“I didn’t,” I tell him sternly, “Because I was waiting for you to make the first move.”
“Ididmake the first move. I put my arm around you. That was it. That was my move.”
“Well, putting my arm around your waist was mine.”
Stalemate.
We sit there, eyeing each other warily from our respective sides of the room.
PING! says Jett’s phone again, piping up at exactly the wrong moment. I have never hated a piece of technology as much as I currently hate that bloody phone.
“You said you had the hots for me,” Jett says, grinning. “You said that.”
“You said it too,” I shoot back, sticking my tongue out like a child.
“I did. And I meant it. And that’s why, as soon as I got to L.A., I knew I was going to have to turn around and come right back. So I called Duval and got him to move our meeting forward, and then, as soon as it was done, I got back on that plane.”
He says this as casually as if he’s telling me he got to the bus into town, as opposed to flying halfway around the world and back again, in less than 48 hours. But this ishuge. It’s enormous, in fact. So big that I can barely fit it into my head to make sense of it; this weird and wonderful fact thatJett likes me. So much that he flew all the way back here just to tell me, even though he must have known the house would still be under siege from the paparazzi who still believe I was only with him because I was under contract.
Thanks for that, Scarlett.
Scarlett.
The thought of her triggers a sudden feeling of unease; a reminder that there’s still one thing that hasn’t been resolved yet.
“Wait,” I say, frowning. “If it wasn’t me or Mum who sold the story to Scarlett — which it definitelywasn’t— then who was it? How did she know?”
I look around the room, half-expecting Scarlett herself to step out from behind the curtains, or slide out from under the bed and reveal she’s been watching us this whole time. Jett’s eyes, however, never leave my face, and when I finish my inspection of the room and turn back to him, there’s a look in them that makes a shiver run down my spine.
He knows. He knows who it was. He knows who it is that hates me enough to want to completely ruin me.
“Tell me,” I whisper, my voice croaky. “Tell me, Jett. I need to know.”
He clears his throat before he speaks, as if he’s preparing to make a big speech, like the one I recorded him doing from Macbeth. When it comes, though, it takes just one word to shatter all my hopes.
“Violet,” he says quietly, still looking me in the eye. “It was Violet. And I know, because she told me.”
Chapter 40
And there it is: Violet King, Jett’s most significant ex-girlfriend, rising up before me like Banquo’s ghost, here to remind me that I’m not out of the woods quite yet.
It figures.
“Violet?” I say in a small voice. “She told Scarlett about… about us? But how did she know? Did you tell her?”
I think of that line in Scarlett’s article; the one about Jett still being in contact with one of his exes. I’d assumed it was Violet, of course — if it was even true. And now it seems that it was.
As if on cue, the phone pings again, and my heart plummets.
“Is that her now?” I demand, hating the neediness in my tone, but not knowing how to stop it. “Is that Violet? Tell me the truth, Jett. I need to know.”
Jett rubs at his eyes again, then picks up the phone and sets it to silent.
“Yeah,” he says, looking at me directly. “It’s not what it looks like, Lexie, I swear.”
“Right. So what is it, then?” I fold my arms over my chest defensively. I can’t believe that just a few minutes ago I was thinking about kissing him. Thinking I might mean something to him. And now…
“Did you tell her about us?” I go on when he doesn’t reply. “Is that how she knew? Because you told her during one of the cozy little chats you’ve apparently been having?”
