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I really hoped that would be the end of it: that they’d go to their room, and I’d never have to see them again. But then Hazel told me they’d booked a table for five in the restaurant tonight, and that she wanted me on the bar in case they wanted drinks afterwards. That was when I started to panic.
They might not come in here, though, like Hazel said. Surely Jett’ll do something to stop them once he knows I’m working tonight?
I look over my shoulder to make sure Hazel isn’t watching, then text Jett, too. I still have his number saved in my phone, but I don’t know if he’ll still have mine. He might even have blocked me after everything that happened. Either way, though, he said he was going back to work after he dropped me off here, which means his phone’s probably switched off for now. And I’ve no idea what McTavish’s excuse is, but he’s not answering either, which means there’s nothing left for me to do but sit here and wait.
And wait.
And then duck instinctively down behind the bar when the doors to the clubhouse finally open and the Carters appear, accompanied by Jett (Does that mean he didn’t get my message, then? Or does it just mean he’s choosing to ignore it?) and Violet, whose eyes scan the room as she enters, making me glad I decided to hide before she sees me.
They walk past the reception and into the little restaurant next to it, where they’ll be the only customers tonight. I sigh with relief, and am just about to get back to work when the main door opens again, and someone else walks in: the journalist who’s having dinner with the Carters, I assume.
The man heads for the reception desk, and I straighten up cautiously, keeping one eye on the door that leads to the restaurant, in case Jett or Violet should reappear.
“Oh, hi there,” I hear the journalist say in an American accent. “I’m supposed to be meeting some folks here for dinner? The name’s Alex Russell.”
Wait.
Alex Russell.
Why does that name ring a bell?
I frown, trying to remember. Then it comes to me.
Alex Russell. The journalist who writes forTinseltown Insider. The same journalist who recently offered me a large amount of money for a tell-all interview about my relationship with Jett. And now here he is, rocking up at The View to sit down with the Carters for a cozy chat… aboutwhat?
When Hazel mentioned they were meeting a journalist, I’d assumed it was something to do with publicity for the movie. And who knows: maybe it is? But the fact that Alex Russell told me just last night that he wanted to “take the Carters down” makes me really, really doubt that’s why he’s here — although I wouldn’t be surprised if that was what he’d told Jett. And, with asinking heart, I realize there’s only one thing I can really do, now that I’ve recognized him.
I’m going to have to tell Jett.
Seventeen
Okay, scratch that: I’mnottelling Jett.
But not for the lack of trying.
It’s almost an hour later, and so far I’ve spent about 30 minutes lurking outside the restaurant hoping he’ll see me and come out, at least 20 lurking outside the kitchen wondering if I could maybe sneak a note onto Jett’s plate, and I’ve even tried to chat up Ollie, the waiter, to ask if I could help him take in some of the meals.
(Oh, and I’ve been threatened twice with the sack, when Hazel noticed me doing all the above, and told me if I didn’t stay away from the Carters, she’d call security and have me removed. So that’s another couple of black marks against my name. I think I can probably forget about winning Employee of the Month, somehow.)
By the time Ollie carries in the dessert menus (For the men only; I notice that Violet and Gabriella both wave him away, as if he’s offering to fart in their faces, rather than bring them some delicious, locally made treats), I’m almost frantic with the needto speak to Jett, and am limping around the clubhouse like a one-legged pirate on speed.
“No dessert for the ladies,” says Ollie glumly as he emerges from the restaurant, looking like he’s personally offended by this. “Jett Carter said he’d have two, though.”
I can’t help but smile at this. Any time Jett and I went out to dinner together, I’d always refuse to order dessert, and Jett would always get two, knowing I’d eat one of them.
Then I realize he’s probably doing the same now for Violet, and the smile falls from my face.
“Oh, and they want another bottle of wine,” says Ollie, halfway to the kitchen. “You couldn’t grab one for me, Lexie, could you? It’s the Merlot — the same one they had before. I’ll be back to get it in a sec; I just need to give this order to chef.”
This is it.
This is my chance.
Before Ollie can change his mind, I hobble over to the bar as quickly as my ankle will allow, and grab the bottle of wine and corkscrew. Then, with one eye on the kitchen door, I limp casually across the clubhouse, then dart through the door to the restaurant, almost tripping over my own stupid ankle in my bid to get inside before Hazel sees me.
My ankle throbs in protest. But I’m in. And, judging by the lack of screams from the reception area, no one’s coming to drag me back out again just yet, either. Now all I have to do is pour the wine … and tell Jett the man he’s dining with is a sleazebag rat who’s writing an exposé on him and his family.
Sounds easy enough, yeah?
