“Oh, comeon,” I mutter furiously to myself, stamping my foot like Veruca Salt in Willie Wonka when she doesn’t get her own way. “I’m actually going to burst here if I don’t tell someone I met Jett Carter!”
Jett Carter.
JettfreakingCarter.
I fled home with Jett Carter. I, Lexie Steele, went home withJett Carter. To his house. Where he lives. Jett ‘Golden Boy of Hollywood’ Carter. And me, Alexandra Louise Steele, Not-So-Golden-Any-More Girl of Heather Bay, Scotland.
Nope, it’s no use: no matter how many ways I try to say it, I just can’t make it make sense. Probably because —whisper it— the story I’ve been repeating to myself all the way home isn’ttotallyaccurate, is it?
I didn’t really “go home” with Jett Carter, for one thing.
No, I went “home” with Mr. 3.5 — a total loser with a hideous beard, who I’d barely even looked twice at, even though I’d been serving him drinks all evening, and he’d casually rescued me from an aggressive drunk.
There’s a lesson in this somewhere, I suppose. Probably that old, hackneyed one about not judging books by their cover. I’ve been being judged by my “cover” my entire life, though, and it looks like it’s had more of an effect on me than I’d really like to admit. I mean, can you blame me for taking one look at that neanderthal beard and instantly dismissing the guy wearing it?
Youdo?
Okay. I guess I deserve that.
What I absolutely donotdeserve, however, is to come home after meeting my teenage heartthrob and have absolutely no one I can tell a highly dramatized version of the story to.
That’s just not fair.
And neither is the fact that, when I head to the kitchen in defeat, I find we’re we’re totally out of coffee.
“Aaaarrgh! Shitty McShitterson! This is so unfair!”
I want to scream with frustration, but that would just be time I could spend getting myself appropriately caffeinated; so after a quick change of clothes, I sling my bag back over my shoulder and head out the door. I don’t have to be at work until this evening, and there’s a coffee shop right at the end of this street. I’ll grab a coffee, then see if I can track down Summer before I’m due to start. Maybe that way I can start to turn this day around.
Or maybe not.
The coffee shop is unusually crowded for this time of day, and by the time it’s my turn, I’m almost frothing at the mouth with impatience. I order my skinny vanilla latte, then take it to a table by the window to drink it while it’s still hot. Well, lukewarm. I come to this place because it’s close, not because it’s good. And also because it’s usually pretty quiet.
Not today, though.
Outside, the sidewalk is empty, as usual, but, on the opposite side of the street, I notice a small crowd seems to have gathered. A small, almost exclusively male crowd, most of whom are clutching gigantic, flashing cameras with telescopic lenses, which…
Aha!
Paparazzi!
Shit just got interesting.
Feeling perkier, I glance around the coffee shop with interest, wondering who the paps are hoping to photograph coming out of it. It’s not particularly unusual to see photographers — and even the occasional celebrity — in this part of L.A., but, much to my disappointment, I never seem to see anyone interesting. I have an uncanny knack of managing to leave a club or bar minutes before some A-lister or other arrives. Seriously, I can’t even tell you the number of times I’ve served someone famous at the bar without recognizing them.
(Okay, I can, it’s twice. Although one of those times it was a Real Housewife, which doesn’t really count.)
And that’s without evenmentioningJett Carter, who I grudgingly watched sleep for several hours before I realized who he was.
Hollywood is really wasted on me, isn’t it?
Today, it seems, is going to be no exception. There are no celebrities inside this coffee shop — not even someone with a scraggly beard hiding a world-famous face. I know, because I look extra-carefully at everyone with facial hair, just to be sure. You better believe I won’t be making that mistakeagain.
Disappointed, I turn back to my coffee and my phone.
Summer still hasn’t answered me, so I spend a few minutes idly scrolling Instagram (Ada Valentine has been sent yetanotherbox of free stuff, I see. God, Ihatethat woman…), before idly opening up TMZ, to see if there are any clues to be found there about who the paparazzi crew on the street opposite me are staking out now. Maybe now that I’ve met Jett Carter, my celebrity-sightings drought is over, and I’ll start seeing them everywhere? Maybe celebrities are like busses, and you just wait forever, before three come along at once?
I scroll past a couple of celebrity breakups, plus a detailed discussion of theHousewives of Beverly Hills. I’m just about to give up and put the phone back in my bag when I see something so out of place it’s like seeing a unicorn at the supermarket. Or the late Queen standing in line at the ATM.
