Anyone But the Superstar (Anyone But You #3)

Chapter 19

19

LIZ

Why am I such a fool?

Checking myself out in the mirror, first turning one way and then the other, I study my face as if seeing it for the first time.

It would be easy to paint on my society face like I used to – carefully contoured cheekbones, neutral eye make-up, subtle blush. All blended and blended and then blended some more. Just as I was drilled into doing since I was sixteen.

But I don’t want to look like that version of myself. Not when I’m about to meet my sister.

On the other hand, besides my brothers’ weddings where there was a make-up artist on hand, I haven’t had to get ready for any special occasions since I decided it wasn’t my right to be Elizabeth Moore anymore.

I fan out the sides of my short silk robe, trying to stop the stress sweat from pooling under my arms.

Then, ignoring the line-up of cosmetics, I give myself a sharp look. ‘Get a grip, Lizzie.’

First things, first, I apply an extra layer of deodorant .

Feeling better – and dryer – I re-order my make-up by application. Face, eyes, cheeks, lips.

I bypass the foundation, having never liked the feel of it on my skin, and grab liquid eyeliner. Even though I bought it because it looks and feels just like one of my artist pens, I never wore it to a society event.

Stanley Moore thought liquid eyeliner whore-ish.

With a mental fuck you, Stanley , I apply it now, my familiarity with drawing helping me flick it up at the ends in a subtle cat-eye.

Feeling more confident, I add mascara before grabbing a coral lip gloss, quelling the inner voice telling me the color is too bright. A voice that sounds very much like Stanley Winston Moore.

‘Fuck you.’

‘Excuse me?’

I jump, my eyes shift in the mirror, catching Felix staring at me from the doorway. ‘Oh. Hey.’ I gesture stupidly to the mirror. ‘I was, uh, just talking to myself.’ Or my absent, incarcerated not-father. But whatever.

‘I’m not sure why you sound so angry.’ His eyes travel from my bare feet to the top of my head where my hair is clipped up in a messy bun, out of the way of my make-up application. ‘Because you look fucking fantastic.’

My glossed lips curve into a smile. ‘You know I’m not dressed yet, right?’

He shrugs, the move doing incredible things for his white button-down shirt. ‘You look even better not dressed.’

‘Well.’ I fan my face, my current hot flash having nothing to do with stress. ‘Aren’t you the charmer?’

‘Of course.’ Holding my eyes in the mirror, he pushes off the door frame, slipping his arms around me from behind. ‘If you read the gossip columns, you’d know all about it.’

‘Good thing I don’t read the gossip columns then, huh?’

‘Yeah.’ His eyes turn oddly serious. ‘Good thing.’

Before I can ask after that comment, he dips his head and kisses my shoulder. When he raises his head again, the serious expression is gone, replaced with a smile and roaming hands.

‘Excuse me, sir.’ I grab the hand squeezing my ass and dodge out of his hold. ‘Some of us have to finish getting ready or we’re gonna be late.’

He shrugs. ‘So we’ll be late.’ He tries dragging me closer again. ‘No big deal.’

I dodge him again. ‘It is a big deal.’ Pushing at the back of his shoulders, I evict him from my bathroom. ‘I want to make a good impression.’

He pouts. ‘On Park In-Su?’

‘Who?’ The K-pop astronaut floats to mind. ‘Oh. The hot astronaut who saved you?’

‘He didn’t save me.’ His crossed arms, added to the pout, making him look like a mutinous toddler. ‘He helped me save Mike.’

‘Yes, of course.’ I fail to fight my smile, causing Felix’s eyes to narrow.

I know I shouldn’t, because obviously Felix is upset, but I find his blatant jealousy kind of thrilling. No one has ever been jealous over my attention before, unless you count Mike Hunt. Previous boyfriends may have been jealous over my family’s holdings, or others may have been jealous over not having me on their arm. But not because it was me . The girl I see smiling in the mirror right now. They wouldn’t have cared less about me if it weren’t for my name and everything it came with.

Felix wants me .

And oddly enough, in this moment, I want to tell him who I really am.

I chuckle, correcting myself. He knows who I am. Probably better than I do. He knows I can hold a grudge. He knows I can be vindictive. He’s seen me sunscreen a cat without a hint of shame and he’s seen me fail in the kitchen.

He’s seen me at my worst, seen all the things I’ve always had to hide as Elizabeth Moore.

He knows me.

And still, he wants me.

‘Felix, I?—’

‘What’s so great about astronauts anyway?’ If possible, his bottom lip gets fuller. ‘I mean, sure, they’re smart and all, but I?—’

‘I like you.’

His pouty lip drops.

