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“I think we might put ye in the bar,” says McTavish, thoughtfully. “Ye’ve got the experience for it, and Violet doesn’t go in there that often — says alcohol is empty calories, and she needs to keep that figure o’ hers trim. So it’s just the gym and the restaurant ye need to avoid; and she complained about the food in the restaurant the last time she was in it, so maybe no’ even that.”
Sounds like Violet.
“This is just temporary, right?” I say, speaking as much for my own benefit as for his. “It’s just until I get back on my feet. Then I’ll be out of your hair, I promise.”
“It’s for as long as ye need it, Lexie,” McTavish replies easily. “Look, you’re doin’ me a favor, here. It’s a pish boring job. The guests are out most of the time, working on this movie. We spent most o’ yesterday standing about wi’ oor thumbs up oor arses, waiting for something to do. But I need to have somebody behind the bar, so if you’re willing to do it, then ye’ll be helping me out, because I dinnae think many other folk would be keen on it.”
Yeah, most people would hate being around movie stars all the time. Especially ones that look like Jett. I’m amazed they can get anyone to work for them at all.
Unusually for me, I manage to keep this thought inside my head, rather than blurting it out, like I usually would. This is progress for me.
Justthinkthe sarcastic thought, Lexie. You don’t have to actuallysayit.
I’m determined not to sayanythingthat might make McTavish think I’m not grateful for this job, though. Because I am. I really am. Even more so now that he’s definitively provedto me that there isn’t really a “job” for me here at all; just a favor from someone who may or may not be secretly in love with me.
God, this is an absolute mess, even by my standards.
“Hey, McTavish,” I say suddenly, his comment about Violet not wanting to use the restaurant at the complex reminding me of something. “Is it true that there was a problem with the kitchens at The 39 last night? Someone told me the film crew were supposed to eat there, but there was some kind of issue, and they had to switch to The Crown at the last minute?”
“No’ that I’ve heard,” says McTavish, frowning. “I dinnae take much to do with The 39, mind you, but I spoke to Jack on the phone last night, and he didnae mention it. Why d’ye ask?”
“Oh, no reason. Just wondering.”
Why did Grace book The Crown for last night’s cast party, when there was another, much nicer venue available? Was she trying to push me and Jett together? But no, she thinks I’m with McTavish now. So, why, then?
The next few hours crawl by. McTavish shows me how to take bookings on the computer (Not that there’s much point; the Macbeth crew have the exclusive use of the entire resort for the next three months. No wonder Jack and Emerald can afford to take an extended honeymoon…), then I go over to the bar, which is really just a small area of the clubhouse, separated from the reception by a few potted plants, and with a variety of different seating options, so guests can choose whether they want to sit at a table or chill out on one of the expensive-looking sofas.
Not that there are any guests here today, mind you. McTavish wasn’t wrong about it being a pretty boring job. Everyone’s still out on location, so there’s nothing for me to do except stand here twiddling my thumbs — and, of course, Googling Lochlan Bell, who turns out to have all of his social profiles so firmly locked down that I can’t find out anything at all about him than the little I already know. ??Dammit.
I send a quick message to the reporter who broke the story, asking if she can put me in touch with him, then one to Summer, letting her know I’m still alive, and that she doesn’t have to come over here and track me down, like she’s been threatening. Then I go back to the message I sent the reporter, rolling my eyes in exasperation when I see she hasn’t replied yet.
“Maybe ye should speak to Scarlett?” shouts McTavish from across the room. He’s sitting behind the reception desk while Hazel has lunch, and as we’re the only two people here, he’s not bothering to keep his voice down.
“Scarlett?” I look at him blankly. “Scarlett Scott, you mean? Why would I speak toher?”
Scarlett is the chief reporter at the Heather Bay Gazette, and she hates me. I don’t really knowwhyshe hates me; but I do know she made my life an absolute misery by writing stories about me and Jett when we first started dating —fake-dating, rather — which makes her the very last person I want to speak to: now orever.
“Because she discovered she had a half-sister she didnae know about as well,” yells McTavish, who seems to think I’m miles away, rather than on the other side of the room. “So she’ll ken what ye’re going through.”
“Yeah. No, I don’t think so,” I reply shortly. “Scarlett and I don’t get on. And she just foundonehalf-sister. I might have two. And a step-mum. It’s not the same thing.”
“Suit yerself,” says McTavish. “I just thought ye might want to talk to somebody.”
He comes out from behind the desk and wanders over to lean on the bar.
“If ye dinnae want to talk to Scarlett,” he says, “Ye could always talk to me? I dinnae have any secret family members that I know of, but I’m a good listener.”
“I’m fine,” I insist, sounding unconvincing even to myself. “And I don’t even know what to say about it, really, McTavish. I don’t know if this guy’s legit. Jett thinks he might just be after money. Not mine, obviously —” I pause, smiling at the expression on his face — “But his. He thinks my ‘dad’ might be using me to try to get to him. Or to his money.”
“And what do you think?”
I shrug my shoulders.
“I don’t know what to think,” I admit. “Mum was a bit of a party girl when she was young. She says she doesn’t know who my dad is. So it could be this Lochlan guy… or it could be someone else.”
“Well, a DNA test’ll sort that out for ye in no time,” says McTavish. “That’s what I’d be asking for, if I was you.”
“Yeah. I suppose so. I just—”
