15. Chapter 15
Max and I were soaked, or drookit, as my grandmother would’ve said. After hot showers, we rummaged through the cupboards in the rental kitchen: a jar of onion chutney marmalade, a blue can of beans in tomato sauce, a can of peas, a bottle of HP sauce, and a wide assortment of teas.
I looked outside. “The rain’s letting up.” Max had donned reading glasses to peruse the ingredients of the can of beans. One glance from me and he put it back in the cupboard.
Soon we were seated at a table with an outstanding view of the shimmering harbor in Portree. The waiter tipped a bottle of Malbec over our glasses, and with a tired smile, Max raised his glass.
“To finally making progress!” Max said.
I smiled, remembering how excited Caitlin had been when I told her we'd gotten the MacAlister for the wedding.
“On both fronts!” I added, clinking my glass into his.
I ordered the Scottish Salmon with whipped potatoes, green beans, and a salad. Max ordered the venison.
The waiter brought bread and oysters. We downed them greedily, then clinked our glasses again.
Three glasses of wine in, my cheeks were warm, and I was chatting about wedding menu options in the US vs Scotland. Max steadied me with his hand to the small of my back as we wove between tables toward the exit.
Something flashed at the edge of my vision—someone with a phone, maybe—but I was too light-headed to care. At the door, Max’s fingers found mine and lingered. When he leaned in, I turned my face toward him instead of away.
It was just a kiss on the cheek. But I didn’t pull back, and neither did he.
After returning to the rental, we went our separate ways for the night, and I fell asleep immediately.
Then I woke up and checked my phone.
The first text came from a co-worker from my last job:
Who’s the hottie, and does he have friends?
Then a college friend:
Are you and Max back together?
Then Page Six:
Care to comment about these photos?
And TMZ.
And US Weekly.
And E!
And Hello!
And Vanity Fair.
And EW.
And… WTF.
I found an article that included photos and ended their article with “We reached out to Abby Montgomery for comment but she did not respond.”
C’mon. A girl’s gotta sleep!
I was wary to even click the links, so I Googled myself…
“OH. MY. GOD!”
Max burst through the door, running shorts swishing, his hair dripping wet. His phone was already in his hand.
“They got us,” he said, voice tight. “At the restaurant last night. We’re on everything.”
I tried to focus on the panic, not the way his shirt clung to his chest.
“What… why… why would they even care? I mean, we went to dinner.”
Max bit his lip. “Remember the little kiss…”
Of course I remembered the kiss. It wasn’t little. It was warm and close and over in a second—and I'd been thinking about it ever since.
I scanned the first article. “Cat Turner?”
“Uh. Yeah.” Max rubbed the back of his neck. “We should talk about that…”
“The gorgeous, intimidating actress from Iron Requiem, Falling with Grace, and Call Me Alice.”
He shifted his weight. “That’s the one.”
“You’re dating her?”
“No.” He answered quickly. “I mean, yes. I mean—” Max exhaled forcefully, then turned to me fully.
“The contract says I am until after she does the press for The Silent Orchard this fall. We can break up officially before Oscar season—when I think she’s going to start dating someone with a nomination. ”
I closed my eyes for a moment before speaking. “You’re fake dating a famous actress?”
“Officially, I’m real dating her,” he said with a grimace.
“So I’m the other woman—and now I’m tabloid fodder?” I swallowed hard. Breathe, Abby. Don’t forget to breathe.
“No.” He stepped toward me, shaking his head. “You’re the one who got away. The college girlfriend. My first love.”
I am those things.
I read through more articles; “mysterious woman” and “Highland fling” and “secret romance” jumped out at me.
“Why is this happening?” I demanded.
Max gave a half-hearted shrug. “Must’ve been a slow day for news. Or more likely, Cat’s people decided that our story wasn’t selling and wanted some publicity as they start rolling out trailers for the new film.”
“And where does that leave me? You signed an NDA, but I haven’t signed anything.”
“They reached out to you for a comment.” It wasn’t a question. His voice dropped. “Do you really want to talk to the press… about this?”
I threw up my hands. “NO! Of course not! Ugh.”
He hooked a thumb toward the kitchen. “Come get some coffee. There’s porridge.”
“You mean oatmeal?” I asked as I followed him out of the bedroom.