It isn’t what I was going to say, but now that I’ve said it, it’s what I needed to say. More so than my real name. ‘I like you.’ Forcing myself to hold his gaze, I step forward. ‘I like you a lot, actually. And I was thinking that maybe, after the filming, if you wanted, maybe we could…’ My courage only goes so far before anxiety makes me second-guess every word coming out of my mouth. A quick glance tells me Felix is still trying to recover from my confession. ‘Uh, never mind, I?—’

‘I like you too.’ His words fall fast from his lips, his hand cupping the side of my cheek. My face cheek this time.

I snort, trying to hide the well of emotion and relief with a laugh. ‘We sound like a couple of teenagers.’

‘You make me feel like one.’ He waggles his eyebrows, his eyes dropping to the deep V of my robe.

Laughing outright, I allow the tension from the moment to ease. There’s a lot more I could say. But right now is not the time. It might lead to more sex or fifty questions, and we don’t have time for either.

‘Meow.’ With unusual perfect timing, Mike jumps up on my bed, visible through the open bathroom door.

Distracted by the call, Felix turns. ‘Is he wearing a tuxedo?’

‘Yes.’ I take the opportunity to guide Felix the rest of the way out the door. ‘But he still needs his rhinestone collar.’

With heavy steps, Felix allows me to push him toward the bed and its occupant. ‘I thought he was staying in the limo? I paid extra for a driver who doesn’t mind looking after cats.’

‘Yes, but Mikey’s feelings will be hurt if we don’t dress him for the occasion.’ Or so my brother says. Grabbing the collar from my nightstand, I dangle it on one finger between us. ‘Be a dear, will you?’

‘What?’ Felix’s horrified expression ping-pongs between Mike and my hand. ‘You’re kidding, right?’

I toss the collar next to Mike, then lean up on my tiptoes to plant a glossy kiss on Felix’s cheek. ‘Go get ’em, cowboy.’

Ten minutes later, I step out around the corner of the hallway and into the living room where Felix is waiting. Along with a properly collared Mike Hunt.

Taking a breath, I hold my hands out. ‘What do you think?’

Felix looks up from his phone, his eyes going wide. ‘Damn.’ But as he looks me up and down, from my gladiator heeled sandals to my tangerine lace dress and up to my hair brushed and braided to one side, Felix’s expression flattens.

‘You don’t like it?’ I smooth my hands over the long-sleeved, minidress. I hadn’t packed much in the way of dinner party outfits, but I had prepared to look nice in case I managed to arrange a meeting with my sister. It’s a dress my mother’s personal shopper sent to me right before I flew to Houston.

So while I know it’s stylish – because Susan, the head of womenswear at Moore’s wouldn’t send me anything less than the latest fashion – I wonder if Felix is worried that the color is too much, or that the slip underneath isn’t demure enough under the open-work lace. I touch the hem that hits me at mid-thigh. Or maybe he thinks it’s too short?

I fight back the sick feeling of self-consciousness that I’m all too familiar with.

No. Felix isn’t like my father. He wouldn’t be worried that my appearance or actions will reflect badly on him. He likes me. The real me. He said so.

I peek back up at him, and when I do, he’s smiling.

Huh. I must be letting my insecurities get to me.

Standing, Felix’s navy slacks drape perfectly over his burnished brown dress shoes. ‘You look beautiful.’

‘Thank you.’ Annoyed at myself for being so needy, I clear my throat and give him an exaggerated once-over. His well-cut trousers and textured white button-down remind me of my brothers and their impeccable style. Though Felix leans more towards Chase’s laid-back elegance rather than Thomas’ exacting formality. ‘You clean up nice yourself.’

He chuckles, but it doesn’t seem to reach his eyes. ‘All part of the job.’

Still feeling oddly tense, I nod. ‘Yeah, I get that.’

He tilts his head, eyes on mine. ‘You do?’

‘Yeah, I—’ Having stepped forward, I pull up short, stopping myself physically and verbally. I’d been about to mention the many galas I’ve attended and hosted over the years. And explain about all the dresses I’ve worn that have felt like costumes. The enumerable feigned smiles and forced laughs that were all part of an act to keep my father happy. To fit in as a Moore. ‘I just do,’ I finish lamely, tossing my hands up and dropping them back to my sides, promising myself that tonight, after dinner, when I have more time, I’ll tell him how I understand. Tell him my name and what that name means in certain New York circles.

I should’ve told him before we slept together, but now that we have, I definitely need to. I want to.

I’ll even tell him about my sister. And my father. My real father.

Decision made, I feel lighter than I have in a long time.

I continue forward again, this time to wrap my arms around him, when Felix’s phone rings.

Phone still in hand, he looks at the screen before glancing at me. ‘My mother.’

