Page 75 of Anyone But the Superstar

Anne frowns at the bowl as I mix the fruit like my mom taught me – with my hands. ‘Yeah.’

I’m not sure if it was the nonchalant tone of my question or how wet and sticky my hands are from fruit juice, but Anne appears successfully distracted.

‘Did your family always have a chef?’ I toss the fruit with more fanfare than required.

She nods. ‘Mmhmm.’

The plan works too well as I become the one more distracted when, her eyes still on my hands, Anne slowly licks her lips.

By the time her tongue travels from one corner of her mouth to the other, my dick is close to knocking on the lower cabinets.

Switching tactics to alleviate the ah,tension, I stop tossing the fruit and shake my hands off over the bowl. ‘That explains it, then.’

Anne blinks out of her stare when I turn on the faucet and wash my hands. ‘Explains what?’

I dry my hands on the tea towel. ‘Why you can’t cook.’ When she just frowns, I make a show of rolling my eyes before throwing the towel at her. ‘AnEnglishchef.’

‘Hey.’ She catches it, laughing. ‘I take major offense to that on Curtis’ behalf.’ Stealing another grape, she pops it into her mouth and then points at me accusingly. ‘I dare you to try and make Yorkshire pudding better than old Curt.’ She settles back in the stool and crosses her arms. ‘He was a right legend.’

She says the last with an English accent. A perfectly posh one, which I know from experience is hard to slip into and not sound like a caricature. Unless you’ve had a dialect coach or spent a good deal of time in the affluent areas in London.

Neither of which makes sense.Shedoesn’t make sense.

Jack’s questions replay in my ear. And for the first time, I ask my own.

Why would someone who grew up with a personal chef need a free place to stay? And why would an artist, who has no interest in Hollywood, take an unpaid internship as a storyboarder?

With no answers to be had, or fruit to toss to distract her, I give the pancake batter I made one last whisk before scooping it onto the hot griddle pan.

‘Meow.’ Having enough sun, Mike reaches his front paws up Anne’s stool and stretches.

‘Hey, buddy.’ Anne picks him up under his arms like a child and settles him on her lap. ‘Wanna treat?’

I eye the cat and his increasing rolls over the island. ‘Isn’t he getting too many treats lately?’

‘Oh, be quiet.’ Anne waves away my words and selects a small slice of strawberry.

Mike laps it into his mouth before motor-boating Anne in thanks.

Selecting a piece of pineapple for herself, Anne pops it in her mouth, moving it to the side like a chipmunk. ‘Back to the matter at hand.’

‘Hmmm?’ Distracted by suddenly wanting tobeMike Hunt, I refocus on flipping my pancakes.

‘The astronaut dinner.’ Pausing to chew her fruit, Anne uses both hands to scratch Mike’s neck, still stuck between her breasts. ‘I can think of only one way to deal with Mike while we’re at dinner.’

She sighs, but the glint in her eyes belies her reluctance.

I’m both apprehensive and intrigued.

As I always am with Anne.

I turn off the griddle and grab the spatula. ‘And what’s that?’

‘We use the lie you so kindly made on my behalf about my being your emotional support animal sitter.’

I nearly drop the pancakes.

‘That way, no one gets the wrong idea about us, and best of all,’ Anne raises the chubby feline’s front paw, ‘Mike Hunt can come.’