"Well, it's either that or you may have to face that Jack's going after Keri Ann for real." Jazz's proclamation sobered us all. "Sometimes, people just know what they want," she added, and I knew she just couldn't help herself around Joey.

I swallowed.

"Or he's lying," said Joey. "You girls are way too trusting of men. Guys often just want one thing and will say anything to get it."

"Us girls are too trusting? Or girls in general?" Jazz snapped at Joey. "And guys in general say anything to get it, or guys like you?"

Whoa.

Jazz slumped back against her kitchen chair then hissed a breath through her teeth as her burned back made contact. "Ow."

Joey stepped forward and caught himself. "What's the matter?"

I smirked.

"I got burned, it's nothing." Jazz winced.

Joey went around behind her. "s.h.i.t, that's not good. When did this happen?"

"Yesterday afternoon. I fell asleep in the sun," Jazz muttered. "It's fine really. The Lidocaine I sprayed on earlier before the drive up must be wearing off."

"What the h.e.l.l? Wasn't your ... wasn't Bradford, or whatever, supposed to be with you?" I knew full well he knew the name of Jazz's boyfriend.

"Brandon!" Jazz and I yelled. And looked at each other. "Of the chocolate-brown eyes!" we chorused and busted out laughing again.

"Have you all been drinking?" Joey asked.

Still chuckling, I went to the pantry cupboard and pulled the first-aid basket down. I rummaged around and found more Lidocaine and some Soothing Aloe. "Catch," I called to Joey and tossed the items at him.

Joey caught them, flawlessly, one after the other. "I'm not-"

"He's not-"

"Yep, you are. I'm going to shower the Grill off me. Then, let's order pizza and watch a movie."

I headed for the stairs and heard Jazz murmur as if bored, "Fine, let's see what you've got Doctor Butler."

"You did always make me want to play Doctor, Miss Fraser," Joey returned, and I almost tripped on the stairs in surprise. It was usually Jazz teasing and trying to goad him, and I'd never heard him playing along. I'd have given anything to see Jazz's face right then. Perhaps Colt was right, a bit of healthy compet.i.tion did work wonders.

The first thing that struck me upon waking the next morning was that I'd made a mistake with Jack. I knew it down to the depths of my Carolina girl soul. The same way I knew it was time to look for sea turtle nests without checking the calendar.

Struggling to pull myself from the arms of slumber, as it seduced me with the promise of going back to emotion-less oblivion, sounds and smells from downstairs penetrated my consciousness. Coffee, bacon, and something sweet promised me a reward for facing these complicated emotions.

How could I possibly feel guilt at hurting Jack after what he put me through? But there it was clear as day. I felt guilt when I thought back to his expression, his beautiful eyes that looked so shattered. Twice since he'd come back only days ago, I'd taken his declarations and carelessly thrown them back in his face. G.o.d, but I was right to do it. Right to protect myself. What if I gave him a chance and ended up back where I'd been months ago?

And seriously, that whole stunt with Devon and him hanging out at the Grill signing autographs ... was that what my future looked like? Being in the spotlight was hard enough with my art, imagine being photographed as Jack Eversea's girlfriend? Being judged as to whether I was good enough for him, what I had that others didn't? I shuddered. No, thank you.

And then when we fell apart again, I'd get pitying looks from the whole world, not just those who knew the first time. Of course it wouldn't last, they'd say. She wasn't cut out for his life. What did he see in her anyway?

Abruptly, I sat up. Dammit.

Breakfast smelled really good. I quickly dressed in cargo pants and a lightweight black tee and trotted downstairs.

Mrs. Weaton, my elderly tenant, who I might add had her own kitchen in her own cottage, was bustling about my kitchen clucking and muttering under her breath. She caught sight of me, and her lined face creased up in a smile. "Hi, Love!" she crowed and gave me a quick one-armed squeeze as she held the spatula in the other.

I looked over and saw Joey at the kitchen table bent over a laptop and papers, deep in concentration.

"Uh, hi." I hugged her back, her lavender scent comforting me, and smiled at her eccentric make-up. "Not that I don't love being woken with the smell of coffee and bacon, but what are you doing here?"

"Aw, sugar, you just sit your cute bee-hind down on that there seat, and I'll tell you all about it. First grab yourself a coffee." She motioned to the pot.

"Morning, Joey," I greeted.

"Morning," he mumbled but didn't look up. The movie last night had been awkwardly tense between my brother and Jazz. Eventually, Jazz had begged tiredness from her drive and said goodnight. Joey watched her leaving, a brooding expression on his face, his thumb brushing his bottom lip over and over.

I'd refrained from saying a word.

