Page 62 of Anyone But the Superstar

Dinner.

I let the idea take hold.

Unlike arranging the Moore family dinner – aka asking the chef to cook – I’d have to make this one. Which, if I did, would make for a very unpredictable outcome for an apology that I was hoping to make worthy of Felix’s actions today. And making dinner wouldn’t be expensive either. Felix already did the shopping.

But maybe he’d find meaning in me taking over what I essentially blackmailed him into doing for me so that I wouldn’t kick his homeless Hollywood ass to the curb.

It’s just, with my below-basic kitchen skills, I might end up needing to apologize for my apology gift.

Still undecided, I push the ignition button and gather up my belongings.

But as Mike and I are about to get out of the car, a phone rings.

And this time, it isn’t mine.

Felix

Ding.

With my head low, I enter the condo building’s elevator, thankful it’s empty.

Merde, what a day.

Earlier, once I ushered Anne and Mike off set and out the door, everyone got back to work. The crew reset the scene while I donned adryduplicate outfit from wardrobe and the hair and make-up team redid the work I washed away in NASA’s pool.

Through it all, Ron grumbled about high-maintenance actors and their emotional support animals, stopping every fewseconds to palm the back of his torn shorts as if making sure it was cat-free. It’s obvious he wanted to rip into me. But with the tight deadline and the NASA onlookers, he kept himself in check.

It was good that Anne hadn’t argued when I gave her my rental keys.

One, because we didn’t need Mike causing any more trouble, and two, Anne probably would’ve tried to come clean about who Mike belonged to, which would’ve meant me explaining why I lied – an explanation I don’t have.

And three, I would’ve been too distracted to shoot the scene if Anne had been watching.

The last of which is dumb. I kiss people all the time in movies. Most actors do. Even married actors. Yet, for some reason, the thought of Anne watching me kiss someone else bothers me.

Probably because as soon as Amanda’s lips met mine, I stopped pretending Amanda was her character, Julia, and started pretending Amanda was Anne.

Still, it was probably due to that inappropriate imagining that Amanda and I managed to shoot the scene in one take, keeping the film on schedule and giving the crew time to pack up to cede the pool to Park In-Su and his fellow astronauts.

Which –thank God– made Ron happy again. Or happy-ish.

He was truly happy after Park and his cohort of NASA employees invited Ron to watch the footage of Mike Hunt’s undercarriage floating over the International Space Station. Nothing like having a feline’s buoyant nether regions save one’s career.

Ding.

Shuffling out of the elevator, I duck my head as a man sidesteps his way on, then make my way toward the condo door. Iforgot my bag with both my phone and baseball cap in the car. Without a disguise or an Uber to call, I ended up having to ask Amanda for a ride home.

It was an awkward ten-minute drive. Her trying not to pry but wanting the details about the infamous emotional support hairless cat, the hot astronaut everyone gawked over and me pretending not to know much about the former or care about the latter. Except that I was very much aware of the latter and how Anne was one of the many looking at astronaut Park In-Su as ifhewere the leading man in a romantic comedy.

Merde, I’m pathetic.

Shaking my head at myself, I knock on the door, my key to the condo having been attached to my rental keys. I’m prepared to wait the few minutes it’ll take Anne to get from her bedroom to the door. Especially now, with our kiss and Mike’scatastrophe putting her center stage – something Annehates– I’m betting she’s past awkward avoidance and now fully committed to using her room as a concealment bunker.

So I’m surprised when, before I can even lower my arm, my hair is blown back from a gust of air conditioning as the door opens wide.

‘Hi.’ Anne greets me with a smile that’s brilliant, if a bit crazed, before spinning away and hustling into the kitchen.

The door swings back to close and, on reflex, I throw out my arm to stop it.