“Lexie?” Grace says gently, interrupting my guilt-fest. “Do you want to start getting ready? We have to go and meet Jett.”
* * *
Just over an hour later I’m sitting on a wide balcony, which is basically just a glass box hanging off the side of Jett’s house, with the entire city spread out below me.
Down below me, I can see someone cleaning the pool, while over to the left, there’s a low hum from a strimmer, as someone else works on the immaculate garden.
Now that I’ve seen the pantry, I wonder what the closets are like? And how I could somehow manage to work that into the conversation I’m about to have?
The thought of talking to Jett again, however, makes my mouth go dry with nerves.
I’ve no idea why I’m feeling so anxious all of a sudden. It’s not like I haven’t been here before, after all. It’s not like I haven’t seenhimbefore.
This is my third time in his house. In Heather Bay terms, we’re practically married. If we were at home right now, the entire village would be alight with gossip about me and Jett, and Bella McGowan would be wondering if she should bake some cakes with our entwined initials on them.
That might well be happening, mind you. It’s not like they don’t have the Internet back in the Highlands, much as it surprises my Californian friends to hear it. When I tell people here where I come from, they instantly imagine us all wrapped in our tartan plaids, stealing livestock and fighting Sassennachs. Actually, though, when I left Heather Bay, Jack Buchanan had just opened a swanky new bar, and Shona McLaren was thinking of starting a blog.
“Or maybe I should go with that Tok-Tik thingummy jig, Lexie?” she said, the last time I saw her. “I hear that’s all the rage now. What d’ye think?”
What I think is that, with or without the power of social media behind her, Shona will make sure that everyone in Heather Bay knows that Lexie Steele has somehow managed to bag herself a movie star boyfriend. They’ll all think it’s real.
I think I’m going to pass out.
“Hey.”
While I was staring down at the city, thinking about Heather Bay, Jett has walked out onto the balcony as stealthily as a cat. And when I turn around to face him, I’m so shocked I almost fall flat on my face.
It’s Jett Carter.
And, I mean,obviouslyit’s Jett Carter. It’s not like I was expecting someoneelseto walk through that door and pretend to be my boyfriend.
Since I last saw him, though, he’s done as I asked, and has dutifully shaved off the obnoxious beard. Which means that thisJett Carter — the one standing in front of me, with a totally unreadable expression on his face — is the same Jett Carter I know from his movies. It’s the same Jett Carter whose poster I used to have on the wall of my teenage bedroom; instantly recognizable, and really quite devastatingly attractive.
Oh, mierda.
This isreallynot good news for me, is it?
The thing is, I’ve been thinking about this a lot since last night, and I’m more convinced than ever that if I’m going to be this man’s fake girlfriend, Icannotallow myself to fall for him for real. I just can’t afford the heartbreak I know it will cause me when he doesn’t love me back. And he won’t, will he? Because he’s a Hollywood superstar, and I’m just a girl from the Highlands, who works in a dead-end bar and only has one friend. Two if you count Grace, and, actually, I think Iwillcount Grace, just to make myself feel a little better about this.
So, two friends — one of whom I’m forbidden from talking to — and one fake boyfriend. Who doesn’t seem to want to talk tome, if the way he’s just pulled out his phone and started scrolling through it is anything to go by.
Okay, so we’re back to just the one friend again. I should probably mention this to Grace, just so she knows she’s the designated BFF now, whether she wants to be or not.
“Are you okay?”
Jett’s stopped looking at his phone and is staring at me again. It’s not a particularly friendly stare.
“You’re muttering something under your breath,” he says pointedly. “Something about your friends. And you look like you can smell something bad.”
He raises one arm and sniffs experimentally at his armpit, and I smile in spite of my churning stomach.
“Oh, that’s just my face,” I assure him, sounding much breezier than I feel. “I have a resting bitch face. It runs in the family.”
It’s true. My “resting” expression would probably be best described as “pure, undiluted disgust.” “Smile, it might never happen,” is the thing people say to me most often; and absolutelyhilariousit is too, I’m sure you’ll agree.
“Uh-huh.” Jett looks unconvinced, but at least he’s not being openly hostile. I’ll take that as a win.
“This is kind of awkward, isn’t it?” he says, taking the seat opposite mine.