I headed to the coffee. There was a large white envelope with Keri Ann scrawled on the front of it propped up against the sugar bowl. "What's this," I asked Mrs. Weaton, picking it up.

"Oh, it's just a letter from Jack."

"What?" The smile slid off my face.

"What?" asked Joey, his head snapping up.

I frowned at him.

"I know," Mrs. Weaton crowed. "Had to give the boy an envelope! You young people should all have your own stationary. How can you possibly correspond when you don't own even an envelope?"

"How ... when ...?" I didn't know what to ask first.

"Yesterday evening. I was back a bit late from my Wednesday afternoon Canasta. So I told him to leave it on the porch. He saw Joey and Jazzy's car there so didn't want to disturb you. Then when I woke up this morning and saw you hadn't taken it inside, I thought I'd bring it in for you."

She transferred the bacon out onto an old newspaper, then she sighed and opened the oven, bathing the kitchen in a hot waft of cinnamon and treacle. "That boy."

My stomach growled, drowning out the thumping of my heart, as I fingered the envelope nervously. I finished making my coffee then carried it over to the table. "What about him?"

"Well, dear. It's obvious how he feels about you. I could tell right from the beginning. And I'm just over here to make sure you read his letter and hear what he has to say for himself."

"Please," snorted Joey. "I'd say he's had his chance to tell Keri Ann how he feels, and I think we all got the message loud and clear last time."

My throat closed.

"Sorry," Joey said quickly. "But you're not seriously going to read it are you?"

Mrs. Weaton carried a plate of bacon and Heart Attack Cake, which was like a pound cake that was twice baked with b.u.t.ter, syrup, local pecans, and cinnamon, and plopped everything on the table in front of Joey and me. The breakfast of champions.

I slid the letter to the side and helped myself to the offerings. "Since when were you on his side?" I asked Mrs. Weaton, deciding to pretend Joey wasn't there. "You do remember how miserable I was, right?" I thought I may as well throw Joey a bone.

"Sweetie. At my age you gather a wisdom about life and about love. You get to see your mistakes and regrets in all their nekkid glory. And it ain't pretty." She huffed. "I can promise you this-you'll wish you gave him a second chance. That boy is in love. He may not even realize it yet, but when he does, I don't believe there is anything he wouldn't do for you. You don't just toss that away when it comes around. It may not ever come again."

Joey had nothing to offer, for once. He got up and left the kitchen.

I bit into the delicious cake, but at Mrs. Weaton's words, its decadence got lost on me.

"Well, he told me he is. In love with me," I said, softly, lest Joey still be in earshot. "But I told him if he meant it, he would leave me alone. And he sure didn't do that. He showed up at work night before last." I shook my head. "How can he possibly be in love with me? He hardly knows me!" I dropped the fork back on my plate with a clang and pushed it away. How dare he just come back here and tip my life upside down again?

I lunged for the letter, intent on ripping it to shreds in my irritation. And fear. I was scared it would change my mind.

Mrs. Weaton surprised me by whipping it off the table with her bony and liver-spotted hand before my fingers had landed. "No, you don't!"

"d.a.m.n. You're fast!" I said, shocked, as we looked at each other wide-eyed. Then I snorted, and we both erupted into laughter.

"Well, that was some welcome comic relief, it was beginning to get rather maudlin around here." Mrs. Weaton sniffed in mock disapproval.

"Sorry," I offered. "I wouldn't really have ripped it up. I guess I'm still so mad at him. How could he be gone for so long without a word if he really feels the way he says he does? And truly? What the h.e.l.l, sorry, kind of a relationship am I going to have with a movie-star?"

"Well, have you asked him?"

"No," I said, shaking my head. "I mean, I meant to, or at least, we've tried to talk, but ... I wouldn't listen."

I tried to piece together all the snippets of his explanations I remembered. "He said ..." I paused, wondering how much to share. "He said he had to stay away to protect me, and he said he hasn't ... ahem, ... you know." My cheeks heated as I cleared my throat. "Since me."

"I should hope not!" she said, looking incensed. "But, I know how you young ones are these days. I suppose that is something. Well," she continued, "I'm not saying you forgive him right away, or even believe everything he says, but, honey, you at least need to get all the facts." She slid the letter over to me. "You don't want any regrets over this. Trust me, I know. Now, eat. Then, go read."

I took a big gulp of coffee and chewed my way through four pieces of bacon and half the cake slice. It really was deliciously vile. When I was done, I hugged Mrs. Weaton and went up to the attic.

I sought out my little reading nook I'd created as a young girl. Ripping open the large envelope, I expected to find a letter. Albeit a long one based on the thickness of the envelope. Instead, I pulled out a folded sheaf of white pages tied with an aged and faded red string. The pages had clearly been torn from a lined book and were filled with Jack's scrawl that I recognized from the grocery lists he used to leave.

