So why do I feel so deflated?
* * *
“Be honest, you didn’t want to kiss me either, did you?”
Jett and I are standing by the edge of the water on Carbon Beach, in Malibu, where Jett just so happens to have a home. Becauseof coursehe does.
The house in question is directly behind us, tucked between a couple of other multi-million dollar homes, and when I walked into it, it was all I could do not to collapse in hysterical laughter at the sheer ridiculousness of this situation.
Until now, I’d thought Jack Buchanan’s house in Heather Bay was the very epitome of wealth. But Carbon Beach makes the banks of Loch Keld, where Jack’s mansion is situated, look pretty ordinary, really. As I walk out onto to the golden sand, I’m surrounded by so much money that even though I’m wearing one of the designer outfits I dug out of Grace’s shopping bags, and Jakob has grudgingly done my hair and makeup, to make me look like the best possible version of myself, I feel instantly grubby — and very, very fake.
I do not belong here. That much is patently obvious as I turn and look back at the house behind us, where Asher, Grace, and — unaccountably — Jakob, are all lined up on the glass-fronted balcony, watching us as we stroll casually down to the water, looking for all the world like any other ridiculously mismatched couple taking a romantic walk together.
Or, at least, that’s the idea.
Jett’s doing just fine, of course. Well, he would be, wouldn’t he? He’s an actor. This kind of thing is as easy as breathing to him. I, on the other hand, must look every bit as awkward as I feel. And now I’ve just gone and made it even worse with my stupidly needy comment about him not wanting to kiss me.
Why can’t I stop fixating on this?
“You okay, Lady M? It’s just, you seem a bit on edge, is all.”
Ignoring my question, Jett shoots me a concerned look from under the brim of his baseball cap, which is once again crammed firmly down over his eyes.
“I’m fine,” I say, sounding anything but. “Absolutely fine!”
Just to prove how very, very fine I am, I nonchalantly toss my hair over one shoulder, somehow managing to knock my sunglasses off in the process. As Jett bends down to fish them out of the shallow water for me, his hat falls off too, getting instantly soaked by the waves.
Asher will belovingthis, for sure.
“Relax,” Jett mutters under his breath, wringing the water out of his cap before slipping it into the pocket of his shorts. “It’s just photos, okay? And they’re going to be taken from quite far away, so they won’t even be particularly good ones, anyway. Trust me, you can’t mess this up.”
“Oh, I can,” I assure him, as we turn and start to walk along the shoreline. “I can messanythingup, believe me. It’s a special talent of mine.”
I glance nervously over my shoulder, wondering where the photographers are. Asher said he’d get Grace to put in a call to one of the agencies, tipping them off that we’d be here. If they took the bait and sent someone to photograph us, though, I can’t see them, and the thought that I’m probably being secretly watched right now — other than by Asher and Grace themselves — is making it impossible for me to relax.
“Just act normal,” Jett says again, placing a reassuring hand on my arm, which makes me jump in shock at the contact. His hand is warm and soft, and when he takes it away, I can still feel it on my skin.
That can’t be a good sign.
“You don’t know what you ask of me,” I say ruefully, glancing up at him. “‘Normal’ isn’t exactly something I’m known for.”
“Me neither,” he says, grinning suddenly. “At least that’s something we have in common.”
“It has to be the only thing,” I reply without thinking. “Hollywood, the Highlands… there’s just not a whole lot of crossover there, is there?”
It’s true. Jett’s Malibu beach house might be smaller than his place in the Hills, but it’s still worlds away from the little stone cottage I inherited from my grandmother on Heather Bay beach; or, indeed, the house I grew up in, which mum always claimed she was just “too busy” to clean. I spent most of my life trying to help her maintain the charade that we were doing well because of the distillery, while behind the scenes, our lives were just barely held together by credit cards and sheer willpower.
Jett and I might as well be from different worlds, let alone different backgrounds.
“I’ve never been to Scotland,” Jett says thoughtfully. “What’s it like?”
I think about this for a moment.
“It’s… green,” I say at last. “It’s very, very green. And cold. And wet. Especially compared to here.”
“You’re really selling it to me.” He chuckles drily. “When can we go?”
I smile weakly, but the truth is, just talking about Scotland is making me homesick.
