Anyone But the Superstar (Anyone But You #3)

Chapter 5

5

FELIX

‘Let’s head toward the ISS mock-up.’ Em, the public relations manager and, as it turns out, astronaut Luke Bisbee’s wife, leads us farther into building nine.

For a petite woman, she pushes through the crowd in no time. Amanda, Jack and I follow behind, while Ron stops to speak with someone, hugging and clapping their back in greeting as if they haven’t seen each other in a while. He’s soon out of sight as the three of us are swallowed up by the crew.

Practiced smile in place, I nod as I walk, the crowd feeling larger and more imposing as we cut through it. Though I don’t pause to meet anyone’s eyes, I’m aware of the looks, the winks, the head tilts and scrutiny as I go.

It’s something I’ve gotten used to over the years in the business. The curiosity. The lack of privacy. The public’s growing sense of ownership over what would normally be boring, everyday aspects of a non-famous person’s life with every film released.

I accidentally lock eyes with a brunette in a bright halter top and her smile, pulled unnaturally tight, almost makes me wince. Careful to avoid dropping my gaze to her impressive cleavage, I nod in return while I pass.

In my peripheral, I see a crew member elbow another in the side while whispering out of the corner of his mouth, making the other crew member smirk.

Sigh .

This is not Mission Control. These people are not exploring the infiniteness of space. While I may still be on NASA’s grounds, the people in front of me now are pure Hollywood. Their business is show business. Which means they want to be up in my business.

They’ve probably all heard the recent rumors circulating from people they think are credible sources. People who’ve worked with me in the past or who have publicly declared me a friend in various interviews and soundbites, whether we’ve met before or not.

It only goes to show that you can’t trust anyone in this business. Because the only ones who know what’s happening are me, Jack, a bunch of lawyers and Camilla Branson.

Hopefully, my PR team, who has specific orders not to comment on my dating life, is correct in thinking that by having Jack secure me a role as a funny, romantic leading man, I’ll be able to prove that I’m more than just a set of abs who can dismantle a bomb in thirty seconds. That I have range.

And if Ron, a prolific film director with various accolades to his name, likes what I can do here, he might keep me in mind for his other, more serious films as well. Spread the word to his considerable network of directors and producers with studio contracts that boast both mainstream films and art-house productions.

At the edge of the actual-sized International Space Station mock-up, a long fold-out table, draped in a black cloth, has been set up, a microphone in front of each of the four chairs.

I’d heard the writer of Countdown to Love , the novel the screenplay was adapted from, was going to attend the junket as well, but, looking around, I don’t see anyone else stepping forward.

But who I do see has me stumbling over my feet as I pull Amanda’s chair out for her.

‘Whoa.’ Amanda reaches over to help steady me. ‘You all right?’

Bracing against the ISS structure, I jerk my gaze back toward the spot where I thought I saw… no. Instead of two condemning blue eyes, I’m met with the bony chest of an annoyingly tall crew member. Lifting my eyes to his, we frown at each other, both confused for different reasons. Shifting forward, then back, I try and fail to see around him.

Em clears her throat, her eyes superglued to my hand resting on the ISS mock-up.

Taking one last futile look, I drop my hand and shrug sheepishly. ‘Ah, sorry about that.’

Em seems less than impressed with my apology.

Shaking off what must’ve been an anxiety-driven hallucination, I refocus on my co-star. ‘After you.’ I wave Amanda forward with a flash of my million-dollar-contract smile.

Her nostrils flare and I’m almost positive she’s fighting an eye roll.

I may have overdone the smile.

‘Be careful,’ she murmurs before settling in her chair.

‘Don’t worry.’ I ease back on the amount of teeth I’m showing and step over to my chair to her right. ‘It wouldn’t do for someone who does as many stunts as I do to be a klutz.’

‘No.’ Amanda averts her face from the cameras, throwing me a smirk that I’m pretty sure her image consultant would say was anything but the carefully curated girl-next-door look she’s known for. ‘I meant careful where you aim that smile.’ A brow lifts to match the corner of her mouth. ‘I think you might’ve just inadvertently impregnated someone.’

