Page 42 of How to Kiss a Movie Star
“But he might fall in love with you because of the bodyinthe swimsuit,” Lucy says. “I can’t believe you’ve been hiding this.” She waves a hand up and down my body, like she still can’t believe it’s me standing in front of her.
“Do you really think it looks okay?” I ask, one hand pressed against my bare stomach.
“You’re smoking hot,” Summer says. “Ridiculously hot.”
I move to the mirror hanging above my dresser and take in my appearance one more time. Ridiculously hot is never a description anyone has ever used to describe me before.
I once overheard one of my TAs referring to me assecret hot.And the boyfriend I had during my master’s program always told me I was pretty in a modest, understated way. (I have no idea what he actually meant by this. When I told my sisters, they seemed offended on my behalf, but I always felt like it was an honest, practical assessment.)
Which is whyridiculously hotfeels like such a reach. “You’re just saying that because you’re my sister,” I finally say.
“She’s not,” Lucy says. “I mean, you really need to tweeze and shape your eyebrows. And your skincare routine needs leveling up. But if you made an actual effort? Wore makeup? Bought clothesnotfrom the men’s section at Tractor Supply? Yeah. You’d totally be hot.”
I reach for the nearest pair of pants. “Tractor Supply has a lot of really practical clothing.”
Summer grabs the pants away from me. “None of which you are wearing today. You’re going to the pool. Don’t dress like you’re out hunting for wild hogs. Hang on.” She holds up her finger, then disappears down the hall. Less than a minute later, she’s back holding a gauzy white sundress. “Here. Try this.”
I pull it over my bikini and turn to look. It’s loose and flowy, but somehow still flattering, which is a welcome surprise. In my head, clothes designed to flatter my shape are automatically clothes that will be restrictive and uncomfortable. But this isn’t either of those things.
“You like it,” Summer says proudly. “I can totally tell you like it.”
I smile the slightest bit. “It isn’t terrible,” I say.
“Here. Shoes. Bag.” Lucy drops a pair of strappy sandals onto the floor in front of me and holds out an oversized mesh tote. “I stocked it with everything you’ll need. Towel. Sunscreen. I even grabbed that boring book off your nightstand.”
“Unseen Dangersisn’t boring,” I say as I take the bag. “It’s a realistic look at the worsening crisis the Southern pine beetle is bringing to North Carolina pine trees.”
“And to think I’ve been wasting my time reading Emily Henry novels,” Lucy says, her voice a robotic monotone. “I had no idea what I was missing.”
“Whatever. I have to go.” I push past my sisters but hesitate when I reach my bedroom door. I look back at them both. “Are you sure I can do this?”
Their expressions shift simultaneously into identical looks of confidence and compassion.
“Of course you can do it,” Summer says.
Lucy nods. “Just remember. You’re doing this for the squirrels.”
I repeat those words the entire time I’m driving to Flint’s house. He must have Nate watching and waiting for my arrival because I don’t even have to press the call button before the gates are swinging open, admitting me onto the winding drive that cuts through Flint’s acreage and leads up to the house. Here, in front of the house, it’s less woodsy and more just rolling pastureland. New fencing lines both sides of the drive, and I wonder if Flint is eventually planning to have animals. He grew up on a farm, after all—it probably wouldn’t be outside his comfort zone.
Pondering this question distracts me until I’m parked in front of Flint’s house.
I cut the engine but stay in my seat, hands still gripping the steering wheel.
This is stupid.
I am not sexy bikini material. Girlfriend material.
Definitely not Flint Hawthorne girlfriend material.
It’s funny. A few weeks ago, that name didn’t mean anything to me. And now, it feels like I see it everywhere. In thePeoplemagazines Lucy is always leaving all over the house. In my Apple news feed on my iPhone, though that probably has everything to do with the increased Google searching I’ve been doing lately. Itoldmy phone to show me stuff about Flint because I looked him up a few (or ten…maybe a dozen?) times. I even saw his face on a cookie down at the feed store. Apparently, Ann has always been a fan.
The only thing I haven’t done yet is watch one of his movies, for reasons I can’t quite define. A part of me thinks I don’t want to watch one, only to be disappointed. Considering my track record with movies, that feels like a real possibility. But a bigger part just wants to see Flint…asFlint.Not as the movie star he became when he was interacting with my sisters, but as the guy who works in his own backyard and invited me to eat with his family. If I watch his movies, he’ll turn into a movie star forme,too. And I don’t know that I’m ready for that to happen.
A knock sounds on my window, and I startle, one hand flying to my chest.
I look out to see Flint bending down to look through the glass. He’s wearing sunglasses pushed back in his hair, a plain white T-shirt, board shorts, and flip-flops. He’s dressed for the pool just like I am, but on him, the clothes look effortless and easy. Like he dresses like this every day.
“You okay?” he asks, his voice muffled by the window between us.
