Page 73 of Anyone But the Superstar

‘Whoa.’ I sway forward, my fingers grabbing fistfuls of his hair.

Felix’s laugh is smothered, and by the time I realize he’s laughing at my unintended horseback riding pun, I’m too interested in his mouth service to care.

I stop holding myself up. Stop holding myself back. And I let go.

Felix

‘What in the name of Marlon-fucking-Brando is going on?’

My blissful, post-sex feelings evaporate in H.E.B.’s dairysection as nearby customers turn toward Jack’s sharp tone booming from my phone.

Switching my phone to the eardrum Jack didn’t burst, I whisper back. ‘Stop shouting.’ I peek out from under my hat, relieved to see everyone already back to their grocery shopping. ‘I’m in public.’

I place a carton of Happy Eggs into my shopping cart, making a mental note to have my personal shopper switch over to the organic, small-farm brand when I get back to Los Angeles. Expensive, but worth it.

Lost in produce thoughts, it takes a second to register Jack’s ongoing lecture now that he’s speaking at a lower volume.

‘…emotional support animal? Whenthe fuckdid you need an emotional support animal and whythe hellis it a cat? Youhatecats.’

Sighing, I grab the milk on the next shelf. ‘Who called you?’

The answering silence has me checking to see if the call dropped.

‘Who?’ Jack’s voice isn’t loud, but it’s definitely not as calm as before. ‘The who should’ve been you.’

I’ve seen Jack lose his shit before, which is what usually happens after he sounds as dark and menacing as he does right now, but he’s never lost his shit on me. Even after Camilla showed her true colors.

‘Especiallyas I’m over here in LA spending all my time fighting with one set of lawyers, collaborating with another all while still trying to handle incoming contracts and scripts from various producers and you don’t even call to tell me that you have a catanda fucking roommate!’

The last makes me blanche.

How did Jack find out about Anne? A sick feeling twists inmy stomach when my first thought is that Anne sold information to the press.

No. She wouldn’t do that. She’s not Camilla.

Shouldering my phone, I maneuver the cart around the corner into a lesser trafficked aisle lined with paper plates and garbage bags. ‘Who told you about Anne?’

‘Again—’ I can practically hear him rolling his eyes ‘—it should’ve been you. But thankfully, your mother filled me in when I went to see her this morning.’

Relief, then guilt, hits me. ‘Mãe.’

‘Dude.’ Jack sounds drained, making me feel like the worst kind of friend. ‘What the hell is going on?’

‘I can explain.’ I act interested in unscented garbage bags as a woman pushing a cart with a toddler in it passes by. ‘Just not right now.’

Jack scoffs.

‘No, really.’ I lower my voice. ‘I’ll call you as soon as I’m done grocery shopping.’

‘Grocery shopping!’

The women’s head whips toward Jack’s voice.

I hang up, pocketing my phone. ‘Ma’am.’ I lower my head and infuse as much Southern boy charm into the word as possible.

It seems to work, as when I peek under my brim, she’s smiling back before being immediately distracted by her kid grabbing a box of plastic forks and shaking it like a rattle.

Not wasting time, I move my cowboy boots at a fast clip to the self-checkout line where I make quick work of scanning and bagging before heading to my car.