Page 14 of Never Ever Getting Back Together

“Hal,” I say, concentrating on the words as I hitch up my backpack. “Unt FrechtenSkye.Je tristois tu—”

He shakes his head quickly and holds out a hand. “Uh, hey, Skye. Isaac Kassab. I’m one of the producers atSecond-Chance Romance.How was your flight?”

Isaac—that means he’s the producer I’ve been emailing over the past few weeks. For some reason, I’d imagined him a lot older, and with a Chalonian accent, instead of the American one he has, which, now that I think about it, doesn’t make a lot of sense. Bushman and Siegal Productions is an American-based production company, after all.

What an excellent start. It’s a good thing this person’s entire job description doesn’t revolve around highlighting my flaws and humiliating moments on TV for views, or I’d worry I’d just given him some material.

“Great, thanks.”

“Cool, cool…” He trails off and looks above my head as though he’s deciding whether to speak or not. Then, the trace of a smile appears, and he drags his gaze back down to me. “So, do you speak Chalonian, or…”

“Uh, no, I do not. I learned a couple of words.”

“That was more than a couple of words. What did you say?”

I hesitate. “If you’re asking so I can say it on camera, I might as well tell you now, I have no intention of doing that. I’d never live it down, and we both know it. If you want me to trust you, you won’t—”

He holds up his hands. “Whoa, whoa, Skye, I’m just curious. Seriously.”

I scan his face, but can’t see any obvious signs that he’s lying. “I was trying to say, ‘Hi, I’m Skye. Are you the person I’ve been talking to?’”

“Iamthe person you’ve been talking to. But, notably, we’ve been talking in English this whole time.”

“Yeah, but you don’t barge into someone’s country and start talking English at them,” I say. “That’s very rude.”

“Oh my god, you’re so Canadian,” Isaac mutters. “And what would you have done if I’d burst into Chalonian in response?”

“Unt nie thierre.”

“Which is?”

“I don’t understand you.”

Isaac gives me a long, searching look. Then, he seems to shake another thought off, this time choosing not to pursue it. “Cool. So, wanna get your backpack on a cart?”

I glance down at the straps buckled around my waist and chest. “I think I’m okay. I’m strapped in now. Getting it on and off is the hard bit.”

We start walking to the exit. “You packed light. You know you were allowed two suitcases?”

“I did know, but I’ve been—”

“Traveling, that’s right,” he says, snapping his fingers.

“I have some more stuff in my London flat,” I say. “Eventhough I haven’t officially moved in yet or anything. But I didn’t get a chance to go and collect it before flying here.”

“Wait, question,” Isaac says. “Partly for me, partly so we can explain it right on the show. How can you live in London even though you don’t work there?”

“I’ve got an ancestry visa. My mom was Scottish. I can live there for five years, if I want.” My backpack straps are digging uncomfortably into my middle, and I slow my pace to loosen them slightly.

Isaac eyes my backpack in what can only be described as disbelief as I do. “You’ve really spent the last five weeks living out of that thing?”

“I don’t need a lot of stuff.” I shrug. “And you can squeeze in a surprising amount if you roll your clothes up.”

He goes as far as to scrunch up his nose at this. I suppose the backpacking lifestyle isn’t for him, then. “So, I guess you don’t have a lot of dresses in there, huh?”

“I bought a couple in Italy,” I say. “Just for this. And I brought some from home. They’re somewhere at the bottom of the backpack, though. Is there a laundry room at the mansion, by any chance? And, uh, an iron?”

He nods and pulls up an organization app on his iPad. “We’ll sort you out.”

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