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“Like a test-run, you mean? To see how much we like each other?”
“Lexie, we know how much we like each other. We don’t need to take a vacation to figure that out.”
His beautiful face lit up with a smile, and I leaned in for a kiss.
Jett was always very easy to kiss — which is why I did it as often as possible. Every time I kissed him, or he kissed me, I’d get this tingling feeling that made it hard to think straight, and I’d wonder again how on earth I got to be this lucky. How, out of all the women in the world, I was the one who got to be with Jett Carter.
“So, what is it you want to know, then?” I said during a brief interlude in the kissing. “And why Mexico?”
Jett shrugged. ??“Doesn’t have to be Mexico,” he said, grinning. “We can go anywhere you like. And I want to knoweverything, to answer your other question. I want to knowyou. The realyou; not the one you’ve been pretending to be for this stupid PR stunt.”
I kissed him again, understanding what he meant.
As part of my “fake girlfriend” training, I’d been required to learn everything there was to know about Jett Carter; from his parents’ star signs, to the names and birth order of all his cousins, and which sports team he supports. (It’s the Lakers. Or is it the Dodgers? Which one’s the baseball one again?)
But none of that stuff tells you what a person’sreallylike, deep down, and away from the cameras. And that’s what we wanted to know.
So we went to Mexico. And what we found out there was that everything we’d suspected was true: we really were made for each other. It wasn’t just a crush, or some weird kind of after-effect of pretending to be in love all that time. We actuallywerein love. So much so that we’d stay awake all night, talking, and kissing, and sometimes justlookingat each other, like we couldn’t believe our luck.
“I love you, Lexie Steele,” Jett murmured on our last night in Mexico. We were on the beach in front of the villa we were staying in, watching the sun go down. It was the perfect place, on the perfect night. And it wasn’t the first time he’d told me he loved me, but I remember looking up at him, and feeling like I might explode with happiness.
“This is the best day of my life,” I said, as we walked back up the beach to the house, our arms tightly wrapped around each other. “I don’t think anything could ever beat it.”
“Well, we’ll have to see about that, won’t we?” Jett whispered, pulling me closer. “I bet we can find a way to beat it.”
We never did, though.
And now here I am, standing behind the bar in my hometown, almost shaking with nerves as I wait for the man who once toldme his main aim in life was to make sure I was always as happy as I was that night in Mexico, to arrive with his new girlfriend.
It would be fair to say that this isnotthe happiest day of my life.
It looks like I’ve already had that; and now the only way is down.
***
Jett and Violet are the last to arrive.
By the time they stroll into The Crown’s dated-looking function room, I’ve already served what feels like a thousand drinks, and died a thousand small deaths as the cast and crew ofMacbethall look at me with undisguised curiosity, no doubt wondering where they recognize me from, and if I’mreallywho they think I am.
So I keep my head down, take my Scottish accent up a notch, and pretend to be someone else.
I think I’m getting away with it.
I don’t actually know any of these people, for one thing. They’re Jett’s colleagues, not his friends. And the last time any of them saw me — or saw pictures of me, rather — I was looking a little bit different. Well,better, I suppose. And not just alittlebit, either.
Back then, I was platinum blonde, with a California sun-tan, and a yoga-toned body. I wore designer clothes, picked out for me by a stylist, and I was rarely seen in anything less than a 5 inch heel.
Now, though, my grown-out roots have left me more dishwasher blonde than platinum. My figure’s more scrawny than sculpted. My skin’s reverted back to its natural Scottish pallor (and let’s not forget that pimple, which is going to needits own postcode if it keeps growing at the same rate), and I’m wearing a beer-stained apron over washed-out leggings and a pair of battered old Converse I didn’t even know I owned until I found them crammed into the back of the wardrobe a few weeks ago.
I’m surprised evenJettrecognized me, let alone anyone else.
Jett might have recognized me when he saw me at The Wildcat yesterday, though, but he definitely doesn’t seem to know who I am tonight.
I’m not sure if this is a good thing or a bad one.
He stands in the doorway, wearing a white t-shirt that shows off his pecs, and a pair of dark jeans. His thick hair is artfully ruffled, and his green eyes flick right past me, without a single sign of recognition.
I think I’m going to die.
