There You'll Find Me by Jenny B Jones

the craft services table.”
    “I’ll join you.” His fingers circled my upper arm, and for a second, I got a flash image of Taylor’s winsome limb. Bony. Almost as slender as her wrist. What did he feel when he held mine? Was my arm fat? Flabby?
    Suddenly a snack was no longer calling my name.
    “I’m going to talk to your director,” Mr. Rush said. “Nice to meet you . . .”
    “Beatrice.” She glared at me before putting her pretty face back on. “I’m sure I’ll see you around.”
    I dislodged Beckett’s grip and walked to the area that housed the food. Two tables sat beneath a tent, covered in food easily eaten on the go. Sandwiches, fruit, chips, pastries, granola bars, candy. All for the taking.
    I picked up a sugar cookie and watched the sprinkles leave a crystal trail. My teeth sank into that first bite, and my taste buds sang an aria.
    “Lots of snacks to pick from,” I said as Beckett came in and picked up a protein bar.
    “It’s a trap.” He tore into the wrapper. “It lures you in, then next thing you know, you can’t button your pants.”
    I swallowed my bite of cookie. It made a slow crawl down my throat, and I wished I could bring it back up. Wished the fat wouldn’t multiply in my cells. Tossing the rest of the cookie, I reached for a Diet Coke instead.
    Beckett grabbed another water from a cooler, then stood beside me, with only inches between us. “I’m not messing around with Beatrice.”
    Placing the cookie in a napkin, I let it crumble in my grip. “I didn’t ask.”
    “I know.” His sigh was weary. “I just . . . I don’t need those kind of rumors started—that I’m chasing girls from Sacred Heart.”
    Like me.
    “I’m here to be your assistant and get a ride around Ireland. That’s it. Besides”—I patted his white shirtsleeve—“we all know your reputation.”
    “Finley, I—” He clamped his mouth shut.
    “Yes?”
    “Nothing.” He tore open his protein bar and threw the wrapper on the table. “Forget it.”
    “Beckett.” Montgomery Rush held up his BlackBerry as he walked toward us. “Did you check out yesterday’s E! News main headline?”
    “I’ll look later. Let’s go, Finley.”
    His dad read from his phone. “‘Beckett Rush spotted in London Saturday. Tinseltown’s It Boy reportedly had three dates with three different girls at La Trattoria . . . all over the course of six hours. Two of the ladies discovered the duplicity, and a catfight broke out. Taylor Risdale broke up the fight before storming out. Beckett’s camp could not be reached for comment.’” Mr. Rush laughed. “You know what this means, right?”
    “That once again my name is trashed.”
    “That your DVD sales will spike at least 5 percent.” Mr. Rush grinned and looked to me to join in the odd celebration. “Isn’t that great?”
    “Yeah. Great.” I looked at Beckett, remembered how it felt to stand beside him on top of the cliffs. The guy was nothing but a player.
    And I wasn’t going to forget it.

Chapter Ten
     
    The air seems cleaner, the colors sharper, my head . . . quieter. It’s like I can actually hear myself think. And hear God talk. And that’s usually a good thing . . .
    —Travel Journal of Will Sinclair, Abbeyglen, Ireland
    I ’m debuting me homemade banana-cranberry scones for a taste test.” Erin’s dad passed around a basket at the dinner table and waited for each one of us to take one. He watched our faces in nervous anticipation, wearing an apron that said “I Gave Up Big Guns For Sticky Buns.”
    “Well?”
    “It’s great, Dad,” Erin said.
    Liam crammed the whole thing in his mouth. “It’s my favorite.”
    “That’s what you said about the chocolate chip last week,” Sean said.
    Erin reached for the butter. “And the strawberry before that.”
    “Is it my fault Dad keeps topping himself? He’s a genius.”
    “Don’t ignore your dinner.” Erin’s mom passed the platter of fish around the table. “Finley, how are you