Chapter 11 Anna
ANNA
I never thought being a tour guide to a movie star, if you could even call it that, would change my life. But after one outing, I was sure: I would never, ever do it again.
Marie Antoinette popped up from behind the bar as I walked into Muses for my evening shift, her red hair a fiery halo in the dim light. “Anna, darling,” she said with her trademark smirk, “tell me all about the date.”
I froze. “Date?”
“Don’t play coy.” She wagged a finger at me. “You don’t fool me. Sparks were practically flying between you and Nigel, or as I like to call him, Sir Swoons-a-Lot. The heat between you two was so palpable that you could’ve fried a full English breakfast on the bartop.”
Determined to change the subject, I rolled my eyes. “He’s probably on a plane back to England by now. Like you always say, ‘There’s no point in waterin’ last year’s crop.’”
I pretended to busy myself cleaning pint glasses, but my hands trembled slightly.
What would she say if she knew that the man People magazine had once declared the “World’s Most Eligible Bachelor,” was staying just a few streets away from this bar?
Just the thought of it sent a shiver down my spine.
But it didn’t matter. Luke and I had agreed it wouldn’t work.
The arrangement, the partnership, whatever you wanted to call it, was doomed from the start.
My time was too important to waste on someone who, for all his charm, was just an out-of-touch, rich guy who wouldn’t know how to interact with real people if his life depended on it.
“Oh, poor Luke Fisher,” Marie Antoinette said suddenly, drawing my attention.
My head popped up, and I sloshed soapy water onto the counter. “What? Where?”
The bar went silent as every head turned toward me. I winced, realizing I’d shouted.
She raised an eyebrow. “Relax,” she said, pointing at the TV. “Luke Fisher’s on the screen, not in the room.”
I followed her gaze to the television, where Luke’s too-familiar face filled the frame. A moment later, it was replaced by an image of Sienna Hart draped over her new flame, Dylan Sanders.
“Sienna must’ve lost her mind,” Marie Antoinette said, shaking her head. “Imagine breaking up with Luke Fisher.”
Suppressing the irritation building inside me, I muttered, “Seems even the world’s most beautiful woman can see through his act.”
Marie Antoinette turned to me, her eyebrows raised in surprise. “Well, someone poured vinegar in your sweet tea. I think Sienna’s a fool. As they say, ‘Beauty is only skin deep, but ugly cuts clean to the bone.’”
“Who said that?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.
“Me. And Dorothy Parker,” she replied with a wink.
Before I could respond, her attention shifted to the entrance like a heat-seeking missile. She fanned herself dramatically with both hands. “Would you look at that specimen of manliness? My, my, my. If he’s interested in a fling, I say get ready to get flung.”
I followed her gaze, curious despite myself.
A brown-haired man with a face straight out of a Hugh Grant movie stood in the doorway, his posture casual but commanding.
He wore sunglasses indoors, which was an automatic red flag, and carried himself with a kind of effortless charm that screamed not from around here.
“Who even looks like that in real life?” Marie Antoinette whispered, clutching her chest. “It’s not fair.”
“Stop drooling,” I said, though I couldn’t look away either.
As if summoned, Mrs. Brodie hurried up to him and clasped his arm like they were old friends. She led him toward the back office, chatting animatedly.
We caught snippets of a strong Irish brogue.
“Gorgeous and Irish,” Marie Antoinette murmured, swiping at an imaginary tear. “Oh, come to mama. He’s the pot of gold at the end of my rainbow.”
I rolled my eyes. “He’s probably here to sell whiskey or something.”
Just then, the bar was hit by a sound that made my teeth ache. “Today’s ALL about ME!”
The screech was followed by the arrival of a bride-to-be, charging into Muses like a glitter bomb with legs. Her white tank top declared in cursive letters “Queen of the Day,” as if there was any doubt.
Trailing behind her was her entourage, all in matching black tanks with their designated roles blazoned across the front: “Sister of the Queen,” “Known the Queen Since Kindergarten,” and my personal favorite, “Barely Tolerating the Queen.”
I snorted, unable to help myself. “That last one’s got a story.”
Marie Antoinette leaned over the bar, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “I’ll bet ten bucks Barely Tolerating the Queen is the first one to lose her mind tonight.”
“You’re on,” I said, wincing when the group commandeered three tables with the precision of military generals.
“Where are my shots? I want them now!” the bride demanded, her voice like nails on a chalkboard.
I grabbed a tray and started loading it up, bracing myself for whatever chaos they were about to unleash.
And chaos they delivered.
The first thing they whipped out? Straws. But not just any straws. These featured a rather notable part of Michelangelo’s David, if you catch my drift.
Of course.
They didn’t just take their shots; they sipped them through those straws like it was some kind of twisted tea party. The bride held hers aloft like a royal scepter, her laughter loud enough to drown out the band.
The chaos reached a fever pitch when the bachelorette party set their sights on their next victim: the pool table. Two bridesmaids climbed up, turning it into a makeshift stage. They danced like they were auditioning for a music video.
The band faltered, patrons groaned, and I was mentally drafting my resignation letter when I spotted the young Hugh Grant look-alike from earlier, apparently finished with his discussion with Mrs. Brodie.
The guy shifted, sunglasses still on, and started edging toward the door with the kind of practiced nonchalance that screamed I’m not trying to sneak out, but I’m absolutely sneaking out.
My brain made the leap instantly: Luke.
Then immediately rolled its metaphorical eyes: Oh my gosh, get a grip. Not every tall guy in aviators is your movie star crush.
That’s when the bride noticed him. She had been enthusiastically cheering on her friends’ dance moves, but when she saw the Irishman, she froze mid-cheer.
Her eyes locked onto him like a predator spotting prey.
Without hesitation, she charged toward him, a cocktail sloshing precariously in her hand.
“You’re the spitting image of Hugh Grant,” she announced, her voice carrying over the band and the general chaos.
The man offered her a polite smile. “Ah, cheers,” he said.
The bride’s eyes widened. “No way, are you Irish? I am obsessed with Irish guys.”
Before he could formulate a response, the floodgates opened. Bridesmaids swarmed like moths to a flame, circling him with giddy laughter and overly familiar grins.
“I’d do anything for a bit of Irish luck tonight,” one cooed.
“If he’s the leprechaun guarding the pot of gold, I’m ready for a chase,” another one quipped, sending the group into fits of giggles.
To his credit, the man remained polite. “You ladies look like you’re having a grand time. The evening must be treating you well.”
He spoke calmly, but I caught the slight edge to his tone, and his jaw tightened as his eyes darted toward two large men in the corner who were completely engrossed in the bridesmaids’ impromptu dance routine on the pool table.
The man was looking for an exit. With his sunglasses still on, he moved toward the door, his movements deliberate but subtle, like someone trying to escape a crime scene without drawing attention.
That’s when I looked more closely at the two hulking men who were staring at the dancing bridesmaids, and even though they were wearing baseball caps, I recognized them as Luke’s bodyguards.
Was Luke trying on an Irish accent that night? I stepped into his path, tray balanced precariously on one hand and looked up at him.
Even wearing a brown wig and his face hidden by shades, those piercing blue eyes were unmistakable.