As I sank down onto the old mattress and pillows, my heart thudded heavily. The pages were dated. It really was a journal or diary of sorts. Why on earth would he share his private thoughts with me? I sifted through the pages dating from January through to last month. I began seeing s.n.a.t.c.hes of my name, and I quickly folded the pages back up and held them against my chest, exhaling a long breath. Did I really want to do this?

Despite saying I didn't need to know, I was desperate to understand what had happened when Jack left and why he hadn't come back. It was obvious now too, after two failed attempts at speaking in person, that it was impossible to be around him long enough to hear him out before the fight or flight response I was so d.a.m.n good at, kicked in. And he'd obviously realized it before I had and known this might be the only way to reach me. And the only way I might believe he wasn't just spinning me a line.

G.o.d. It was real.

He was real.

This was real.

I unfolded the pages and started reading.

I can't believe I'm back here. In England. I'm f.u.c.king freezing. The air is white, and wet, and thick with tiny, icy, droplets. The green everywhere I look is so deep and dark, I feel like no other colors exist.

My mum used to give me blank journals when I was younger to help me "sort things through" she'd say. "Put it on paper if you can't talk, and get it out of your head so it doesn't fester." That was how she'd found out about the drugs when I was sixteen. Getting me to write everything down was a smart move on her part.

Of course, I went to see Mum as soon as I arrived. I needed to apologize for not coming home when I'd been in London with Audrey. Of course she forgave me. She always does. I went to bed in her and Jeff's guestroom and slept for two days. When I woke up, she gave me a cup of tea and this b.l.o.o.d.y journal. There's nothing like being with a parent to regress you straight back to childhood. "I don't need it," I told her. But here I am already, baring my soul to the pages of a book instead of to the one person who has ever even tempted me to open up.

Keri Ann.

Just writing her name causes a weird current inside me. Like I shouldn't be writing it.

It's an echo of what I experienced when I was with her. Like she was too good for me to drag into the bulls.h.i.t that comprises my life. I should have listened to myself.

I'm on set. I just met all the crew and the screenwriter today (Alistair McGowan) and he's a total p.r.i.c.k. I hate to say that about people I hardly know, but he was drunk at the meeting at seven this morning and proceeded to stick his hand up the skirt of this poor runner girl who was delivering coffee to us. He laughed it off and told her she shouldn't wear a skirt to work. Like I said, a p.r.i.c.k. If I hadn't promised Peak I'd get this project back on its feet in return for them keeping Audrey quiet and stop her from bringing her scorned woman act down on Keri Ann, I'd walk.

We're all going into London tomorrow night, the cast and crew. Luckily we're only twenty miles out. It will be my first opportunity to have some pap pictures taken. Duane texted me to say Audrey's been rocking the boat again, complaining the fans still hate her, and I needed to get on with my part of the deal. Maybe I'll ask that runner girl, Suzy, if she'd mind having pictures taken with me. We can ham it up. I'd rather it be someone I can sort of trust, rather than a potential stalker nutcase. Give Audrey what she wants as quickly as possible and hope to G.o.d Keri Ann doesn't see it and think I truly don't give a s.h.i.t.

I've been playing the part of the happy, go lucky, flirty movie-star for so long I've begun to believe it. At least I had started to believe it before I met Keri Ann. I wore the c.o.c.kiness, the surety, the knowledge that I could, if I wanted to, have anything, and do anything I wanted. Wearing that skin had become easier. I'd buried my true self so deep inside, I'd forgotten him. Or I didn't think he was ever worth digging out. I'm still not sure.

The problem is, I love what I do. Today really reminded me of that. I hate the s.h.i.t, the fakeness, the shallowness, the games you have to play. The little dances you do to stroke egos and keep people happy and show the precise amount of grat.i.tude and humility. But today, we were shooting a particularly emotional scene where my character leaves the love of his life and hurts her ... crudely and deliberately. It was, or could have been, a brilliant scene, but we've been taking swings at it for days and still haven't nailed it. I've been giving it everything. The scene ... it was just ... written wrong. I could see it so clearly. I finally got the b.a.l.l.s to say something to the director, Dan, and he let me do it my own way while Alistair, the tool, was doing whatever the f.u.c.k it is he does when he disappears off for hours. Why is he even on the set? His consulting period is not supposed to be ongoing.

Ok, rant over.

I miss her. How can you miss someone you haven't really spent much time with? I think it must be my soul that misses her then. It's the only explanation.

I'm really getting into the head of my character, this artist, and I keep wondering what she would say about this. What advice she'd give.

