Zac Efron stepped into the Starbucks.
“God,” he whispered to himself in exasperation. He’d signed no less than six autographs during the walk from the car to the inside of the store. All he wanted was a nice iced mocha. Was that too much to ask?
“Hey, welcome to Starbucks,” said the barista behind the counter with a smile. He was thin, wore glasses and had dirty blonde hair. “What can I get for you?”
“Uh, venti iced mocha, no whip,” Zac replied. “Name is Zac.”
“Sure thing,” the barista said and took the payment as his fellow employee worked on the orders.
Zac sat down at a table and waited.
“Better not take too long, I got a screening to get to in an hour,” he sighed. Then he heard his name called. He went to get his drink.