Anyone But the Superstar (Anyone But You #3)

Chapter 11

11

FELIX

‘You want to tell me what’s going on?’ Jack’s voice snaps in my earbuds while I finish up my preacher curls in the condo’s gym.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Extending my arms, I reset the weights and stand from the machine.

The building manager was right when he said the gym is usually deserted between the hours of ten and three. I’ve been here for thirty minutes so far, and no one’s come in. It’s way more relaxing than a hotel gym where people are constantly in and out.

‘You don’t know what I’m talking about?’

Sigh . Jack is super annoying when he does the whole repeat-what-I-just-said-as-a-question thing.

‘Nope.’ But I can be just as annoying when playing dumb.

An act I seem unable to drop since this morning.

‘First, you hang up on me last night.’

‘I told you.’ I check the list of exercises my trainer sent me on my phone. ‘I accidentally hit the off button.’

Or Anne did. On purpose.

Thinking of Anne reminds me that I need to order more than yesterday’s sad assortment of groceries and I shoot off a text asking her when she’ll be home today so I know when to have it delivered.

‘And now you cancel your meal service?’

Pocketing my phone, I heft a fifty-five-pound plate off the rack. ‘Like you said last night, the condo has a well-equipped kitchen. And I like cooking.’ Sliding the weight onto the bar, I secure it with a clamp. ‘It’s relaxing.’

‘Cooking.’ He draws out the word. I can just imagine him in his office, narrowing his eyes, trying to see all the angles.

As astute as my friend and manager is, I don’t think it ever occurred to him that I’d be so excited about getting back into the kitchen. Especially when it didn’t occur to me until the job of chef was foisted upon me.

I grab another plate and add it to the other side to balance the weight, then grab my phone, once more texting Anne to ask about food allergies.

Text sent, I settle back on the bench and wrap my gloved hands around the metal bar, squinting against the bright morning sun coming through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Earlier this morning, even with the sun just rising, I nearly sweated my balls off walking a mile and a half to NASA’s security gate carrying a twenty-something pound computer bag full of cat treats.

Meanwhile, Anne hadn’t complained once. Even with the heavy feline furnace strapped to her chest. Which means I couldn’t, not unless I wanted to look even less like a man in front of the woman who knows I’m afraid of house cats and thinks my dick is broken.

But it also doesn’t mean I can’t try and proactively prevent myself from experiencing it again. Because while I managed to escort Anne to NASA unharmed this morning, I was right in thinking that NASA Road 1, which connects our condo building to NASA’s security entrance on Saturn Lane, is one busy street. Even at six in the morning.

I grunt as I lift the bar.

I’m annoyed that it bothers me. Obviously, Anne has been walking the same commute before I arrived and has remained unharmed. Why I suddenly need to interject myself into the situation is as infuriating as my decision not to wear a t-shirt this morning.

It’s like I’ve forgotten what happened the last time I let a woman get too close.

Not that Anne and I are close.

Jack, apparently giving up on me explaining further, breathes heavily into the phone. ‘You’re making me burn through my daily Candy Crush allowance that much faster, you know that, right?’

Which is exactly why I stop myself from mentioning the idea of renting my own car instead of using the studio’s chauffeur service. I can only imagine the screen time uptick that idea would cause.

‘ Especially now that it seems I need to stay in Los Angeles longer than I’d planned.’

I pause mid bench press. ‘Everything okay?’

‘Yeah, man. Nothing’s wrong, but the lawyers are hopeful they found a way to shut down Camilla’s plans.’ His calm tone helps me finish my set and heft the bar back onto its cradle.

If there was a real issue, he would’ve started the conversation with it.

‘The lawyers just need time to go over all the details, make sure the option is viable.’

I crunch up and head back to the weight rack. ‘That would be amazing.’ Deciding to lift heavier, I pick up two twenty-pound plates and slide them on the ends of the bar.

I don’t need to bulk up for this movie. I always maintain a decent fitness level, and I’ve enjoyed taking it relatively easy for this role. Usually, a medium-weight routine coupled with pre-packaged meals from my nutritionist is enough to keep me in leading-man shape for a film that doesn’t require me to free solo rock climb or BASE jump skyscrapers.

But now that I’m cooking, I’d much rather burn off the extra calories with more exercise than deprive myself of all the meals I’ve been planning since I saw Anne’s expression as she bit into a simple breakfast of eggs and toast.

