Heart Restoration Project

Chapter Twenty-Four

I leaned against the concierge desk at the entranceway of George V, hoping it would help support my trembling frame. What the hell was Rhys doing in Paris, and who was the leggy redhead on his arm? God, he looked good, though. The sleeves of his tight-fitting, white button-down were rolled just past his muscular forearms, showing off a new tan—no doubt fresh from Saint-Tropez or some other exotic destination on the C?te d’Azur. He pushed his fingers through his tousled hair, revealing sun-kissed strands that glistened under the lobby’s swanky lights.

The redhead kissed him softly on the cheek, and a sweet smile swelled from Rhys’s lips. He pushed a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses off his face, and for just a moment, our eyes locked. His face split into a wide grin as if I were an old college buddy instead of his ex-girlfriend of half a lifetime. As excited as he looked to see me, I was pummeled with a sense of dread that almost knocked me off my feet. I had exactly three seconds to decide whether to turn and run, or face him and his new arm candy head-on. Too late, they were already striding over, his swagger and magnetism cutting through the crowd like a hot knife through butter. I moistened my lips, shook out my shoulders, and smoothed my hair down behind my ears.

“Plum, what are you doing here?” he offered casually, as if we were stumbling into each other at a supermarket in West Hollywood.

I blinked hard. “Rhys? Wha ... What are you doing here?” I scanned the room, and my face grew hot as I noticed all the hotel guests who now had their phones and cameras pointed in our direction. Flashes snapped and the familiar red lights of video recording illuminated through the space, and a spell of dizziness rolled from my stomach to my head.

Rhys looked over his shoulder toward them and then back at me. “I’m here with Anya,” he answered, like I was supposed to know exactly who she was.

“Sorry, and who are you?” I asked, my voice going up at least three octaves.

He reached over and massaged my left shoulder. “Anya, my fiancée. I wanted to tell you, but, you know, you’ve been here ...”

My eyebrows practically jumped off my face. “Your fiancée? Rhys, I saw you right before I left, and I’ve only been in France for like a month. You met someone you want to spend the rest of your life with in the last four weeks?!” I spoke like she wasn’t standing in front of me.

He tightened his grip around her. “When you know you know, and as soon as I saw her on TikTok, I knew.”

“You met her on TikTok? He met you on TikTok?” I bounced my gaze back and forth between them, unable to digest what he was saying.

“Anya’s a huge influencer. She has like over eight million followers.”

“It’s actually ten, sweetie,” she said, correcting him as she puckered her lips into her compact and slathered on a fresh coat of gloss.

My head was spinning. Engaged? Engaged to be married? Rhys had been categorically clear that he wanted to focus his energies on his burgeoning acting career and felt anything that distracted him from that pursuit was now a waste of time. So how did marriage fare in that equation?

“I thought you didn’t want to get married. I thought you were all about your career right now?”

“I guess I changed my mind. I mean, when you meet the one, I guess you do just know,” he said while gazing at Anya, oblivious to how it would hit me ... throwing it out there as if he were talking about switching deodorant brands or the type of milk he preferred in his latte. “Anyway, what’s new with you? In Paris for work? Can’t say I’ve seen your name in the trade papers lately.”

“Um no, just here for a few days on holiday,” I offered.

He pushed his sunglasses down to the bridge of his nose. “Well, whatever it is ... you look good, P.”

P?! Don’t you “P” me!

“Rhys, we were together forever. You didn’t think I maybe deserved a phone call or even a text to tell me that you’re engaged to be married?”

“I figured you’d heard about it on one site or another. It was reported in Us Weekly, People, the Daily Mail, TMZ, Page Six,” he said, rattling off the usual list of suspects. “I mean, you’d have to have been living under a rock not to know.”

Maubec wasn’t a rock, exactly, but he was right, I’d more or less tuned out the outside world these last couple of weeks. And it’s not that I wanted him back, but was I that easy to get over? So easy that he found a fiancée in thirty days? Even those folks on 90 Day Fiancé took a full ninety days!

“Well,” I said, choking back the tears forming, “I guess congratulations are in order, then.”

I swallowed the lump now lodged in my throat, and my hands trembled as my eyes finally peeled themselves from Rhys and scanned the room to still see a flurry of hotel guests, workers, and worst of all Elliott filming the entire, god-awful, humiliating exchange.

“Aww, Plumster, that means a lot. Are you here through the weekend? We just flew in from Venice. The new Tarantino film I’m in premiered at the festival, so the hotel’s throwing a little soirée to celebrate the movie and our engagement. You should come.”

If he wasn’t careful, I was gonna toss his ass in a Plumster. And his big film at the festival? He had like three lines in the movie!

“Yes, please do come,” Anya added.

“I can’t, I have dinner plans with a friend.”

“Well, if you change your mind,” he said, “the party’s at L’Orangerie, and it starts at nine.”

“L’Orangerie? The Michelin-starred restaurant?”

