture of both my brothers holding their respective cats – one hairless, one sasquatchian.

The cats, not my brothers.

I snort at their expressions. The cats’ and my brothers’.

While my oldest brother Thomas has a strong dislike for Chase’s sphinx – he and Mike both have nearly identical looks of disdain. Meanwhile, Chase mirrors Thomas’ Bengal cat, King Richard (who Chase nicknamed King Dick Moore), adopting an expression of cuddly bliss.

My sisters-in-laws and I find great pleasure in talking behind my brothers’ backs about how each of them personally chose a feline that reflects the brother they held a grudge against for years. Until recently. Until Bell and Alice.

Now they all get along. The brothers, not the cats.

Mike likes no one but Bell and me. He tolerates Chase.

Standing in the pub’s small indoor waiting area for patrons, I can’t help but physically feel how much I miss them as I look at the picture on my phone.

All of them.

In the year since I left (*cough* ran away *cough*), the Moores have not only grown by three – four if you include King Dick – but they’ve been doing things I’d always wished us Moores would’ve done more of when I was a kid – hang out as a family.

Too bad I’m no longer a Moore. Never was, really.

I’m about to sink into a pity party for one, something I’ve done far too often this past year, when a man sitting at the bar, wearing a slick suit (an anomaly in the casual pub/restaurant) catches my attention. He flashes his Piguet watch as he signals the bartender for his tab.

I don’t stop to think what a man in a custom-cut suit and a one hundred grand watch is doing at Boondoggles Pub on the outskirts of Houston, Texas. Because as someone who, from the age of nineteen (thanks to an older friend’s ID), has honed their drinking savvy in the busiest and most exclusive clubs in New York City, I know that hesitation costs when it comes to jockeying for position at the bar.

And my bar positioning skills are second to none .

By the time Business Suit has pocketed his credit card, I’m already in place, standing near the restroom hallway with a clear direct path to Business Suit’s stool, waiting to swoop in.

My phone buzzes again. Thomas is calling.

Unlike Alice, or Chase’s wife Bell, I don’t feel as guilty letting my brothers’ calls go to voicemail. Probably because, while neither Chase nor Thomas had a part in the paternity bomb my mother dropped on me a year ago (in tandem with the discovery that my not -father had embezzled my trust fund), they are a little too close to the reality that I’m not ready to face.

Plus, Alice and Bell send me cat pictures and funny gifs. Thomas, Chase and even my previously emotionally distant mother want to talk .

And after a year, I’m still not ready.

It’s not that I’m in denial. I fully believe I’m not Stanley Winston Moore’s daughter. And I’m well aware the man previously known as my father stole my part of the family’s inheritance. In his eyes, I didn’t deserve it. Plus, you know, he had mistresses to feed and shelter.

But knowing all of that is different to admitting it out loud. So I don’t.

However, having been caught in a moment of weakness, probably brought on by hellish-heat, Texas culture shock, and acute anxiety over the real reason for my trip to Houston, I slide my thumb across my phone’s screen.

‘Liz?’

I smile at Thomas’ serious baritone. ‘Hey, bro.’ Shifting to the side to let a waitress past, I keep my eyes on the bar and Business Suit.

‘How are you?’

I open my mouth, ready to rebut his usual order to come home, when his question registers. My imperious brother asking how I’ve been smacks of Alice’s influence. It’s gotta be hard to maintain an aloof, asshole-ish demeanor when you live and sleep with a woman who’s basically an angel reincarnated.

Deciding that if he’s trying, then I should too. Clearing my throat, I keep my voice as agreeable as possible. ‘I’m good, Thomas. You?’

‘Hmmm.’

That is a usual Thomas response.

Chuckling away the surge of emotion I seem unable to shake today, I lean against the brick wall of the restroom hallway, still with a direct line of sight to where Business Suit leans in to say something to the guy next to him. A glance at the hostess stand has me hoping the two guys at the bar don’t know each other. If they both leave, I’ll have to compete with the couple that just arrived, who, like me, don’t seem insane enough to sit outside.

