Page 2 of How to Kiss a Movie Star
I take the icy cold drink and twist off the top. “I haven’t had one of these in years.”
“Don’t they sell Cheerwine in California?”
“They sure don’t.”
“Shoo, then it’s a good thing you moved home,” she says, her words a little more Southern than they were before.
For so many reasons,I think to myself. I take a long sip of Cheerwine. It tastes like my childhood. Like hot summers and cold creeks and hunting for lightning bugs. I lift the drink in farewell, and Ann smiles wide. “Take care, all right?”
Outside, the late summer sun beats down on the parking lot, and I’m suddenly grateful I have something cool to drink. I don’t think about the scolding I’d get from my personal trainer if he could see what I’m drinking. Not to mention the forty-plus cookies I will almost certainly eat by myself.
Not that the scolding would do much.
There is a time to live like my paycheck depends on the contours of my abdominal muscles. I just spent six months shooting on location in Costa Rica, playing a lifeguard who is shirtless at least fifty percent of the time. There were actual clauses in my contract about muscle definition and the efforts I made to maintain it.
But now is not that time.
Now? It’s time to eat cookies.
I head toward the far end of the building, where bags of mulch and soil and different kinds of fertilizer are stacked on pallets at the edge of the parking lot. My truck is already parked next to the mulch—something I did on purpose—so it won’t take long to load up what I need.
As I round the corner, I almost collide with a massive tomato plant hustling toward the front of the store. “Hey, whoa, watch out,” I say, jumping to the side.
The plant stops and lowers to the ground, revealing the woman carrying it. She looks close to my age, mid-twenties, probably, and I brace myself for the inevitable recognition. I’m not trying to be presumptuous. I’m just going off experience. Most women in their twenties and thirties recognize my face.
Butthiswoman doesn’t react at all.
She only stares, her eyebrows raised like she’s daring me to say something else.
I lift a placating hand. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to stop you. But you almost ran me over.”
The woman’s eyes flash, and for a moment, I can’t look away. They are the most startling pale blue, clear and arresting—a contrast to the rest of her, which is clad in forest browns and greens. Her dark brown hair is pulled back into a simple ponytail, and she’s wearing utility pants, an oversized T-shirt cinched into a knot at her waist, and practical work boots. The whole look gives off a strong “don’t mess with me” vibe.
The vibe only gets stronger when the woman’s lips purse. “Definitely. There’s so little space in the parking lot, I can see why it was so difficult for you to avoid me.”
She looks around pointedly in a way that makes me grin.
Partly because she’s talking to me like I’m just some random dude.
Mostly because her eyes have completely hooked me. There’s a fire flashing in their bright blue depths that won’t let me go.
“Fair enough,” I say. “I’ll keep a better eye out.”
We stand there and stare at each other for a long moment before I take a step toward her. I don’t know why I don’t just let her leave. She’s nothing like the women I normally pursue, but the impulse to keep her talking is strong.
I motion to the tomato plant beside her. It’s twice as big around as she is, though she didn’t seem to be struggling to carry it before. “Can I carry that for you?” I ask. She’s going to say no, but maybe she’ll say something else, too.
She raises her eyebrows before bending her knees and hoisting the plant into her arms like it weighs nothing at all. She turns to the side and looks straight at me, her look saying I didnotjust ask to carry her plant. “I’ve got it,” she says.
Something sparks deep in my gut. Before I became famous, I used to love the challenge of pulling a smile out of a woman, of using my charm to crack even the stoniest expressions. It’s a game I haven’t played in years, but I can’t keep myself from trying now.
“I can see that,” I say with a grin. “Maybe I should be asking foryourhelp.”
She chuckles, but I don’t miss the faint question flashing behind her eyes. I’ve made her curious, at least, if not interested. “You don’t need my help,” she says, but the conviction in her voice from moments before has waned the slightest bit.
I take another step forward. “What makes you so sure? I’ve got twenty bags of mulch to load up all by myself.”
She puts down her plant, her hands going to her hips as she pointedly eyes me from top to bottom. “And you look perfectly capable.”