‘Oh.’ It will be nice to say hi again. Show Sofia a more put-together version of myself. ‘Let’s?—’

‘I’ll take it in my room.’ With a smile just as stiff as his walk, he moves past me.

‘Uh, okay.’ But by the time I recover enough to speak, the door to his room has already closed.

Felix

Three thousand nine hundred and ninety dollars.

That’s how much Anne’s dress costs.

‘Thank you so much for having me.’ Anne smiles brightly at astronaut Vance Bodaway, our host for the night, as he ushers us into his home. ‘I hadn’t known until we pulled into the driveway that the dinner was at your house.’ She looks around at the not- quite-a-mansion-but-more-than-a-house. ‘Which is stunning, by the way.’

‘Thanks. The credit all goes to my wife, Rose.’ Vance takes Anne’s hand in both of his. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you.’ He steps back and scans the floor around our feet. ‘But where’s the infamous cat?’

Anne’s eyes cut to mine, but I ignore them just as I’ve avoided her gaze since we left the condo. ‘I thought it best if we left Mike with the chauffeur and simply went out to check on him once in a while. I didn’t want any, uh, problems occurring in your home.’ She glances at me again, but my eyes remain fixed on Vance.

On the ride over, I avoided her by feigning interest in my phone while she held Mike on her lap. And while a thread of guilt wound its way around the knot of suspicion already lodged in my chest, I covertly scanned social media for any new leaked information or gossip.

‘He’d be no problem at all.’ Vance leads us through the twenty-something-foot ceilinged foyer and into an open living room/kitchen. ‘We put our dogs out back, and no one’s said they’re afraid of itty-bitty house cats—’ he laughs like the very idea’s preposterous ‘—so if you wanted to bring Mike inside later, that would be fine.’

I glare at the marble floor, mumbling under my breath. ‘I wouldn’t exactly call Mike itty-bitty.’

Anne, the only one who seems to have heard, rolls her lips before nodding at Vance. ‘Thank you.’

‘Howdy!’

Anne and I start at the woman reclining on a white sofa.

‘Felix, I think you’ve met my wife, Rose.’ Vance moves toward Rose when she outstretches both arms in the air.

‘Yes.’ I stay put, remembering the last time I offered her my hand at the press junket .

Vance grabs a hold of his wife’s hands in his and steps one foot back as if to brace himself. ‘And Rose, this is Anne.’ He grunts Rose to her feet. Her bare feet.

Anne steps forward once Rose gains her balance, the large pregnant belly jutting over her small, bare feet making it hard to do. ‘You were at the press junket a few weeks ago, weren’t you?’

‘Yep, that was me.’ Rose, looking pleased at being remembered, attempts to tug the hem of her dress down.

As if anyone could forget a pregnant woman wearing a fuchsia spandex jumpsuit. And while tonight’s dress is yellow, it’s just as bright and tight as her onesie had been.

Seeing Rose struggle to maneuver around her baby boulder, Anne steps forward to help her tug. ‘Love your dress.’

‘Thanks!’ With her dress pulled back down to a decent length, Rose sticks out her foot, wiggling her toes. ‘While I can manage the dress with help—’ she winks at Anne ‘—I draw the line at heels these days.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘But when Trish gets here, I bet she’s in stilettos.’ At Anne’s blank look, Rose explains. ‘The other pregnant woman at the press junket that day.’

‘Trish is the author of Countdown to Love ,’ I add, forgetting my reticence. Another thread of guilt hitting me when my explanation, the first words I’ve directed at her since we left the condo, makes Anne beam.

Rose runs her eyes up and down Anne and whistles. ‘But speaking of dresses, yours is fabulous. And the color—’ she makes a chef’s kiss ‘—perfection.’

‘Thank you, I?—’

‘May I use your restroom?’ My tone, harsher than I’d meant, has everyone turning.

The following silence breaks Vance’s besotted stare, which was focused on his wife’s rear end. ‘Uh, yeah.’ He points back where we came. ‘Around the corner, first door on your left. ’

I leave before the talking resumes. I don’t want to hear anything more about that damn dress. I don’t even want to look at it. It brings up too many questions. Too many memories.

Slipping into the half-bath under the stairs, I close the door and sit, bracing my elbows on my knees, my head in my hands. Even the best actors need to break character, and the role I donned of unaffected man after seeing Anne in that dress is wearing thin fast.

Three thousand nine hundred and ninety dollars.

That’s what this season’s Oscar de la Renta cocktail dress cost a few months ago. The dress I bought Camilla. The dress that started my fall into blackmail.

Running my hands down my face, I lean back against the tank, unable to break free from my regrets. Regrets over my mother. Regrets over Camilla. Regrets that are now bleeding into my perception of Anne.