Now that we've mostly gotten "Alistair Molester" removed from the set, things are going brilliantly. I'm really involved, it's been a pretty awesome experience. Dan, the director, is talking about giving me a writing and directing credit. Word's been getting out and we've had some press asking to get past our closed set policy. I've pushed back. I need to keep my contrived off-camera persona separate from what I'm doing here. I've had a few more photo ops with Suzy and some friends of hers. They're cool girls and good for a laugh. And mostly blonde, thank G.o.d. It's bad enough when I'm feeling b.l.o.o.d.y lonely and half a bottle in, that sometimes I think if I met someone with her exact hair color, like burned caramel, it would be easy to just pretend. For a moment. I'm not sure why I don't actually. I mean at this stage she's got to have moved on. Maybe it didn't even take her this long. Or maybe she's seen the pictures and a.s.sumed the worst.

Maybe I should move on, too. I just ... can't.

Maybe, what we had wasn't "all that." Maybe I imagined it all. Maybe she never gave a f.u.c.king s.h.i.t, and I'm the only one who read more into it. I wanted her to see past that ridiculous coat of confidence I wear, but what if she never did? Or what if she did see me, and I wasn't enough for her?

Conference call about Dread Pirate Roberts' movie today. It was good to hear Devon's voice on the phone. Some guys from Peak were on the call too, and a money guy from right down the road here in London. I've been pushing for them to set the movie in Savannah. I knew Devon would be on board since he has a place near there that he doesn't get to enjoy enough. I went on about the history of the city and the riverfront docks, etc. We'll see. I just need a way to spend a LOT of time there. No guesses as to why. I called Duane back again after everyone else hung up and practically begged. We'll see what the price is down the line if he goes for it.

f.u.c.k, I'm depressed. It's good for my role. The part I'm playing is as morose as they come.

It doesn't even f.u.c.king rain here, it's just wet. Like a constant bone-deep chill with the incessant grey drizzle. I keep remembering the rainstorm I trudged through to get to her house, before I ... s.h.i.t, I can't write about that right now.

Now that's what you call a raindrop. Just one of those things'll drench you all by itself. They don't mess around with rain there. This s.h.i.t is just taking the p.i.s.s.

I found a tiny old copper sea turtle on a leather cord while I was on Portobello Road last week. I seem to be carrying it around in my pocket all the time. Apparently a tattoo on my foot isn't enough. Who knew I was this sentimental? Not me ...

Oh and it's my birthday. I was given a case of Bushmills. I wonder how long it will take me to get through it? Perhaps I should give it away rather than take a bet on that.

Great news. Turns out Savannah has a new studio being built, and a huge film grant ever since Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil increased tourism to the city by over forty percent. Also, the money guy in London is obsessed with the "deep south" and was all over the idea. And ... I'm getting a writing and directing credit on this! Alistair is p.i.s.sed (p.i.s.sed off and p.i.s.sed drunk). Still.

I want to tell her. I want to call her and tell her. I even pulled up her number on my phone and stared at it between takes today.

I told my mother about Keri Ann today. It was time we had a really good talk. I've been working on dealing with some of the s.h.i.t about my father, too. Asking her stuff I just never wanted to know before. She was happy I was talking, said I always bottled stuff up and found it hard to express my own emotions. "You're really good at it when you are being someone else," she said. "Why can't you just do it for yourself?"

She called me a man-sized "message in a bottle." A love story waiting to happen if the right person found me, and if I would only open up and embrace who I am.

She always was a bit cliche.

The movie's wrapping soon. It's been an amazing experience professionally. Personally, not so much. I'm trying not to think of what's next. I've been drinking a lot, more than usual. When we all go out, I just want to get hammered. My few photo opportunities may have led to a bit of a "party guy" image. In a way, I don't care because it's probably p.i.s.sing Audrey off, and that satisfies me in a small way. Although why anyone would want to poke at a snake, I have no idea. And of course underneath it all, I'm worried I've probably really killed the last chance I had with Keri Ann because of it. The end of the contract is coming up which means I have no reasons not to go back to Butler Cove. And then there's the movie in Savannah. I'm definitely headed back there either way. And I've done everything I can to ensure she'll never want to see me again.

Something almost happened last night with one of Suzy's friends. It didn't get too far. But it was bad. Picture taking bad. And then after ... well, I thought she knew the deal, but she started kissing me and before I knew it we were in the back of a town car. She smelled really good, like strawberries, and she was soft, and d.a.m.n but I was drunk. Like really. But all of a sudden her hand was in my pants and she was telling me it was ok, that she knew I was in love with someone else and that she was too, and we should just have fun and no one would know ... I'd think at that stage I'd be too far gone, but there I was grabbing her hand, squeezing it as I pulled it from me, telling her she couldn't possibly really be in love with someone if she was doing this with me.