Page 45 of Anyone But the Superstar

While he looks annoyingly sexy in both the cream and black, the darker color and slightly smaller brim suit him better. ‘And the D?’

I grab a belt off the nearby rack as he adjusts the hat. ‘Douchebag.’

His amused expression deadpans. ‘Nice.’

‘Yeah.’ I shrug, holding out the belt for him to take. ‘I thought so.’

He stares at the buckle, twice the size of a credit card, and doesn’t take it.

With a sigh, I step closer, threading the belt through the belt loops myself.

I realize my mistake halfway through when my front becomes flush with his. I’m close enough to hear his hard swallow before we both step back, clearing our throats.

I haven’t felt this awkward since I cut Brandon Harrison III’s lip with my braces in eighth grade during a scandalous game of spin the bottle at his parents’ black tie anniversary party in the Hamptons.

Felix drops his head, the hat affectingly shielding his expression as he grabs the ends of the belt. ‘I can, uh, take it from here.’

Though he can’t see me, I nod, still too flustered to speak.

When the buckle clasps, he takes stock of his appearance in the mirror.

So do I. And my lustful artistic drive very much likes the fact that my muse looks like the Portuguese love child of James Dean and Scott Eastwood.

Eyes traveling over his reflection, it’s no surprise that he’s an A-list movie star.

Felix has… something. Something illusive. Something frustratingly intangible. A simmering charm that underscores the cheekbones, cut muscles and blinding smile.

I hate it.

With that lie firmly planted in my mind, I avert my eyes. ‘You should head back to the car while I buy these.’ Reaching up, I rip the price tag off the black hat, then snag the one off the belt.

‘Whoa.’ He reaches for his back pocket. ‘I have my wallet.’

Breathing through the urge to rip more than just tags off his body, I step out of reach.Myreach. ‘As you’ve insisted on buyingall the groceries, it’s only fair to use my now defunct food budget to buy a disguise that ensures you ripe melons.’

The smile he flashes me makes me glad for the distance.

‘Besides. We’ve already been gone forty minutes.’ I turn toward the counter, throwing the next sentence over my shoulder. ‘Who knows what Mike’s done to the concierge by now?’

Felix

My eyes feel as big as Anne’s melons. ‘Whatisthis place?’

‘It’s a supermarket chain called H-E-B.’ Like an immature teenager, Anne waggles her brows while weighing two melons in her hands – at chest level.

It’s jarring.

Not the melons, but the fact that, even counting the hairless cat, I’m having fun. In fact, I’ve had more fun in the past few days than I’ve had in all my red-carpet appearances over the last few years.

Finally done handling the melons, Anne rests one back on the pile. ‘My sister-in-law says H-E-B is the one thing she’d take to New York with her if she could. Even more so than snow-free winters.’ She hands me the other. ‘And shehatesthe cold.’

There’s a beat of silence while I file the Texan sister-in-law comment underthings I know about Anne.

When I picked her up from work, opening the passenger door for her like my mother taught me, I watched, intrigued as she entered the car more gracefully with a hairless cat strapped to her chest than the well-practiced stars limo hopping during awards season.

Yet, over texts, meals and commuting, I discovered a crucialdifference that separates Anne from the typical Hollywood crowd I’m used to. Something besides her frugality and her disinterest in counting calories before eating.

Annehatestalking about herself.