Chapter 3 Anna
ANNA
What was Luke Fisher, world-famous movie star, doing in New Orleans? And why was he standing in front of me, staring at me with those impossibly blue eyes that made women across the globe swoon?
I’d watched him win the hand of Lady Elizabeth and the hearts of women around the world, playing Sir Nigel in the historical epic The Crown and the Anvil.
He’d portrayed a royal pretending to be a blacksmith, which explained his silly cover story at the bar.
No wonder his English accent was flawless.
There wasn’t a woman alive who could forget that iconic scene where, to solve some period-appropriate dilemma, he had to spontaneously strip down and take a dramatic swim in a lake.
But for me, his breakout role in The Boyfriend Test had been even more unforgettable.
That was the movie that not only skyrocketed his fame but also set an impossibly high standard for boyfriends everywhere.
In the film, he embodied every romantic dream.
In every scene, whether he was orchestrating a moonlit rooftop dinner or serenading his love with a ballad he wrote just for her, he embodied the perfect boyfriend.
Watching him in that movie, you couldn’t help but wish for a love story just like it, knowing full well that real life could never compare.
And yet real life had hit him back—hard. Even he hadn’t passed the Boyfriend Test in the end. After all, movie star Sienna Hart had broken his heart in front of the entire world.
I stared at him, taking in the features that had been splashed across movie posters and magazine covers for years.
But as I looked closer, I realized he wasn’t perfect.
There was a small scar at his hairline, faint but visible.
Freckles dotted the bridge of his nose. Freckles.
I’d never noticed those before, even in high definition.
He must use makeup to hide them. And then there were his sunglasses—slightly crooked and scratched across one lens, like they’d been hastily tossed into the bottom of a bag.
The kind of tiny, real-world imperfection that would make any Hollywood handler cringe.
Somehow, though, all those flaws didn’t detract from his looks. If anything, they made him more compelling, more human.
Grrrrr. I didn’t want him to be more human, more relatable.
He’d been a complete jerk about New Orleans.
Loud, sticky, potholes, blah, blah, blah.
Who even insults a city like that? It’s like insulting someone’s kid.
He didn’t want to be in the best city in the world, and, honestly, the feeling was mutual.
He could take his swoon-worthy blue eyes and perfectly tousled blonde hair and leave. The sooner, the better.
“Are you going to keep glaring at me?” he asked, “or are you going to say something?”
Oh, great. It was as if he could read my mind. “I’m not glaring,” I shot back. “I’m thinking.”
“Well, don’t hurt yourself,” he muttered, running a hand through his annoyingly perfect hair.
I rolled my eyes. “You’re unbelievable.”
A sudden swell of noise and a high-pitched squeal from outside the door caught my attention. The chatter and laughter from the bar had grown louder, with a new edge of excitement.
Luke’s blue eyes darted to the door, then back to me.
“I need to get out of here,” he said, his voice lower now, laced with desperation.
“No one can know I’m in New Orleans. If word gets out…
” He exhaled, then looked at his phone. “I texted my bodyguards, and they’re waiting in a car outside.
I’ll have them come in and escort me out. Quietly.”
My jaw tightened. This guy. This guy. I could let him fend for himself.
I could tell Marie Antoinette exactly who he was and let her spill the beans to the rowdy crowd outside.
I’d bet they’d love a selfie with Hollywood’s golden boy.
It would serve him right after all the insults about New Orleans.
But something about him made me take pity on him. Maybe it was the flicker of desperation in those gorgeous blue eyes.
“Luke, the only way out of this bar is the front door. If you bring in suited-up bodyguards to escort you out of here, everyone will know it’s you. If I’m going to help you, we’re doing this my way.”
He tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “Your way?”
I held up a hand before he could repeat something stupid about my city. “Here’s the deal. You’ll have to be quick and avoid anyone who might recognize you. Can you manage that?”
“Do I look incapable of sneaking out of a bar?” His voice was full of disdain.
I gave him, his baseball cap, and his Ray-Bans a pointed look. “You’re dressed like you’re trying to avoid the paparazzi while also screaming, ‘Look at me.’ So, yeah, you look incapable.”
He frowned. “I thought wearing a cap and sunglasses would be enough.”
“It’s not.”
He opened his mouth to argue but seemed to think better of it. “Fine,” he muttered. “What’s your brilliant plan, then?”
I crossed the room and pulled open the bar’s lost-and-found box. “You’re about to become the most fabulous Bourbon Street fashionista anyone’s ever seen. Don’t thank me too quickly.”
I rummaged through the box, pulling out a mishmash of abandoned accessories. One by one, I laid them out on the desk with a flourish. “Let’s see.” I held up a purple, green, and gold sequined jacket. “This is a start.” I tossed it at him, and he caught it reluctantly.
“Are you serious?” he asked, looking at the jacket like it might bite him.
“Very serious.” I held up the next item: a floppy straw hat with a giant, fake sunflower pinned to the brim. “This screams ‘Bourbon Street tourist.’”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Oh, we’re just getting started.” I yanked out a pair of giant, glittery flamingo-shaped sunglasses. “These are non-negotiable.”
Before he could protest, I threw a feather boa over his shoulder and layered him with at least fifty strands of brightly colored Mardi Gras beads. By the time I was done, the beads almost entirely obscured his face, and the hat dipped low enough to hide his eyes.
I stepped back to admire my handiwork, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. “Perfect. No one will recognize you.”
“I look like I belong in a parade,” he grumbled, adjusting the boa.
“That’s the point.” I stifled a giggle. “Now, you can walk right past everyone in the bar, and they’ll think you’re just another overzealous tourist who lost their group. Trust me, you’ll blend right in.”
He sighed, glancing down at himself. “This is ridiculous.”
“This is New Orleans,” I shot back. “Are you ready to escape or what?”
He groaned but nodded. “Fine. Let’s get this over with.”
I peeked out the door, making sure the coast was clear. The crowd was still rowdy, but most people were preoccupied with their drinks and each other. I motioned for him to follow, and we weaved our way past the crowd and out the front door.
As he stepped into the street, he turned back to me, the feather boa swaying with every movement. “You have a cruel sense of humor.” His voice dripped with reluctant gratitude.
I smirked. “You’re welcome. Get in your getaway car before someone spots you.”
He muttered something under his breath, adjusted the floppy hat, and strode toward a sleek black SUV that was idling on the street. The ridiculous outfit didn’t quite diminish his natural air of confidence, though the beads clinking around his neck made it hard to take him seriously.
The car door opened, and he climbed in without a backward glance. The SUV pulled away smoothly, leaving only the faint echo of the engine behind.
For a moment, I stood there, leaning against the doorframe and shaking my head.