Tommy must be able to read the hesitation written on my face, because he claps me on the back like he’s a coach for a youth soccer team. “Live a little, okay? Go have some fun.”
* * *
• • •
Chloe was excited when I texted her about this dinner—in fact, she called it a date, a designation I quickly denied. This is a work obligation. This is a cocky movie star who’s too good to even spend time with his castmates being stuck going to dinner with a lowly assistant. This isn’t anyone’s idea of a good time, and it certainly isn’t “straight out of a rom-com,” as Chloe insisted.
“You don’t even believe in love,” I texted.
“Not for me,” Chloe texted back. “But you’re a hopeless romantic. Love exists for people like you. At least you’ll get to eat somewhere good.”
She has a point there, I think as I slide into the passenger seat of Drew’s car. I don’t know the first thing about cars, but even I can tell that this is a lot nicer than Uncle Don’s Prius. If cars had names, Uncle Don’s would be Brenda, and she would be a sassy, no-nonsense HR manager. This car, whatever it is, would be named Cristal, and she would probably be an Instagram influencer.
“You drive yourself, then?” I ask, clicking my seat belt into place. “No drivers or limos?”
I don’t look right at Drew, but I can tell he’s looking at me with that infuriating smirk on his face. “I think you might have a slightly inflated sense of my net worth.”
And you definitely don’t understand how little I get paid for writing articles about DIY bathroom renovations, I think.
He insisted on driving, even though I offered—it’s not like he knows his way around, but perhaps he was feeling chivalrous or, more accurately, thought I was incapable of operating a motor vehicle or doing anything other than fetching coffee. As his phone calls out lefts and rights, I finally ask him where we’re going.
“Oh,” he says, his voice sounding both teasing and ominous, “you’ll see.”
* * *
• • •
It’s McDonald’s. Drew Danforth, star of screens both large and small, takes me to the home of the McNugget.
“This is a joke, right?” I ask as I stare up at the golden arches, but he’s out of the car before he even hears me. Of course, when Drew has a chance to go somewhere good—to take me, someone who rarely goes to fancy restaurants, to a nice place—he decides it would be oh-so-funny to visit a fast-food joint.
“Oh, my God,” I mutter, and I’m about to swing my door open when he opens it for me.
“You don’t have to do that,” I snap, about to tell him not to make fun of me by opening the door as if I’m the famous person and he’s my driver. Then I remember that I promised Tommy I would keep Drew company. I can do this, for the good of the movie, because it’s part of my job.
“I’m fully capable of opening my own doors,” I say in a more measured tone.
“What can I say?” Drew says, smiling. “It’s these Southern manners. My mom drilled them into me, and now I can’t ditch them, even if I try.”
We walk inside, and I remember, from my ill-fated research, that Drew is from Louisiana. Apparently he managed to drop his accent much easier than the manners.
As McDonald’s go, this is one of the better ones. It’s clean and bright and appears to be both staffed and patronized largely by teenagers. Drew strolls up to the counter and orders, unaware of stares from the employees, then motions for me to do the same.
After we get our food and sit down, Drew immediately takes a huge bite of his Big Mac. “Oh, God,” he groans, and it sounds so inappropriate that I have to look away from his face. “This is the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”
The Big Mac isn’t the only thing he ordered. His plastic tray also contains a ten-piece order of Chicken McNuggets, the biggest order of fries I’ve ever seen, two apple pies, and a hot fudge sundae. The cashier, a cute girl in her early twenties, claimed the ice-cream machine was broken, but one smile from Drew and it magically worked.
“So you . . . like fast food?” I ask, dipping a Chicken McNugget in honey.
“I don’t like it.” He shakes his head. “I love it. But this is the first time I’ve had it in . . . two years, maybe? I was on this intense high-protein diet when I was filming The Last Apocalypse, and I had to eat, like, fifteen chicken breasts a day. No carbs.”
“That sounds disgusting,” I say, feeling sympathy for Drew for the first time ever. “No fast food?”
“No sugar.” He holds up a hand, ticking things off with his fingers. “No pasta, no bread, no beans, no oats, no potatoes.”
“Just chicken breasts?”
“Chicken breasts and broccoli. It was harrowing. And then even when we were done filming, I had to promote the movie so I still had to eat pretty healthy,” he says, dipping a fry into his sundae. “I mean, sure, I was a hundred percent muscle, but now that I’m not working out three times a day, my soft, doughy middle is going to return.”
I try to stifle a laugh and it comes out as an unappealing snort, which makes Drew smile. Not that I noticed or cared.
I think back to the pages of Drew pictures I scrolled through online. Honestly, he looked better when he was in Mike’s Restaurant, back when his face was rounder and he was surrounded in appealing baby fat. He looked . . . sweet.
“You looked fine before,” I say.
He raises his eyebrows. “You think I looked fine?”
“Fine like okay. Not fine like a ’90s R&B song.”
He clutches his chest. “Wow. Be still, my beating heart, the great Annie Cassidy deigns to pay me a compliment.”
I can feel my face getting red, and I’m pretty sure Drew is making fun of me. I’m not sure how he even knows my last name—I thought I was just Coffee Girl to him. Is he learning personal details about me for the purpose of being kind of condescending? God, what in-depth jerkery this is.
He gestures toward his apple pies, not noticing my silent seething. “You want one of these? I only ordered one, but the girl at the register gave me two for some reason.”
I snort. “I wonder why?”
He looks at me, genuinely confused.
“Because that cashier wants to marry you and have, like, ten of your babies,” I say.
He turns and looks toward the counter, where the cashier is staring at him. She quickly looks away.
“And that table over there is definitely filming you on their phones,” I say, gesturing toward a table of teenagers who aren’t even bothering to hide their interest.
“Hey,” Drew says, waving at them, then turns back to me.
“You must love this, right?” I ask. “All the attention. The pictures. The extra apple pies.”
He gestures toward me with his. “Who among us could resist this deep-fried perk?”
Just like he does on the red carpet, he’s deflecting questions, not taking anything seriously. It’s more than a little infuriating. “Why are you even in this movie?” I ask, irritation dripping from my voice.
Drew raises his eyebrows. “What?”