Odds of the two guys at the bar knowing each other seem slim though, seeing as Business Suit’s neighbor is sporting the same threadbare jeans and trucker hat that a lot of the surrounding locals are wearing. Together, they look like the human equivalent of oil and water.

Knowing my brother could hold world records in silence, I bridge the gap. ‘How are Alice and Mary doing?’

‘Fine.’ He pauses, as if thinking. ‘They’d be better if you moved back home.’

I’d give him credit for stepping back from giving his usual direct order and making a passive aggressive suggestion instead, except I’m pretty sure the credit should go to Alice.

I smirk, wondering if Alice made him swear to be nice before he called me. I’d bet my inheritance on it, if I had it to bet. But since I don’t, I play the teasing little sister card. ‘You know, Thomas, as much as I think Alice is a good influence on you, I’m still quite concerned about her intentions. ’

Business Suit hands the guy something and then laughs at whatever the guy says before standing. As his shiny loafers hit the floor, I push off the wall, poised to move.

‘Oh?’ Thomas’ tone suggests he’s donned his usual superior expression. The one with a single eyebrow raised that used to remind me of our father. His father. ‘What makes you think that?’

Business Suit is only two steps toward the door by the time I hop onto the vacant stool, my bare thigh halting my slide against the heavy, dark wood. Lifting my knees up, I balance on my jean shorts covered butt and shimmy fully onto the seat. ‘Because if your wife truly took your feelings into consideration, she wouldn’t be sending me pictures of you and your hairy pussy.’

The guy next to me chokes on his beer.

Thomas remains unfazed. ‘Normally I would tell you not to say pussy, but I’ve been informed by said wife that as I don’t reprimand Chase for the same vulgarity, I just end up sounding like a chauvinist asshole.’

‘Whoa-ho, Tommy-kins.’ I laugh at this heretofore unheard-of side of my stiff older brother. ‘Pussy and asshole at the same time?’ A bearded bartender double-takes as he walks past from the other side of the counter. ‘Pint of cider and a water please,’ I call to him before continuing my phone conversation. ‘I take back what I said. Alice has been a phenomenal influence on you. Team Alice all the way.’

‘Yes, well—’ he sniffs ‘—you should be.’

We’re silent for a beat. Thomas probably needing a moment to come to terms with sounding human. I use the time hang my purse on a conveniently placed knee-high hook under the bar.

Seemingly recovered, Thomas clears his throat. ‘I also called to remind you of your niece’s birthday next month.’

My smile turns wistful at the thought of Mary, my brother and Alice’s adopted daughter. Unlike me as a child, Mary adores everything princess and spends most of her time wearing the poofy-style dresses I dreaded having to wear as part of New York City’s social elite. To this day, ruffles give me chills, reminding me of the awkward family photoshoot sessions before gala events. Flashes of light from newspaper camera men, my ‘father’s’ jovial laugh at being called a family man, before I was whisked away by whatever nanny or event caretaker on staff to a playroom that was more like a mausoleum where I and the rest of the elite’s children would have to sit quietly until it was time for an exit photo op.

Shaking away the memory, I replace it with the video Alice sent me of Mary practicing her curtsies in a dress with at least three puffy petticoats, King Dick Moore clutched in her skinny arms. ‘I won’t forget.’

‘And Chase wants you to know that Michael enjoyed the catnip-stuffed crocheted dildo you sent him.’ Thomas snorts. ‘He says he’ll make sure to pay you back at some point in the future.’

I chuckle at the thought of my second eldest brother’s hairless cat humping the one-of-a-kind cat toy I had made for him. Chase found out the hard way what catnip did to the neutered but still frisky Mike Hunt during his destination wedding trip to Vegas.

It isn’t until Thomas and I say goodbye and I re-pocket my phone that I realize he never asked me where I was. Something Thomas always does.

I drum my fingertips on the bar.

Maybe Alice made him promise not to. Maybe he’s given up trying to corral me home. Or maybe he already knows.