‘For God’s sake, don’t joke about that,’ Jack grumbles, moving behind both of our chairs to stand at my other side, almost like the protective detail he wanted to hire and that I’d nixed. ‘That’s all we need.’ His eyes shift over the gathered reporters. ‘A pregnancy rumor.’

Jack’s expression makes me laugh more than the joke.

‘Sorry, Amanda.’ I sit beside her. ‘I’ll try and keep the smolder under wraps.’

She snorts then faces forward, her contradictory bright but demure smile ready for the cameras. ‘You do that.’

Ron takes his seat to Amanda’s left and the murmurs around us die down. He checks his watch and glances at the empty seat next to him. ‘Well now, shall we start?’ Ron adjusts his mic, holding his hand over it and murmuring, ‘The sooner we get this over with, the sooner we can be done.’

Amanda and I share a smile.

Lowering his hands, Ron addresses the members of the press, front and center in the crowd. ‘Who wants the first question?’

Every single reporter raises their hand.

Keep smiling. Just keep smiling.

Feeling very much like Dory swimming through a sea of naval mines, I loosen my shoulders and act unfazed as a reporter asks a question .

It’s an art, really, this press thing. You need to give just enough of yourself to seem genuine, but not so much that you end up on a therapist’s couch or a gossip blog. Or even more gossip blogs than usual, in my case.

‘Miss Willis, any concerns as a romantic comedy veteran about your co-star’s recent action-packed past?’ It’s been ten minutes and with most of the standard questions asked, I’ve started to notice a sharper edge to the reporters’ queries as they begin to dig.

Ron’s lips purse, his fingers drumming the table.

Out of the corner of my eye, Jack shifts in his loafers.

Amanda, acting unfazed, shares an anecdote about her first film and how supportive her co-stars were. ‘I would love to say that I’ll be mimicking that support with Felix, but let’s be honest, Felix doesn’t need it. He’s a pro and I’m not the least concerned.’ She nudges my arm with her elbow, giving the impression of camaraderie to all those watching. ‘I’m actually very much looking forward to everyone seeing a lighter side of this guy. Y’all are going to love it.’ She raises a hand to her rounded mouth as if surprised. ‘I guess Texas is already getting to me. That was my first y’all, y’all.’

Everyone chuckles, thinking her joke unpracticed.

With a confidence I don’t feel, I adjust the smile I’ve perfected over the years while shaking my shoulders while I laugh, as if I too am caught off guard by Amanda’s perfectly timed, Southern twang surprise.

A different reporter raises a hand, and once called on, steps forward in the crowd. There’s a slight reshuffle, with the tall crew member from before sidestepping to make way for the journalist, my brain going into shock when the person standing behind him is revealed.

Anne .

Everything stops. My laugh, the din of the room, my ever-present smile.

Even with her head down, hunched over her phone, I know it’s her. Hair up in a high ponytail, the end of it curls under her left ear and rests on her shoulder, giving me an unobstructed view of the pert nose she looked down at me with disdain just a few days earlier. Toned legs, one of which had emasculated me, extend from a pair of jean shorts in a firm stance.

‘Mr Jones, what drew you to your role in Countdown ?’

I barely hear the reporter, my eyes glued to the woman who’s taken up the majority of my thoughts these past three days.

Why is she here? How is she here?

‘Mr Jones?’

Only crew and press are allowed on site.

My hands feel clammy as I watch her thumbs fly over her phone screen.

She’s a reporter.

The image of me, half-naked on the floor, curled around my balls, flashes before my eyes, this time next to various tabloid headlines, all written from a first-hand account. Anne’s account.

Amanda’s foot nudges my own, reminding me where I am.

‘Well…’ I replay the question one more time, hoping it looks like I’m giving the question serious thought rather than having a silent panic attack.

Clearing my throat and affecting a thoughtful tone, I meet the reporter’s gaze. ‘It was the depth of the story, the realness of the character.’ I maintain eye contact with the reporter as I speak, hoping it will give my rather rote answer more credibility. ‘I mean, what is life, without all its messy, funny, beautiful twists.’

Like having a one-night stand show up uninvited to your press junket.

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.