“I think this is actually porridge. I made it with a spurtle and stirred counter-clockwise and everything.”
I froze, aghast. “Are you insane? Whether it’s oatmeal or porridge, even I know you can’t stir counter-clockwise, especially in Scotland.”
“I thought you had to stir it counter-clockwise,” he said, brow furrowed in confusion.
“If you want to summon the freaking devil!” I shrieked.
Max burst into laughter. “I think you’ve been up here a little too long.”
I brushed past him. “Dad taught me that. My grandmother was Scottish.”
“Well, then, he knows,” Max said.
“I mean it. They take this sort of thing really seriously. I mean, some do. My dad does. And now all this…”
Max leaned a hip against the counter. “If I start again and stir it clockwise, maybe—”
“Too late.” I eyed the porridge, then my phone. “Yeah, I can’t eat that. Not today. Let’s make it again.”
“We could just microwave—” Max stopped when I glared at him.
I measured the water and the oats, added a pinch of salt, and took the spurtle and began to stir clockwise. How, how, how could he stir oats counter-clockwise in freaking Scotland?
I stirred and stirred, blinking back tears as I wondered what my family would think when they read the articles. Caitlin was getting married. Would the paparazzi follow us around? Would this ruin the wedding?
“At least we won’t have a hard time finding a photographer for the wedding.” I huffed out a laugh.
Max stepped up behind me, placing his hand on mine. I kept stirring. The porridge was getting creamy, just like the instructions said it would. It must be the different oats they use.
Finally, the tears broke free and began to drip down my face.
“We can fix this,” he said softly. “I signed an NDA, but you didn’t. I can’t say I’m not dating Cat, but you can say—well, whatever you know to be true.”
I served the porridge in two bowls. Max added cream and cinnamon and golden syrup. I ate mine plain.
“So what are we going to do about this?” I asked, laying my spoon down.
He checked his watch. “I’ve got a shoot in an hour.”
“That’s it?” I stared at him. “You’ve got a shoot?”
“What do you want me to do, Abby?” he asked, dragging a hand through his hair.
“I don’t know… maybe start with an apology?”
His shoulders dropped as he slumped back into his chair. “We were in a public place. In fact, we’re in a different country. Anyone that’s ever seen a clip about Harry and Meghan knows that—”
“Oh, c’mon. Really? Are you a gossip column expert?” Maybe he was. I didn’t know him anymore, did I?
“Since signing this NDA, yes. I’ve asked around and looked into things.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Listen, Cat and I decided this relationship—real or fake—wasn’t going to work a long time ago, but she has a new release this fall…”
I pulled up Cat’s IMDB page on my phone. “Wait, she’s in this movie!”
“Yeah, we filmed her stuff last week. She’s back home now.”
“How can you fake date her if she’s home now?” I shook my head. “Shouldn’t she be here with you, having dinners, doing photo ops with Highland cows?”
Max’s expression tightened. “Whose side are you on?”
“Mine,” I answered quickly. “Because if she were here with you, my frizzy hair wouldn’t be in the tabloids. And, Max, we’re both living in the same house! They don’t know that yet, do they? I’ll have to sneak in and out.”
“Look, we can figure all this out later. I need you on set today,” he said, checking his watch again.
“Then I’ll leave after you—in disguise,” I said, dryly. I looked at Max’s hat and midge netting hanging by the door.
He followed my gaze. “What, pray tell, are you going to wear as a disguise? Because my hat and midge netting is spoken for.”
I stood and collected our bowls. “Then you’re gonna have to send Hair and Makeup over here, and they can make me into an old lady. I’ll pretend I’m your mom.”
The corners of his mouth twitched, the first hint of a smile all morning.
“We both know that my mom would be incredibly insulted right now that you just called her an old lady. And c’mon—you’re gonna dress like an old woman the whole time you’re here?
Two hours of hair and makeup every morning while you’re filling in for Ava—and organizing a wedding? ”
“It’s only two weeks ‘til the wedding. I can manage that.”
Max rolled his eyes. “I’m heading out there soon. We’ve only got one car. What are you going to do—help me on set or cower in your bungalow like Greta Garbo?”
“I vant to be alone,” I said, tying a bandana over my head.
“Fine.” Max put on his hat and mosquito netting, then slammed the door behind him.