Page 22 of The Small-Town Seduction Plan

I sit back, taking in the morning scene. It’s a classic old-school vibe here, with red leather booths and chequerboard flooring, and no-nonsense waitresses dishing out pie and coffee behind the counter. Back in LA, a place like this would be packed with hipster types, all looking too cool for school and snapping photos of their food to post on social media. But here in Blackberry Cove, there’s just a steady hum of conversation from tables full of families, and kids hopped up on maple syrup, and a row of old timers in the back catching up over the local newspaper.

Then I catch sight of Tessa passing by outside the windows. My kitchen mishap comes rushing back to me– and the sight of all that antique glass, smashed on the floor. Dammit.

I scoot out of my booth, and hurry outside to intercept her.

“Avery, hi!” she smiles.

“I am so, so sorry about last night,” I tell her. “Just let me know the cost of replacing everything. Or where you got them from, I can special order it myself.”

“Whoa there,” she stops my apology. “It’s fine. Really. I get all my glassware at the thrift store. You’re not the first guest at the Sandpiper to have a little breakage, and you definitely won’t be the last.”

I exhale, relieved. I thought I might have destroyed some priceless family heirlooms, the way that tray hit the deck. “Still, I’m sorry I rushed out like that.”

“No, I’m the one who should be sorry,” Tessa insists, wide-eyed. “I had no idea Linette was going to act like a crazed fangirl. She’s fine around Jackson,” she adds. “She even refused to let him borrow her leaf blower when ours crapped out on us. She must really love you.”

“I feel so special,” I quip dryly, and Tessa laughs.

“I’m sorry we didn’t get to hangout though. How about a do-over?” she suggests. “Jackson’s getting back tomorrow, so we’re going to host a little BBQ. Just close friends,” she adds. “No rabid fans. In fact, these folks probably wouldn’t cross the street to stop you from drowning.”

I have to smile at that. “That sounds great,” I agree. “The cookout, not the drowning part, at least.”

“Great! Wait, is that for you?” she asks, nodding behind me, to where my waitress is tapping on the window and gesturing for me to come inside.

“My pancakes!” I exclaim.

“Then don’t let me keep you.” Tessa grins. “Did you get the pecan whipped cream? It’s a must!”

I enjoy my breakfast in peace, browsing through news and emails on my phone. There are still no big offers coming in, but I’m determined to keep up with movie industry buzz, so I don’t lose touch. Still, it stings to read the casting announcements and see half-a-dozen projects I would kill to be a part of. Projects I would have had a real shot at winning, just a few months ago. But now it’s Sydney and Zoey and Halle landing all the big roles, and I’m out here with a busy day of… nothing much planned.

Laundry. A nap. Maybe another chapter of Captured by the Pirate King, if I really want to get wild.

It’s a long way from my packed social schedule of VIP events, that’s for sure, and even though I’m still adjusting to all this relaxing, I’m relieved to see that the Google alert I set up for my name is getting quieter by the day. With no big sightings or new stories to report, even the tabloids are losing interest in me. That’s one thing about Hollywood: the news cycle moves on fast. With any luck, by the end of summer I’ll be a distant gossip memory – and I’ll be able to plot my triumphant return.

I finish up, and head outside, strolling the quaint town square in the sunshine. There’s a farmers market set up on the main green, with some cute craft vendors selling their wares, so I decide to linger, but I’m just browsing a display of pottery when I feel the hair prickle on the back of my neck.

Somebody’s watching me.

I look around. The market is busy, some guy’s barking through a megaphone about protecting local wildlife, and there’s even a group of pensioners doing some kind of yoga on a line of matching mats on the green, but everyone seems occupied by their own business.

I turn back to the vases. “Do these come in any other colors?” I ask. For all Tessa’s reassurance about my trail of destruction back at the B&B, I’d still like to bring her a gift to make up for it. Or three.

“Sure, there’s a blue glaze, and the more natural ones, too…” the woman points me over to the other side of her booth, and I check out some more designs, but even as we chat, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched.

It’s a sixth sense by now. Once you have paparazzi loitering outside the gym, and trailing you to get coffee, you get attuned to it.

I scan the crowd again from behind my sunglasses…

There.

There’s a group of teens loitering by the fruit stand, trading delighted giggles and whispers. As I watch, a couple of them pull out their camera phones, and oh-so-subtly point them in my direction, pretending to pose for pics with the fruit while they snap away at me.

But seriously, kids: pomegranates aren’t that interesting.

I turn my back on them, and quickly pick the rest of my hostess gifts. “Are you from around here?” I ask the potter, as she wraps them up in a plume of bright tissue paper. She nods.

“Born and raised.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know any good nature trails?” I ask, feeling an itch to get out of town– and away from prying eyes. “Something out of the way. Private. No tourists around.”

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