One Night Only (Season 1: Deni's Story)

Chapter Thirteen

Click, whirrrrrr. Click, whirrrrrr. Snap.

Twigs and leaves crunch under approaching footsteps that get closer by the second. I glimpse a gray T-shirt as its wearer passes by a gap in the brush and pauses, and then the camera comes to life again. Common sense and reason says to keep walking in the opposite direction, and yet I remain still, scarcely daring to breathe.

Alfie's ears perk up and he sniffs the air. He pauses for a second and tilts his head, then he lets loose with a loud bark.

"Thanks for blowing our cover," I murmur at him.

There's more rustling of tree branches and then a person emerges from the brush. Whatever I expected, it wasn't this towering teenage guy who appears to be about my age. Even though he has a camera slung around his neck on a leather strap and was taking photos just now, I'm ninety-nine percent certain he isn't a paparazzo. My shoulders relax.

Some people would say I'm paranoid to think the paps would follow me to another country and find me in the middle of nowhere, but the biggest lesson I've learned during my time in the spotlight is to never underestimate what they're capable of, what they'll do for money, and how much the tabloids will pay them. Whoever this probably-not-a-paparazzo, likely-a-teenage-local is, he stops when he sees me and nods in my direction.

"Good morning," he calls out.

"Hey," I reply, watching as he plucks a piece of a leaf from his golden-brown waves of hair. Being an L.A. girl, I expect this exchange to be the end of it and for him to continue on his way. That's what happens most of the time when I encounter a neighbor while out walking Alfie at home, if we acknowledge one another at all.

Apparently that's not how things work at this lake. "You're not from here, right?" he asks.

How did he pick that up in the approximately thirty seconds it's been since he emerged on to the road? I'm not wearing a neon sign that says I'm from Hollywood, and there's nothing about my clothing or makeup-free face that shouldn't blend in with cottage life. My suspicions about his camera and the possibility of him working for the tabloids come creeping back.

"What do you mean?" I keep my tone casual.

"I'm pretty sure I know everyone at this lake, and I've never seen you before. Did you walk over from Loon?"

"Loon?" I repeat, confused.

"Loon Lake." He examines me more closely. I stare back at him, noticing the dark amber color of his eyes. "I'll take that as no. Are you visiting someone here?"

It's hard to tell if he's truly curious or just being nosy, but something in his expression is genuine and friendly. Whatever it is disarms me in spite of myself.

"No. My mom and I are staying at a cottage here."

His mouth twitches. "Cottage."

He's ribbing me about something, but I don't get the joke. "What about it?"

A merry glint dances in his eyes. "We call it a camp around here. You 'cottage' people automatically give away not being from this part of the province."

"Oh really?" I put the hand that's not holding Alfie's leash on my hip. "Where do you think I'm from?"

He contemplates me for a moment, pressing his lips together. We don't break eye contact once. "Back east or down south," he finally answers. "Probably the GTA, though."

"What's the GTA?"

My question elicits a chuckle. "Greater Toronto Area. So I'll guess that means you're from out west."