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“Bawbag! Bawbag! Bawbag!”
“What’s going on out here?” Brenda’s husband, Ronnie, emerges blinking from the back of the shop, and I look at him in surprise. Ronnie never comes out into the restaurant. I was starting to think Brenda was keeping him prisoner back there — it feels like something she would do.
But the commotion at the counter is now so loud that it’s even dragged the mythical Ronnie from his lair.
“Right, you lot, out!” he shouts, pointing to the door. “No filming in the cafe!”
The teenagers take the chant up a notch in protest. Then, “Quick!” one of them screams, looking at her phone. “Someone on X says Jett’s staying in a log cabin near here. Let’s go find it!”
The shop empties as fast as it filled, and Brenda, Ronnie, and I are left staring at each other, like the last remaining survivors of the zombie apocalypse.
“Wee bastards never even bought anything,” grumbles Brenda. “Watch the fish, Lexie. I’m away to make a cup o’ tea.”
She shuffles off into the back room, followed by Ronnie, who gives me a sympathetic pat on the shoulder as he passes me. Alone behind the counter, I tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear, wincing slightly at how greasy it feels already, then lean forward and rest my head in my hands.
A log cabin near here.
No.
It can’t be.
Surely he can’t be staying at Emerald View? Surely he’d rather be in a five-star hotel somewhere? Then again, Emerald Viewissupposed to be the last word in luxury, from what I’ve heard. And it’s pretty secluded, too, being tucked away in the hills like that. I frown to myself, thinking of the huge gate that leads to the complex: the one that’s always been locked when I’ve driven past it, and which has security cameras on each side.
Wouldn’t that be the perfect place to house an A-list movie star who didn’t want to be disturbed? And his beautiful, talented co-star, into the bargain?
The skin on the back of my neck prickles ominously as I remember the way McTavish looked away from me when he mentioned Emerald View this morning, and how he’d suddenly changed the subject. The View was doing well, he’d said. “Especially now that…” Now thatwhat? Now that there was a film crew and a slew of celebrities staying there?
Oh please, not that.
I knew Jett was going to be filming near here, some of the time at least. I can’t handle the thought of himstayinghere, too.
I reach into my pocket for my phone, intending to have a quick Google myself, just to put my mind at rest. Then I remember the phone doesn’t work anymore. I’m completely cut off from the internet.
It’s probably just as well. The people on those gossip sites never had anything good to say about me, anyway. And as for the comments…
I put my head back in my hands as some of the harsher ones come rushing back to me. I was a gold-digger, they said. A shameless hussy. I was also short (true), evil (not true — well, notallthe time…), and with a face that would curdle milk. (Tell that to the judges of the Miss Western Highlands competition,huns.)
The thing that hurt most, though, wasn’t the relentless commentary about my appearance, or even my personality. No, it was the way they said that Jett could never love someone like me; that he was obviously still faking it for the publicity, and that, sooner or later, he’d give up, and leave me.
Those comments were always the ones that kept me awake at night, because, deep down, I always suspected they might be true. That I wasn’t clever enough, or pretty enough, orniceenough to keep him.
And, well, look what happened.
I’m really glad I never cry, because, if I did, this is the moment I’d be doing it.
I press the palms of my hands hard against my eyes to make absolutelysurethey’re not going to betray me, and, before I can remove them again, I hear the door of the shop burst open, and a cacophony of teenage voices flood in.
Not this again.
“Oh my God, would you all just fuck off?” I roar, raising my head from the counter, and looking up…
… and right into the familiar green eyes of Jett James Carter.
Four
It’s been exactly 129 days since I last saw him.
Or something like that, anyway. It’s not like I’ve been counting. I’m notEmerald. I’m Lexie Steele: the baddest bitch to ever rock a stiletto. Well, according to my friend Jakob, anyway. And I’m pretty sure he was drunk at the time.
