“I don’t want yourhelp,” Cameron snaps. “Let me do my job, or I’ll find someplace else to go.”
My stomach sinks.
Things have been bad between Cameron and Alec for a long time now. Years. The two of them used to be best friends.
And then there was the accident.
Alec swallows. “If…If you want to leave Lochview, of course I’ll help you find a new position,” he says eventually. His watch beeps. “I…should go.” He turns and leaves.
Cameron wipes a hand over his face. “He’s getting worse,” he mutters. “This morning, I found him checking the feed at three a.m. Goddamn control freak.”
“I don’t think he’s sleeping at all,” I agree, my thoughts racing. “Hey, you wouldn’tactuallygo, right? You can’t leave.”
“I would,” he growls. “I just can’t stand him anymore. Can’t stand the way he looks at me. I can’t stand—” He closes his eyes. “Whatever. There are other places that’ll take me.” He pushes out of the pen. “See you at lunch.”
I don’t say anything as he stomps out of the lambing shed. I feel sick.
Cameron can’t leave. For as long as I can remember, it’s been the three of us and Lochview.
There’s a weak bleat in the straw. I pick up Crumpet and hold her on my lap. “Something has to change,” I tell her. “Now.”
NINE
SUMMER
“Honestly, this is one of the best collections of smoky eye shades I’ve come across in a while,” I tell my phone, smiling brightly. “Let me know in the comments what your fave shade is. Until next time, remember to take care of yourselves, okay?”
I use the remote control hidden under my butt to stop the recording. When the screen goes black, my smile falls, and I flop against the armchair, exhausted.
I’m in the guest cabin. Hours have passed since Fraser showed me around. I’ve spent all day trying to record a sponsored eyeshadow palette review to post tonight.
It usually takes me a long time to record video content. I have to script out sponsored videos, or I forget what to say. I usually put the scripts in massive, easy-to-read font on my iMac behind the camera, but today, I was stuck doing it by memory, which was a disaster. All in all, it took fourteen full run-throughs before I finally got it perfect.
I guess I was distracted. My head was full of big fingers on mine. Rumbly, burring voices.
My stomach warms. Fraser was definitely flirting with me in the lamb barn. It felt nice to be the centre of his attention. I likehim a lot. His casual flirting made me feel at ease, like I didn’t even have to try. Unlike Cameron, who clearly thinks I’m an airhead. Or Alec, who straight up wants me gone.
I shake myself out of it. Whatever. I have bigger things to worry about than my Airbnb hosts. Like my dying reputation.
I pull my phone off the stand and curl up to write out my caption. When I’m done, I run it through an online spell-check. Then I turn on the text reading feature on my phone, and a robotic voice reads it aloud to me.
Lulu fondly says I look like a weirdo when I do this, but I’ll probably never get over the need to quadruple-check before I post. Ever since I got diagnosed with dyslexia as a kid, Mum drilled into me how important it is that I not make mistakes.
I know it’s harder for you than it is for normal people, but that’s no excuse. It just means you need to try harder than everyone else.
Finally, I’m satisfied with the caption. I load up the video, tag the brand, and hit post.
Then I sit back. I’m…not sure what to do now. Tapping my feet, I scan the small room. No sound system. No TV. My eyes land on my open suitcase. My sketchbook is on top of the pile of clothes.
I pick it out. I haven’t drawn in it in forever. Not since I dropped out of fashion school four years ago and gave up on becoming a fashion designer for good.
Until recently, anyway. A few months ago, I got an email from a clothing brand called Icons Only. They specialise in codesigning capsule lines with influencers. In the email, they said that I’m almost at their five-million follower threshold, and they’d love to have me design a line of dresses with them as soon as I hit the milestone. I literally screamed when Lulu sent it to me.
I could design my own clothes. People could buy them. It feels like a second chance at an old dream.
I flip the sketchbook open and let my eyes drift over the drawings. The designs I drew up in fashion school are whimsical and pretty—a pink tulip-shaped skirt sewn out of ombre “petals” of fabric, a deep-velvet maxi dress embroidered with constellations. I flip further, until I reach my half-finished final year project. I’d picked the theme of fairy tales, and decided to do a collection of princess-inspired dresses. The pages are full of gauzy gowns and ribboned corsets. I’ve stuck in swatches of glimmering fabric and hand-dyed lace.
Each of the designs is thoroughly marked in red pen. My tutor had hated all of my ideas. She was an elegant French woman who always wore chic black sheath dresses and looked at my girly, whimsical clothes like they were gaudy Halloween costumes. She was a strong believer in “less is more.” I touch a drawing of a sweeping rose-coloured ball gown and sigh. The words TOO MUCH have been scrawled across it in red pen.
