“Isn’t this nice?” says Scarlett smugly from the back seat, where she’s sitting with her knees up somewhere under her chin, thanks to the non-existent legroom. “Now we can all really get to know each other.”
* * *
When Jett insisted on driving to Birnam, I said I’d drive us back: an offer I now vehemently regret, given that it leaves Jett and Scarlett free to chat, while I focus on the road.
I don’t think I’ve ever hated anyone quite as much as I hate Scarlett Scott.
Other than maybe Jett Carter. Because right now I… don’thateJet, obviously. I could never actuallyhatehim. I’m justconfusedby him, I guess. Confused by the way he blows hot and cold all the time. The way one minute he can be gazing into my eyes, as if I’m the only person in the world who’s ever mattered to him, and the next minute he’s twisting around in his seat to talk to the First Witch back there, like I don’t even exist.
I feel a bit like a chauffeur as the car winds its way through Perthshire and back into the Highlands. Just the hired help — which I suppose I am, really. Scarlett, meanwhile, is having the time of her life, sitting there basking in the rays of Jett’s undivided attention. And who can blame her? I just hope she’s clever enough to realize he’s acting most of the time.
Don’t make the same mistake I did, Scarlett.
Don’t let yourself believe he’s actually into you.
The drive to Birnam took approximately three hours. The drive home takes approximatelyforever, and by the time we’re finally cresting the hill above the town, and driving down towards the main street, the sun has started to sink into the sea, which is spread out in front of us, like a painting. I’m absolutely starving. There’s no way I’m going to mention that in front of Scarlett, though, just in case Jett suggests she joins us for dinner, so I say nothing, and try to ignore the rumbling of my stomach as I drop her off at her house, then turn and head for home, feeling suddenly self-conscious now that it’s just me and Jett again.
Every time I find myself alone with him, it feels like the first time. Like I’m still the silly little schoolgirl who went to watch him in his first movie, and felt jealous of every woman he was photographed with.
I really wish he didn’t make me feel like this.
I wish he wasn’t so damn attractive to me.
I wish—
“Hey, has someone broken into your house?”
Jett’s voice jolts me abruptly out of my self-pity spiral. The cottage has just come into view at the end of the road we’re driving down, and, to my horror, I see the door is wide open.
“Shit,” Jett says we pull into the driveway. “I knew we should’ve had some security here. Even having that McTavish guy outside would’ve been better than nothing.”
My hands are trembling as I pull the handbrake up and turn off the engine. I can’t believe someone has been inside my house, and I’m almost too afraid to go in myself and see what kind of damage they’ve done.
“It must have been one of those crazy fans of yours,” I say, getting reluctantly out of the car. “They’ve been hanging around for days now. I guess it was just a matter of time before one of them tried to get in. They’re probably waiting in your bed or—”
I put my thumbnail in my mouth and start biting it, not wanting to think about what one of Jett’s fans could be getting up to in my house right now.
“Should we call the police before we go in?” I wonder aloud, but before Jett can answer, there’s a movement in the doorway, and the “intruder” steps out onto the path.
It’s not a crazed Jett Carter fan, determined to get me out of the way so they can have him to himself.
No, it’s much, much worse than that.
It’s Mum.
Chapter 32
The Wildcat Cafe looks exactly the same as it did the last time I was here. Mind you, it’s probably looked exactly the same for the pastfiftyyears; the checkerboard floor and sticky Formica tables have been here for as long as I can remember, and it’s impossible to tell whether the 50s-style booths are ironically retro or just… well, reallyold.
The only difference between this visit to the Cafe and my last one, then, is the fact that this time I’m here with Jett and Mum. Oh, and McTavish, who’s stationed himself at the door, to stop anyone from coming in to disturb our privacy.
(This was against the express instructions of Ronnie and Brenda, the Wildcat’s owners, by the way. But McTavish has already allowed Old Jimmy in, quickly followed by Bella McGowan and Tam, who drives the village bus, and that’s more people than you’d normally find in The Wildcat, so I don’t suppose they can complain, really. “Och, these are your pals, Lexie, they’re no’ going tae bother ye,” McTavish said, by way of explanation, completely ignoring the fact that Jimmy and Edna have been openly staring at us ever since they arrived, and Tam’s asked Jett if he can take a selfie with him twice now.)
When we got back to the cottage to find Mum waiting for us, having been discharged from the hospital and made her own way home, I was all for just giving up on this day and going straight to bed. Before I could announce this intention, though, my stomach betrayed me with a particularly loud grumble, and there was nothing in the house to eat, so here we are.
“What’s a macaroni pie?” Jett’s asking now, holding the menu as if it’s an important historical artifact. “Does that come deep fried, too?”
“It’s macaroni,” says Brenda, who is as obviously unimpressed by her celebrity guest as she is by everyone else who has the temerity to try to eat at her restaurant. “In a pie. And we dinnae have any left.”
