Page 9 of How to Kiss a Movie Star
His expression shifts, and he lifts an eyebrow. “You really don’t know who lives here?”
I shrug. “Should I?”
He exchanges a quick glance with the deputies, like they’re all part of some special club and I’m the dumb one who doesn’t know the secret word for admittance. “Give me just a second,” he says. He sets my camera down on the hood of the sheriff’s car, then walks toward the house, his phone lifted to his ear. A minute or so later, another man leaves the house and meets him, then they walk back to the rest of us together.
The closer the new guy gets to me, the more my stomach fills with dread.
I know this guy. Or, Isort ofknow this guy. He’s the man who almost ran into me at the Feed ’n Seed this morning when I was rescuing a nearly dead tomato plant from the back of Ann’s garden center.
He stops a few feet away from me, his arms crossed over his chest, recognition flashing in his eyes. “We meet again,” he says easily.
“Do we?” I say, feigning innocence. “I’m not very good with faces.”
My sisters tell me I shouldn’t use this as an excuse since my inability to recognize faces iswillful.Icoulddo better. I justchoosenot to. But is it truly my fault that I like science more than people? I came this way—hardwired to be hopelessly nerdy and unsociable. I can’t help it that I remember the coat patterns of American marsupials more easily than I remember a man’s face.
The trouble is, Idoremember this man’s face.
I also remember the thrill of emotion that shot through me (it was really just adrenaline and a spike of dopamine—it doesn’t have to mean anything) when he smiled at me.
I may not be particularly adept at reading social cues—a surprise to absolutely no one—but I’m not so helpless to have missed that this guy was flirting with me.
I did not flirt back for three very specific reasons.
One—I cannot flirt. Flirting requires nuance, something I’ve never been able to achieve.
Two—he is much too pretty to be interested in someone like me, which means he had to be messing with me. Sadly, this isn’t the first time this has happened. Experience has taught me it is much easier to keep my walls up before any real damage can happen.
And three—even if hewasn’tmessing with me, I know what kind of men I’ve been compatible with in the past. And they are much more the bookish, lab-coat-wearing type than the muscled, sunglasses-wearing type. As soon as this man got to know me enough to actuallyknowme, he’d be out of town faster than the mayfly’s life cycle.
My sisters argue I’m selling myself short and will never be happy if I can’t stopsciencingmy love life. (Their word because I only use real words, andsciencingisn’t one.) But it’s who I am.
This isn’t hypothetical. It’s a fact: men with faces this perfect do not fall for women like me.
He lifts a hand and rubs it across his jaw, then props both hands on his hips. The motion stretches his T-shirt across his sternum and pectoralis muscles, which—yes,I notice. Unfortunately, his face is not the only part of him that’s perfect, and while I am undoubtedly a scientist with very specific opinions, I’m alsoa woman.I’d have to be dead not to notice.
“You really don’t have any idea who I am?” he asks.
By itself, the question might sound arrogant. But there’s a hope in this man’s voice that negates his presumption. It’s almost as though he doesn’twantme to know who he is.
I wrack my brain, trying to think of somewhere I might have met him. Orseenhim, since, going by the enormous house and the security guard, this guy is probably someone famous. A singer? An actor, maybe? Either way, I’m out of luck. I haven’t listened to anything but classical music in years, and I haven’t watched a movie since before my PhD program.
According to my sisters,not liking moviesis one of the things that contributes to my hopeless misanthropy and should not be admitted out loud in any social situation. It’s number three on the list, actually, right under my dissertation for my PhD program and the number of small rodent skeletons I have stored in my attic.
(FOR SCIENCE. I promise I don’t hang out with them or anything.)
My obvious social ineptitude aside (it’s shameful how much I actually need my sisters’ help), I’m positive I have no idea who this man is.
“I really don’t,” I finally say.
He nods and looks toward the cops standing on either side of me. “You can let her go. This was obviously a misunderstanding.”
Relief surges through my chest, and I take a deep breath, maybe the first one I’ve taken since this whole shenanigan began. As soon as my hands are free, I step forward to get my camera from the hood of the sheriff’s car.
The man clearly in charge of this situation, the one with the impressive pectoralis muscles and the bright blue eyes, beats me to it. He picks it up and scrolls through several photos. “You were photographing squirrels, you say?”
I nod, resisting the urge to yank the camera from his hands. “White ones. Or,onewhite one. Though I’m hopeful there are more.”
He stops on what must be the last photo I took before my…abduction? This is not the right word, I know. But my brain is full of norepinephrine from all the stress, and I’m not thinking clearly enough to land on the correct one.