Exercise that doesn’t include fainting and falling into oncoming morning rush hour traffic due to heat stroke.

‘Their plan might involve you endorsing a company that was planning on collaborating with Camilla on a new fashion line, but it’s a reputable company. I don’t see any downsides to working with them.’

I snort, my grip nearly slipping on the twenty-pound plate I grab. ‘Except they have no problem working with Camilla.’

‘To be fair, we’re probably two of the few people who know what a horrible person she is.’

I concede his point with a grunt and secure the weight to the bar. ‘All right. Keep me informed.’

‘Will do.’ He pauses for a beat. ‘And since I’ll be here longer, I’ll check in on Mama Jones.’

He makes the switch from manager to friend seamless, making me feel like a dick for lying to him about my roommate situation. ‘I appreciate that.’

Twenty minutes later, workout complete, I sit poolside under an umbrella/mister, sunglasses on and my ball cap pulled low over my eyes .

My muscles are relaxed from fatigue, the guilt from being here instead of nearer my mother has been lessened by Jack’s planned visit, and besides an older gentleman swimming laps, there is no one here to recognize me or disrupt my peaceful solitude.

And yet.

My thoughts keep going to Anne and her walk back to the condo in what my weather app tells me is Houston’s hottest summer in the past five years.

Distracting myself, I download an app I never thought I’d find use for – Pinterest – and lose myself in finding recipes comparable to the ones my mother used to make.

I make it twenty minutes, three boards and fifty pins before I switch apps and get out my wallet.

Liz

My phone buzzes for the umpteenth time today.

Ignoring it, I continue to rest my eyes. I’ve been finished with my drawings of Mission Control for about an hour, and yet I’m making use of the quiet space to gather enough energy and determination to go back to the condo.

I’d like to blame my exhaustion on the lack of sleep from my unexpected roommate last night, but honestly, the walk to NASA this morning nearly killed me. I still feel sweaty in places I’d rather not even after four hours of sitting in arctic-like air conditioning.

Another buzz.

I don’t need to look to know who it is.

Even my family isn’t this relentless .

After I woke to Felix Jones making me breakfast, even though he didn’t need to be up until much later, I felt bad enough. But now that he’s spending his morning asking me about any food allergies I may have, my spice level preference and even sending me recipes to yay or nay, I feel particularly troubled.

Or at least I would if my mental energy hadn’t been turned into physical energy and flittered away on my mile and a half walk through hell carrying a twelve-pound brimstone.

I didn’t admit to him that on my previous commutes over the past few days, I frequently stopped and rested. Or that today, on Mike’s first outing, I was planning to make Mike walk on a leash when he got too heavy for me to carry.

It was a hell of a lot of pride and my sheer determination not to look weak in front of Mr Action Star that kept my feet moving and my mouth shut. Even then, I don’t think I would’ve made it if Felix hadn’t carried my computer bag for me.

But all that went out the window once we reached the security gate and Felix turned around to jog back to the condo like our morning’s slog through heavy humidity was nothing. I cursed and complained the whole time to Mike while I stumbled from bench to bench along the remaining distance to building five, stopping multiple times just to stretch out my back and wipe sweat – and probably tears – from my eyes.

So much for being a hardened New Yorker who can walk blocks upon city blocks in a day. All that goes out the window when you add in the Texas weather and a hairless pussy.

‘What is that?’

My body jerks, the stylus still in my hand skidding across my open tablet. Shifting in my seat in the back room of Mission Control – an elevated room with a glass wall that overlooks the larger communications room – I open my eyes to see a horrified Em gazing down at me and the previously mentioned brimstone, who I’m planning to put on a strict diet, in the chair next to mine.

‘This is Mike Hunt.’

She chokes on air. ‘I’m sorry, what?’

My brother really is a perverted genius.

I fight to dim my smile. ‘This is the cat you were warned about.’

Em squints, leaning over me to get a better look at Mikey, who’s laid out diagonally on the seat, his back left leg dangling off the edge. ‘That’s a cat?’

At her incredulous tone, Mikey lifts the skin wrinkle above his left eye.

‘Oh. Wow.’ Em tiptoes closer. ‘It is.’

The only good thing about the hot walk to work is that it seems to have zapped Mike’s energy along with mine. The ball of tension that was lodged in my chest from me imagining the kinds of chaos Mike could cause in a government secure facility was thankfully unwarranted, as he’s spent the past few days laying limp under an air-conditioning vent while I draw. He hasn’t so much as even licked himself, probably disgusted by the taste of feline sunscreen.