I frown at my warped reflection on the high polished countertop before laughing that last thought off.

There’s no way he knows I’m in Texas. I didn’t even know I was heading to Houston until last week when my former digital arts professor offered me an internship as his assistant while he worked as a storyboarder on a big-budgeted movie. I’d been all set to say no, having no clue what a storyboarder even was, until he mentioned I’d be working on site at NASA.

The bartender sets the water I ordered in front of me.

I know it’s air-conditioned in here – thank God – but it’s crowded and he’s busy. And yet, even with a heavy beard and a thick, shaggy mop of hair, there isn’t so much as a glisten of sweat on his brow. And he’s wearing a sweatshirt .

Texans are nuts.

‘Thanks.’ I chug my water, eyeing the second bartender who’s standing at the far end who also has a beard and a long-sleeve t-shirt with the pub’s bulldog logo. Shaking my head, I lower my near-empty glass.

Who sports a beard in southeast Texas, which would be better described as the Devil’s Taint?

‘Devil’s Taint?’

I jump in my seat, surprised that one, I said that last bit out loud, and two, the guy next to me heard it. Wiping an escaped water drop from the corner of my mouth with my hand, I turn to apologize, pausing when I realize this guy also has a beard.

Welp. This is awkward.

Felix

The hilariously vulgar-mouthed woman next to me sputters before turning pretty blue eyes my way. Eyes that widen as she looks at my face.

Merda . I had to open my mouth, didn’t I? And not even a minute after Jack specifically told me to keep to my corner and stay quiet before he left, despite his parting gift of condoms that he found hilarious due to my recently self-declared celibacy.

If this woman recognizes me, I’m done for. I glance nervously around the bar, worried I’ve garnered too much attention just by looking somewhere else besides the lacquered wood bar that I’ve been hunched over for the last hour. I got too comfortable enjoying blissful anonymity. The papers don’t think I’m arriving until on-set filming starts next week, and with the bearded, unkept look I’ve adopted since I started laying low in between studio shooting and location shooting, I planned to have one more night of normalcy before filming at NASA begins.

What I hadn’t planned on was a hot – in both senses of the word – blonde woman making a weird connection between facial hair and Satan’s small strip of skin residing between his testicles and asshole. Which came after her comment about a picture of someone’s hairy pussy.

At this point, who wouldn’t be intrigued?

‘Ah, sorry about that.’ She pulls at the front of her sweat-stained shirt and grimaces. ‘I just don’t get how Texans can stand this heat.’ She waves a hand in my direction. ‘Your, ah, beard looks great.’

Relieved at her mistaking me for a local, I can laugh at her blatant lie as I run a palm over the alternating patches of straight and kinked hair covering the lower half of my face.

I’ve played plenty of survivalist characters in my rise as the summer blockbuster action star, including the lead in a plane crash survival movie shot in the wilds of Canada. Each time, I was told by the film’s stylist to grow out a beard, and each time, the facial hair was immediately nixed when I showed up on set looking like I had mange.

The bartender sets another glass in front of the woman beside me, this one full of cider .

‘Thanks.’ She points to the half-full pint in front of me. ‘And whatever he’s having. My tab.’

‘Not necessary.’ My glass is still cold against my palm. ‘But thank you.’ I promised Jack that the beer in front of me would be my last before I called the chauffeur for a ride to the hotel downtown.

‘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 promise before a 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 Deere scrawled 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’s actions, intent and motivation. I’d chalk up my unusual interest in Anne to that if it wasn’t for my other head’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 Mike Hunt , 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.

Yep, just as I thought. Johnny-boy is one handsome man. Seriously so. A sense of familiarity hits me, and I lean closer as if that will help me understand it.

His eyes flit to mine, and seeing me near and intent, he looks away again, shifting the shoulder closest to me forward, as if embarrassed by my interest. ‘Must be out of practice.’ His laugh is less than enthusiastic.

I’d bet the money I used to have that there’s a flush under his whiskers.