I snort, annoyed with myself. That I’m back to questioning the women in my life.

Camilla entered my life in a typical Hollywood way. A friend of a friend of a friend heard that she was interested in me and asked if I’d like to take her out. Camilla is pretty, fashionable and had seemed like a nice person the one time we’d met at a mutual friend’s screening, so I hadn’t seen a problem.

The problems came later.

At first, Camilla and I had, if not fun, a decent time. She may have seemed immature when she’d stop in the middle of our dates to pose for selfies I hadn’t wanted to take, but I hadn’t wanted to be judgmental in a town where even the most acclaimed can act like emotionally stunted children clamoring for attention.

We ‘dated’ for a month. The few times we met up solo were oddly well documented in the papers the days following our dates. As if the paparazzi had been tipped off ahead of time. She had seemed annoyed by it, like me, so I hadn’t thought to question her.

It was also when my mother’s condition became glaringly apparent.

The one and only time I invited her into my house was for the sole purpose of telling her I didn’t see it working out between us. There was no drama. In fact, Camilla laughed and nodded in agreement, making me feel as if my opinion of the two of us was mutual.

She wished me well. She hugged me. She asked if she could use the bathroom before she left.

The next day, after my mother’s first allowed call from rehab, Camilla texted me a link to a three-thousand-nine-hundred-and-ninety-dollar dress.

The very dress Anne is wearing in Vance Broadway’s living room right now.

Confused, and busy with my mother, I ignored her. A few days later, she sent me a photo she’d taken of my mother’s prescription bottles. Bottles I’d hidden away, along with my mother’s admission papers into an exclusive rehab center, before Camilla came over that night.

Too busy trying to help my mother, I bought Camilla the dress, hoping it was her weird way of collecting some sort of break-up alimony. Like maybe that’s how celebrities and socialites say they’re sorry.

I should’ve known better.

It was as if the dress was Camilla’s test, and once I passed (or failed, depending on how you look at it), she felt free to do and say whatever she wanted.

When she wore the dress, she told everyone I bought it for her. I couldn’t deny it. This led the press to believe that we were still together.

Her next demand was that Jack get her a job in show business, but I ignored it. Soon after, pictures of me meeting with a previous co-star, a woman currently in the middle of a nasty divorce, were sent to all the newspapers.

‘ Felix Jones: Cheater and Home Wrecker’ headlined all the gossip rags that week.

Still, I couldn’t say anything. Because the truth was my friend had graciously met with me during a troubling time to give me the benefit of her experience after she had to admit her soon to be ex-husband into rehab earlier that year.

The only smart decision I made was to confide in Jack. Because when I did, he did three things – got Camilla a part in a popular reality TV show, hired a ferocious gang of lawyers, and did not blame me. For Camilla or my mother.

But he should’ve.

Pushing off my knees, I stand, staring into the bathroom’s oval mirror.

Knock. Knock . ‘You okay?’ Anne’s soft voice barely travels through the thick wood door.

‘Be right out.’ I wash my hands to stall some more, then re-don the role of unaffected man.

Taking a breath, I open the door.

‘You okay?’ She repeats the question I never answered.

Flashing her a dimmer version of my red-carpet smile, I begin my act. ‘Fine.’ The small smile is part of the expression I use whenever I’m asked something I don’t want to answer. The one that usually gets me out of tough spots.

Yet I’m not surprised when Anne’s frown doesn’t clear. Like she can see right through me. Like she’s used to people gaslighting her .

Folding her arms across her chest, skepticism written all over her expression. ‘Uh huh.’ But after a moment, when I remain quiet, the suspicion morphs into concern. ‘Oh my God.’ She grabs hold of my arm. ‘Did something happen with your mom?’ Her grip tightens. ‘Is that what the phone call was about?’

Earlier, before I braved my childhood fears and collared a cat in rhinestones, I would’ve thought Anne’s questions sweet. That she cared, not only for me, but for my mother. But now, with her cheerful lace albatross of a dress staring me dead in the eye, I can’t help but see her questions as probing. Her grip as desperate. And I wonder if the real reason she told me she liked me was because her internship is at an end and that was the only way to prolong her connection to information she could use later?

One more question I don’t have the answer to.

Someone’s laugh echoes down the hall.

The sound, loud and carefree, much like Anne’s on the night we first met, makes me determined to get answers to that question, and to all my others. Even if the answers aren’t what I want to hear.

‘Felix?’ Anne’s eyes, wide and blue, probe mine.

Summoning my skills, I wash my expression and answer Anne like I would an interviewer asking questions I don’t want to answer. ‘Everything is fine.’ I gesture down the hall. ‘Shall we go meet your astronauts?’