Page 8 of The Small-Town Seduction Plan

“Yeah, turns out we need to special order—” the kid looks at me properly, and then his jaw drops and he almost walks right into the wall. “Holy shit. You’re… you’re her!”

“No idea what you mean,” I reply brightly. “So, the tire?”

“Whatshername. Avery, from that movie.” He stares, wide-eyed. “I was visiting my dad last summer, so I wasn’t here, but I’ve watched it like a hundred times. You are so fucking hot.”

I keep my smile fixed in place. “Sorry, that’s not me,” I insist. “I wish. I get mistaken for her all the time though. You said, you had to order the tire?—”

“No, but it’s you,” he insists. “Look,” the kid waves behind him, to where there’s a row of magazine centerfolds pinned up on the wall. Megan Fox hosing herself down in a wet T-shirt. Sydney Sweeney busting out of a bustier.

And yours truly, draped over the hood of a classic Corvette wearing nothing but a pair of tiny ass-cutting hot pants and an American flag bikini top.

“It’ll be a vintage throwback,” the publicist reassured me. “Very classy. Classic Hollywood bombshell.”

It was a major Vanity Fair shoot, and I thought the final photos came out beautifully, but hanging here on the grease-stained garage wall, curling at the edges, “classy" isn’t exactly the word that comes to mind.

“Are you filming something here again?” the kid asks me eagerly. “Could I get, like, a selfie? My friends are going to be so jealous. My buddy, Mike, has you as his wallpaper. He’s going to die.”

“Sorry, I’ve got to run!” I exclaim, already backing away. “Have Larry call me about the tire, OK?”

I walk fast away from the kid’s adoring gaze, but when I look back, he’s already texting frantically on his phone.

So much for incognito.

I groan. Still, I guess if my cover’s blown, there’s no point in keeping a low profile anymore.

Dirty chai latte, come to me now.

I make beeline for the local coffee shop to place my order, and go loiter in the back of the store to wait. Everybody seems to be taking their time this morning: hanging out, and chatting with newcomers as they arrive. I can’t help but eavesdrop, picking up snatches of conversation.

“…we need six extra floats for the parade…”

“…they left glitter all over the floor…”

“…he nearly got me with the blade. I swore, I’d call the cops on him.”

What?

I lean closer to listen to two older women nearby, chatting over their tea. They don’t look like the typical targets for violence and intrigue, but you never know.

“I’m telling you, he cut the branches hanging over my side of the fence,” the woman continues. “Just so I couldn’t gather the fruit. Tree law says that’s a felony.”

I stifle a burst of laughter. I’m a long way from Hollywood, that’s for sure!

“Order up for Georgia!” the barista calls, and it takes me a second to remember, that’s the fake name I gave. But just as I’m about to make my way to the front counter to claim it, the door swings open, and a familiar face walks in.

“Tessa, love,” one of the gossiping ladies calls, waving her over.

Crap!

I instinctively duck back behind a potted plant as Tessa approaches them. Jackson Kane’s fiancée: she runs a B&B here in Blackberry Cove. I haven’t seen her since the premiere of our movie, and she’s looking relaxed and happy now in a loose linen dress with a big wicker basket over her arm.

“Ladies, what’s the hot gossip today?” she asks, smiling, before they set about catching her up on the fruit tree scandal of the century.

I stay hidden, crouching like an idiot behind the plastic ficus. A guy comes out of the restroom, and gives me a weird look, so I pretend I’m searching for something I dropped on the ground.

“Gee, where is that contact lens?” I mutter to myself, putting in an awards-worthy performance of reaching blindly around until he passes me by.

I peek another look, but Tessa’s still chatting happily away about tree law. Dammit. I was hoping she was out of town. Tessa’s always been nice enough to me, but that’s exactly the problem now: if she sees me, she’ll want to catch up, and offer her sincere regrets about my ruined wedding, and ask well-meaning questions about my life, and hopes, and dreams.

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