Okay,ten.
How bad can it possibly be, after all?
* * *
As it turns out, it can be bad.
Like, really,reallybad.
As in, however you’re imagining this scenario playing out, multiply it by ten, then do the same again.
It’s even worse than the time I “accidentally” set Emerald’s dress on fire just before she was about to walk out onto the stage at the Heather Bay Gala Day. That incident only resulted in the town hall burning down. This one involvescrabs. Lots and lots ofcrabs.
Did I mention it’s bad?
I get back to the table exactly 12 minutes after I left it, to find it absolutely covered in crustaceans.
Covered.
“I don’t know what you like to eat,” says a bored sounding Jett, who’s presiding over the table like some hellish Lord of the Underworld or something, “So I just asked them to bring us a bit of everything. Oh,” he adds, seeing my horrified expression at last, “I did order you a crab salad, though. That’s what you wanted, right?”
Wrong.
That is very much NOT what I wanted. I can’t imagine it being what anyone in their rightmindwould want, to be perfectly honest. And while I’m sure a crab salad probablydoesn’tmean a heap of lettuce with lots of evil little claws sticking out of it, I’m not about to hang around to find out, because this is just too much.
There’s one huge crab in the center of the table, looking like all of my worst dreams come to life. Or death, as the case may be. Why aren’t there more horror movies about crabs, I wonder? Because they’d make theperfectmonsters, and as my horrified eyes sweep over the table, taking in the multiple smaller monsters dotted around the terrible centerpiece, something in me snaps.
I can’t do this.
I just can’t.
All of a sudden, I am five years old again, and there’s a monster under the bed.
This time, though, I can run.
So that’s exactly what I do.
I open my mouth to apologize to Jett for what I’m about to do, but when nothing comes out, I turn, and I run.
I run right across the restaurant, ignoring the camera phones which are now being blatantly held up in my direction, and head straight for the front door, not caring who sees me. I’m vaguely aware of someone following hot on my heels — Jett, I assume — as I reach the front door of the restaurant. I just have to run the gauntlet of the lobster tank and I’ll be back to safety, so, without slowing down, I screw my eyes shut and run blindly for the double doors, bursting through them with my hands held out in front of me like weapons, and my face a mask of horror.
And that’s the photo the assembled paparazzi get of me and Jett on our first date.
Chapter 14
“This is a disaster. It’s a straight-up disaster. It could not have gone worse if we’d planned it. Itoldyou we should have hired a real actress.”
It’s the next morning, we’re all assembled in Jett’s state-of-the-art kitchen, and I’m way too embarrassed to eventhinkabout asking to see that amazing pantry again.
(I would still like a look at the master closet, though. I should probably save that for later.)
The photos of me and Jett running out of the restaurant made the front page of all of this morning’s papers and briefly crashed Instagram when one of the celebrity gossip accounts got hold of the video version.
I’ve had to switch off my phone again in a bid to ignore the increasingly frenzied messages from Mum and Summer (“Lexie. Call me,” was all Mum said in her most recent voicemail, sounding considerably less breezy than she did in her first one.), and although I haven’tofficiallybeen sacked yet as Jett’s fake girlfriend, I’ve packed my stuff in preparation for the inevitable moment I’m asked to leave the hotel.
(On the plus side, The Crab Shack is apparently booked solid for the next three weeks now, so, despite what Asher would have us believe, I guess it’s not atotaldisaster.)
“It’s a total disaster,” Asher repeats, running an exasperated hand through his silver gray hair as he paces back and forth on the shiny tiles. At the breakfast bar, Grace, Leroy and Jakob sit in a row, their eyes nervously following him as if they’re watching a tennis match. (I have no idea why Jakob is here; this really doesn’t seem like a moment that anyone’s going to need to be “styled” for, but he sidled up to me when he arrived and hissed, “Just FYI, Birkenstocks aretotallyon trend, you know,” before stalking off again, so I suspect he’s just here to witness my downfall. And who could blame him?)