“Grey Goose L’Orange is sponsoring the party, so ...,” Anya chimed in.

“Your party has a corporate sponsor?”

“Quite a few, actually. Caudalie, Air France, Evian. Grey Goose’s the main one, though. The swag’s gonna be insaaaaanne.” He tilted his head toward the elevator banks. “We should get going, Anya’s glam squad’s waiting for us upstairs. Think about coming to the party, you and your friend, if you want,” he said with a nod toward Elliott. “Just text me beforehand, so I can make sure your names are on the list. It’s going to be pretty exclusive.” Rhys leaned in and gave me a European kiss, one on each cheek. “It was good to see you, P.”

Exclusive?! You were Brian Braunpheiffer before you met me!

“Yeah, you too,” I muttered as the man I never thought would be such a stranger walked away. A few seconds later, Elliott approached me from behind.

“Hey, you okay? You look white as a sheet. Who was that guy?” he asked.

I gave him a once-over, the skin in my face pulsing with a mixture of anger and adrenaline. “Did you film that?”

He looked up. “What?”

“That whole exchange? Me and Rhys? Did you film us? Our conversation? Isn’t that just the kind of gotcha moment you people dream about?!”

“You people? Yeah, I filmed it. I’ve been filming everything all day. What’s your problem?!” He set his camera on the ground and stood up straight, his enormous frame towering over me.

I narrowed my eyes on him. “Who knew I was coming to Paris?”

“What are you talking about? Everyone who works on the show knew we were coming to Paris. What does that have to do with anything?”

“So you’re telling me I’m supposed to just believe it’s one big coincidence—that my ex-boyfriend’s staying at the exact same hotel on the exact same weekend as I am in Paris out of the blue?”

“I don’t know? You tell me,” Elliott said. “I’m half expecting a swarm of paparazzi to jump out of those potted plants across the room any minute now.”

I reeled back like I’d been slapped. “Wait, you think I staged this?” I couldn’t even process the lunacy of his accusation. “You know what, Elliott, screw you!” I turned and ran down the hall to the elevators.

“Oh, that’s real mature, Plum,” Elliott called after me.

I frantically pressed the down button over and over until the bell finally chimed, and I threw myself inside. When the double doors slid open again, I was immediately hit with the overwhelming floral fragrance of creams, serums, and aromatherapy candles wafting in from the spa. The smell, combined with my pounding heart, made me feel like I could pass out at any moment. I stumbled out of the elevator and onto the cream-colored tufted sofa in the middle of the spa’s waiting area.

“Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle,” one of the spa employees called as she came rushing over. “Tout va bien?”

I nodded. “I’m okay. I just got a little dizzy, that’s all.”

The spa employee clapped her hands together. “Nadine, un verre d’eau, tout de suite!”

A younger woman came speeding over with a glass of cucumber water and a cold towel.

She placed the towel on my forehead, then urged me to take a few slow sips of the water and lie down.

“Oh my God, Plum, what happened?” Kate exclaimed. She sprinted toward me, barely noticing her robe flapping open in the wind.

“I just ran into Rhys in the hotel lobby,” I panted.

She tightened the tie on her robe. “Rhys? Rhys Braun? What the hell is he doing here?”

I propped up on my elbows. “Celebrating his engagement. Did you know he was engaged?”

“The gossip rags have not stopped talking about him and that influencer fiancée of his and their engagement world tour.” Kate pantomimed sticking her finger down her throat and gagging. “She’s been posting about their itinerary nonstop. They were just in Venice for the film festival, and then after Paris they’re heading to Saint-Tropez, I think. Rhys has become a bit of a media whore, but you know that.” She studied my face. “Wait, you really hadn’t heard the news?”

I shrugged. “No, not a peep. I guess I’ve been off the grid these last few weeks.”

“I’m so sorry, Plum. If I knew, I would’ve said something earlier when his name came up. I assumed you were fine with it and had moved on with Bastien. Look, from the little I know, Rhys was a toxic figure in your life.” She continued, “I’m not trying to diminish what the two of you had together, but sometimes when the past comes calling, it’s best not to answer, especially if it has nothing new to say.”

“Or sold your sex tape.”

She put her arm around me and squeezed the top of my shoulder. “Yeah, that too.”

I couldn’t help but smile. “You’re right, it’s the same old Rhys new Rhys who cares more about the red carpet outside the party than the reason for the party itself.” My head shot up. “Oh my God, I just realized, the hotel’s going to be swarming with paparazzi later, if it isn’t already? How can I face them?” I looked around the spa. “I suppose I could be happy making a life and home down here. The towel closet looks cozy, and the cucumber water’s really good.”

“I’ll tell you what you’re going to do. You’re going to go inside and enjoy the Signature Serum Hydro Glow Facial, followed by the Hot Basalt Stone Massage, and then we’ll emerge ready to face whatever awaits us upstairs.”

“Us?”

“Didn’t you know? I’m ride or die, baby.”