Page 40 of A Summer of Stars

“I’ll get that,” he said, brushing feta cheese from his palms before exiting through the swinging kitchen door.

TheHome Is Where the Kitchen Issign bounced against the wood like a knocker. It was in an extravagant cursive made of metal, surrounded by spatulas and whisks, something my mother picked up at the housewares store in town a decade ago. Dad let me take it when I moved here after the divorce. It was an unspoken token that they were both here, even if one of them wasn’t a call away. The sign had been passed down, but none of her cooking skills were. I continued to chop at an excruciatingly slow pace.

By the time I finished with the thyme, the door was opening, and the sign was swinging again.

“Amir, what’s the best way to cut celery? Do you move the celery under the knife or the knife over the celery?” I asked.

“I’d start by curling your nails before moving that knife anymore.”

My gaze snapped to the door, and I put the knife down. “Why are you here so early?”

Kieran checked the leather watch on his wrist. “I’m twenty minutes late.”

“We don’t start for another forty-five minutes.”

He tipped his head back, staring at the ceiling. A silent groan was hidden in the bob of his Adam’s apple. His hat tried to tame the blond waves on his head. Jeans covered the length of his legs, and a hoodie covered his arms. I was always surprised to see him like this, without the Hollywood air. He only ever lived in my mind as someone behind a screen and an actor who wore expensive suits at lavish events.

“I think we were set up,” he thought aloud.

I returned to the celery, chopping. “Well, no one is here to holdus accountable for bonding, so why don’t you go… sit in the living room or find some married woman to flirt with. There’s quite a few in this neighborhood.”

“While you use a knife like that? I don’t think so.”

“I’m perfectly fine—”

“You’re going to cut yourself—”

“No I won’t—”

“Luna—”

The knife slipped, and the blade clipped the pad of my finger.

“Shit,” I hissed, dropping the knife and clutching my thumb.

“Let me see—” He stepped forward.

Instinctively, I backed up. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“Luna, give me your hand.” His voice was firm and solid like a mahogany bookcase.

Luna. There it was again. No hint of that witty tone or edge of humor.

“It really is fine.”

“Do you have to argue with me about everything?”

“You do the same.”

“Only when it comes to you, it seems. Now give me your hand.”

Reluctantly, I handed him my palm, scared to see it myself. I steered my gaze in the opposite direction, which was undeniably a terrible, terrible idea. Because without looking, I couldn’t anticipate the moment his hand took hold of mine.

In front of cameras was one thing. That was planned. A pushed aside feeling with the flashes and shouting crowding my focus.

Now, it was just us.

The tips of his fingers tracing my palm paused my concern. Then he rotated my thumb, resting it in the center of his hand, as if he were inspecting a seashell for sand or hidden critters.