Page 1 of How to Kiss a Movie Star
Chapter One
Flint
I’minagardensupply store in one of the smallest towns in North Carolina, staring at a basket full of individually wrapped sugar cookies decorated to look like my face.
When I dreamed of being a famous actor, this isnotwhere my brain went.
I pick up one of the cookies, noting the price tag stuck to the top of the cellophane. One cookie for more than six bucks? Ann’s cookies are good, but isanycookie six-dollars-good?
I drop it onto the counter with a sigh. I was counting on most of Silver Creek ignoring the fact that I’m home. Everyone around here has known me since I was an idiot kid anyway.
It goes without saying that if you ever sat through one of the variety shows I put on in middle school—and by variety show, I mean a collection of badly prepared monologues and off-key Jonas Brother songs—you get a pass onbeing impressed with my career.
Was Flint just nominated for an Oscar?Who cares?
Was that him in all thoseAgent Twelvemovies?Maybe, but remember that time he skinny-dipped in the pond out by the Wilsons’ pasture?
If it were up to me, nobody in this whole town would mention my career at all.
I need normal.
Icravenormal.
Which is why a basket of Flint Hawthorne sugar cookies is so disheartening.
I push my sunglasses onto my head and take in Ann’s hopeful expression.
Ann Arney has been running the Silver Creek Feed ’n Seed for as long as I can remember. It’s been years since I’ve seen her, but she mostly looks the same. Her hair’s a little grayer, her face a little more worn. But her eyes still have the same sparkle.
“Do you like them?” she asks. “I’ve already sold four this morning.”
Believe it or not, selling cookies right next to the bird seed and a display of gardening gloves isn’t all that unusual. Ann’s sugar cookies are famous in Silver Creek, and she usually has some for sale, decorated to match whatever holiday or season is coming up next. At least she did when I was a kid. Pretty sure this is the first time I’ve ever seen her put apersonon a cookie, though, unless we’re counting Santa Claus.
I should be flattered. I guess a part of me is. But a bigger part just wants to blend in for a while.
I take in Ann’s sincere expression and sense how much she wants me to be impressed. “They look great, Ann. It’s a perfect likeness.”
“I used that photo they put on the cover ofPeoplemagazine,” she says. She clears her throat and leans forward across the counter. “The one that named you…sexiest man alive.” She whispers thesexiest man alivepart like she’s nervous to say the words out loud.
Behind me, an older man in denim overalls, who looks like he’s definitelynotone ofPeoplemagazine’s regular readers, clears his throat.
“Tell you what,” I say to Ann, pulling out my wallet. “I’m going to buy the rest of those cookies.”
Her eyebrows go up. “All of them? I’ve got three dozen more in the back. And I’m selling them for six-fifty a piece.”
I try not to wince as I do the math, but I’d rather buy them myself than have my sugar-cookie likeness reminding every single person who drops by to purchase a new shovel that I’ve finally moved home.
“Whatever you’re charging is just fine, Ann. I’ll take them all. Plus this bird seed and twenty bags of the black mulch you’ve got outside.”
She scans the bird seed and drops it into a bag, then darts into the back room, emerging with a paper grocery sack I assume is full of pre-wrapped cookies. “I suppose you’re looking to keep a low profile,” she says as she slides both bags across the counter, some measure of remorse in her voice.
I offer her an easy smile as I hand her my credit card, holding her gaze long enough for a faint blush to creep into her cheeks. “Or maybe I just know who makes the best sugar cookies this side of the Mississippi.”
Her cheeks flush. “Oh, you hush, Flint Hawthorne. Don’t you start with me.” She bats at my arm before she takes my card, the twinkle back in her eyes. “Wait. One more thing.” She steps out from behind the counter and moves to the drink cooler sitting by the front door. She opens it and pulls out a Cheerwine in a tall, glass bottle. “For old time’s sake.”
When I was nine, Ann caught me trying to steal a Cheerwine out of this very same cooler and laid into me for over an hour, talking about representing the Hawthorne name and remembering who I am and working for the things I want instead of taking them. I had to sit in the back room until my dad drove over to pick me up, then I had to sweep the entire store to apologize for my attitude and entitlement.
The next time I was in the store, Ann offered to let me sweep whenever I wanted a soda. That way, I wouldn’t need to steal one.
