“Anytime,” I say, then turn back to Haven.
“Where’s New Chris?” I whisper.
“He’s not in this scene, but he’ll be in the next one. Want to stay and meet him?”
I check the time. “I’ll see if I can come back. I need to bring Salma her flowers.”
“Haven!” the director calls out, and my sister returns to the counter.
I weave through the crew, a little overwhelmed and starry-eyed, and head back to the street where Banks is waiting for me with the lavender delivery for Salma.
“How was it?” he asks.
“Kind of amazing,” I whisper, then we walk along the familiar block with its Hollywood blockade.
As we leave it, Banks scans left and right, then says, “Press over there. I’ve got you.”
“Thanks,” I say, grateful for his presence as he ushers me past photographers. There are more than last week. So many more. Understandable since, well, the film’s actually shooting today.
“Are they all paparazzi?” I ask, recognizing Silas from last week, and the guy Banks pointed out, Ludwig. But there are others too.
“No. Some are with the entertainment press. They aren’t quite…hunters.”
“Thank god,” I say, relieved for that as he whisks me into Salma’s market.
“I’ll stay here,” he says, nodding to the doorway of the shop. “So you can see your customer by yourself.”
I’m touched he remembered I wanted that. But not surprised. I head down the first aisle to find Salma at the florist counter, but instead I walk right toward the movie star himself.
Chris Carlisle is in the store, and he’s holding a sandwich.
30
A GRATITUDE SANDWICH
RIPLEY
Chris Carlisle doesn’t look like everyone else in town. With his chiseled jawline, carved cheekbones, wavy golden-brown hair, and crystal-blue eyes, he looks as advertised.
A movie star.
He’s also got an entourage. A big, burly man walks a few feet behind him, wearing a tight black polo shirt that stretches across his chest. That must be his bodyguard. A petite woman in black pants and leopard flats is next to him, a phone, tablet, and notebook in her arms.
They’re all heading my way when Chris’s gaze lands on mine, and instantly a smile brightens his face.
It’s like a billboard on the side of the highway. A movie marquee you have to look at. He strides right up to me, those blue eyes locked on me. “You must be Ripley.”
I’m not usually starstruck, only because I don’t usually meetstars, so I don’t have a second to stammer or gawk. After all, he’s the guy my sister says isso nice.
“I am,” I say, then take a quick pause, assessing my reaction. Yes, he’s a movie star, but he also puts his pants on one leg at a time. So I treat him as I’d treat anyone. With kindness and a little humor. “And I’m guessing you’remaybe, possiblyChris Carlisle?”
He laughs politely, his gaze staying on me the whole time. “Good guess.” Then, his expression turns more serious. “I am so grateful for you.” Sandwich in hand, he comes closer, extending his free arm. “Hug?”
Oh.
He’s asking for consent to hug. Okay. That’s interesting. I shift the flowers awkwardly to my other arm, saying, “Sure.”
He wraps his arm around me in a side hug that’s quick, friendly, respectful, then he lets go. “What an honor to meet you,” he says, both earnest and intense.