Regretting teasing him, I nudge his hitched shoulder with mine. ‘I think I might believe in serendipity.’

He rolls his eyes but gives me a half-smile, if the twitch of his beard is any indication.

‘Seriously.’ I turn my near-empty glass in my hands. ‘If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be here.’ I tap a finger on the bar. ‘Not just in the bar, but in Houston.’

‘Yeah?’ John turns to face me again, his embarrassment hopefully forgotten. ‘Why are you here then?’

‘Work.’

He nods, thankfully not probing further. ‘Is work more exciting than hairless pussies?’

I choke on my next sip. ‘Just one hairless cat.’ I hold up a finger, laughing. ‘Remember, Thomas’ pussy has hair.’

‘Ah, yes.’ He nods, his solemness cut short by a flash of white teeth. ‘How could I have forgotten hairy King Dick Moore?’

The bartender stops again on the other side of the bar, making us snicker.

When our laughter fades, I nudge John with my shoulder again. ‘Hey, if it makes you feel any better, I’m out of practice too.’

John’s dark eyes glide over my hair, my chest, my legs and back up where he meets my eyes and scoffs. ‘Uh huh. ’

It’s my turn to flush. But it isn’t embarrassment that causes it.

His blatant disbelief boosts a confidence I hadn’t realized I’ve been lacking.

It’s been over a year since I’ve been on a date, let alone had sex. And the sex I had before my life imploded had been polite, awkward intercourse with men, boys really, who were too aware of who my father was, or their father was, to allow me to really let go. As if the details of my sex life might somehow get back to Stanley Winston Moore and I’d therefore be subject to ridicule and critique by failing to meet his elite and lofty standards once again.

Even now that I’m away from the constant scrutiny, I’m still holding myself back. Still dealing with the fallout of one present parent’s past choices and one former parent’s current ones. I’ve been so busy trying to figure out who I am, in addition to what I want to do, that I haven’t flirted, dated or even indulged in anything other than too much self-pity this past year.

John finishes his beer, his throat working as he swallows the last drop.

But now… now I’m feeling all kinds of parched for the thirst I’d inadvertently denied myself.

‘So, John.’ I prop my elbow on the bar and face him.

I watch the right side of his lips quirk up. ‘Yeah, Anne?’

‘Since you’re out of practice?—’

He huffs a laugh.

‘—and I’m out of practice,’ I raise my feet to rest them on the bar stool’s lower rung, my knees resting against his right thigh. ‘Why don’t we help each other out and practice together?’

He looks down at where our bodies touch, my thighs tightening under his gaze. ‘It seems you’ve already started.’ Resting his right hand on one of my knees pressed against him, he squeezes. ‘That’s what Texans call a false start. ’

I snort, rolling my eyes at how stereotypical it is for a Texan to reference football. ‘You throwing a flag?’ Mentally, I pat myself on the back for knowing that tidbit of sports knowledge.

‘Hell, no.’ John signals the bartender for the tab. ‘I may be out of practice but I’m not stupid.’

Unlike his previous drinking neighbor, John’s raised arm reveals a smart watch. I guess even cowboys like to keep track of their steps.

When the bartender holds out a small clipboard with our bill, I shove some cash under the clip and hand it back before John can argue. It’s the last of my travel money, but it’s easier than trying to pay with a credit card that has a different name on it than the one I gave him. ‘Just one of the things I like about you, John.’

Eyes on the bartender walking away with the money, he pauses as if he wants to argue, but then, as if thinking better of it, slides off the stool. ‘Hopefully, there’ll be a bunch more by the end of the night.’ He holds out his hand. ‘A night that involves a hotel room that I’m paying for.’

Thinking of my pitiful savings acquired from a year of teaching both Pilates and Paint and Sip art classes while finishing my master’s degree, I slide my palm into his. ‘Hotel room, huh? Sounds like a perfect place to get started on our practice.’

As if feeling shy, he ducks his head as he walks out of the bar with me, hiding another flash of teeth. ‘Well, they do say practice makes perfect.’