Page 29 of How to Kiss a Movie Star
Heat floods my cheeks, and I lift my palms to cover them, positive that Hannah—or anyone else who spares me a glance—will see how much the implication of her statement is getting to me. “Um, do you think Flint would mind if I use the restroom?”
I need a minute.
Or an hour.
Or maybe three days.
“Of course, honey. That door will take you to the kitchen, then just follow the hall to the left, and you’ll find it.”
I nod and quickly retreat to the cool interior of Flint’s house. But good grief—if I thought this was going to help things, I was dead wrong. The outside of Flint’s house is actually pretty simple. Rock and wood and earthy muted colors. But the inside is bright and modern and beautiful. Clean lines. Huge windows. Light everywhere, even in the fading evening hours.
The living room just off the kitchen looks warm and welcoming. The furniture is leather, but it looks incredibly soft, and every chair and couch is draped with cushy blankets the same color as the walls—a pale, dusky gray-blue. I pause before crossing the kitchen and tug off my boots, not wanting to track any dirt through this incredibly perfect house.
The action only reminds me of how ridiculously I’m dressed. Not that I knew I was dressing for a family barbecue. I’m dressed forwork.I’ve never felt uncomfortable in my baggy cargo pants. They are incredibly practical. Lots of pockets for my notebook, my phone, extra memory cards for my camera, ChapStick. But my sisters have teased me enough for me to know that, especially when combined with an old baggy biology T-shirt from my undergrad days, they aren’t exactly flattering.
I do not miss the fact that I have never cared about whether my work clothes are attractive. Who would I ever be trying to impress when I spend most of my time alone in the woods?
It shouldn’t be any different now. Flint Hawthorne might as well be an oak tree, for all the likelihood there is that he would ever find me attractive. I mean,yes.He flirted when we first met. But that was probably just an actor thing. The way he is with everyone.
And okay,yes,his mother did just imply that he’s flustered, and it can only be because of me. But she’s probably just reading into things because she’s his mom, and isn’t that what moms do? Try to play matchmaker for their kids?
I leave my hiking boots next to the door and head down the hall to find the bathroom, andoh good grief,this room is just as gorgeous as the rest of the house. It has to be a guest bathroom, off the kitchen like it is, but there’s a full shower tiled in smooth river rock and stacked stone. It looks like the inside of a waterfall, and I immediately want to use it. It’s a stupidly impulsive thing to think. I’m not going to randomly take a shower in Flint’s house. There aren’t even any towels—oh.ThereAREtowels. Thick, fluffy gray ones stacked on the corner shelf. I reach out and touch one, but then quickly yank my hand away.
No, Audrey! No impulsive bathing!
I finish up in the bathroom without stripping down for an impromptu shower and head back down the hall. Based on the rest of the house, I’m itching to look around, open all the doors to see what the rest of the place looks like. It wouldn’t bequiteas bad as taking a shower, but it’s still more than I’ll let myself do. Except, just before I reach the kitchen, there’s a room with a door that’s already open.
There’s nothing wrong with peeking into a room with anopendoor, is there? I step into the room, the plush carpet sinking under my feet, and pause in the doorway. This must be Flint’s office. There’s a desk on the back wall, a dark brown leather sofa on the other, and low bookshelves, about knee-height, circling three entire walls. But it’s the wall decor that catches my attention.
I step back into the hall and peek around the corner into the kitchen to make sure I’m still alone, then tiptoe back into the room. It only takes a second to realize that the framed posters above the bookshelves are movie posters—and they are all movies Flint has been in. They’re arranged chronologically, and I walk slowly past each one. Flint’s picture isn’t on every poster, especially not the early ones, but I make it a point to find his name listed at the bottom when he isn’t a headliner. The farther I go into his career, the more frequently I see his face front and center. Action films. Dramas. Romantic comedies. Something about time travel?
“That was a really terrible movie.”
I jump, a hand flying to my heart, and turn to see Flint standing in the doorway. “Geez, you scared me.”
He’s leaning against the doorframe with an easy confidence I envy. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to.” His tone is warm and friendly, like he doesn’t care at all that he just found me snooping through his house.
I look back at the movie poster. “You wereinthis movie,” I say. “Why would you make a terrible movie?”
He shrugs. “Sometimes you don’t know it isn’t going to work until you’re already in it and it’s too late. Sometimes you just need a paycheck, so you do it anyway.” He moves into the room and stops beside me.
“Which was it with this one?”
“A little bit of both. I was in a bit of a dry spell, and the script seemed promising enough. My agent really wanted me to do it, so I did. But halfway through, I could already sense things weren’t clicking. The chemistry was off, maybe, or…I don’t know. Sometimes you can’t really pinpoint what’s wrong, only that something is. Sure enough, it tanked at the box office and was released for streaming less than two months later.”
“That’s not a good thing?”
He chuckles. “Not this time, it wasn’t.”
I continue my journey around the perimeter of the room, Flint following just behind. The next poster features Flint dressed as a soldier from what I’m guessing is World War II based on the style of his hair and uniform. “What about this one?”
“One of my favorites,” he says. “I won a Golden Globe for that one. Nominated for an Oscar, too. But I didn’t win.”
“Quite a comeback after the last one, then.”
“Something that every film critic felt they needed to point out,” he says dryly.
“I’m sorry you didn’t win the Oscar,” I say, and Flint scoffs.