‘Just so you know—’ I summon up the energy I’ve reserved for the even hotter trek home and pull out the notarized emotional support certificate from my bag ‘—my brother wasn’t lying when he said he’s certified.’

I’ve already shown the certificate to both the security guard at NASA’s front gate and to the appropriately horrified public relations personnel who had the awesome job of escorting me into the security badge entry only building this morning. I was sure that, after staring at me and Mikey’s sweaty, wrinkled face peeking out from the baby carrier like I was Sigourney Weaver in Alien , they would’ve marched straight off to tell Em all about me and my alien-looking cat.

But it seems not.

As Em has walked me to and from buildings with more regularity than anyone else from public relations since I started my storyboarding internship, I’ve begun to think of her as more of a friend than security protocol. But that doesn’t mean I want to take advantage of her any more than I already have with the condo.

However, ignoring my outstretched hand holding the certificate, Em circles around my chair to sit next to Mike. ‘Hey there, little guy.’

I brace for Mike’s retaliation from Em’s earlier skepticism but relax when he allows her to scratch behind his ears without baring teeth or claws.

Either Mikey is mellowing in his old age, or the rhinestone brooch pinned to Em’s button-down blouse is enough to hypnotize him from retribution.

My money’s on the latter. That, and residual heat exhaustion.

‘I have three cats.’ Em’s fingertips rub down Mike’s back. ‘But I’ve never petted a sphinx before.’

With Mike properly engrossed and my sketch done (after one tap of the undo button from my startled stylus mark), I lean back and close my eyes. ‘Have at it.’

Another buzz.

For a Hollywood superstar, the man has too much time on his hands.

If it weren’t for his extreme cat aversion, I’d leave Mike with him tomorrow just to keep him on his toes and off his phone.

And me with a much lighter commute.

While I wouldn’t have called the last few days’ walks to NASA pleasant thanks to the heat and the weight of my work tablet in my bag, I never dreaded the walk back as much as I am today.

Another buzz.

‘You going to get that?’

‘Hmmm?’ Jarred from my thoughts, I open my eyes.

Em’s head is tilted in the direction of my phone, laying on the seat next to Mike. ‘JD really seems like he needs to know your thoughts on polvo guisado .’

My face heats in the frigid room. ‘Oh, ah, yeah.’ I grab my phone, thankful I used Johnny Douchebag’s initials rather than his real name when he asked to exchange numbers this morning.

I agreed because he made a good case about needing it if there was an emergency. But when I open my phone and read over the eleven new text messages, I’m thinking maybe I should lay some ground rules on what constitutes an emergency.

For now, I tap, polvo guisado is fine , into my phone and turn off my notifications.

Honestly, I haven’t a clue what polvo guisado is. But as it’s something that I don’t have to cook, I’m sure it’s great.

I wish I could say that after a year of being on my own, I’ve become self-sufficient in all areas, but after multiple attempts, fires, knife nicks and upset stomachs, I feel it best to play to my strengths by not cooking.

So while boring, I have made do with simple, pre-packaged things—fruits, vegetables, yogurt, hummus, etc.

Growing up as Stanley Winston Moore’s daughter had certain privileges. Unlimited access to Moore’s retail, an on-call chauffeur, home gym and the best art supplies money could buy.

And yet, besides my mother and brothers, the thing I miss the most, even over free clothes and a bottomless bank account, is the family’s personal chef.

Before I can click my phone off, Felix sends me a link to a recipe. Tapping it, I’m taken to a website where a woman in a blue, ruffled apron stands holding a bowl and a whisk.

I snort a laugh, imagining Felix in the apron instead. My smile falls as my mind goes into the gutter, my image of him evolving into him wearing only the blue frilly apron.

‘You okay?’

‘Hmmm?’ I click the side of the phone, blacking out the screen and the NSFW picture in my head. ‘Ah, yes.’ Deciding to take my chances in the heat, I start collecting my things.

Em watches me reapply Mike’s sunscreen with a look of fascination, before walking me out of Mission Control’s back room and down into the lobby.

We say goodbye before I take a deep breath and prepare for the onslaught of Texas’ afternoon heat.

But it isn’t the sun that blinds me.

There, leaning against a new, shiny, black Land Rover, is the reason I’m grateful for my phone’s unlimited texting – Felix Jones.

Unfortunately, there isn’t a blue, ruffled apron in sight.