Fa-La La-La Land (Love in LA #3)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Stella

Ask anyone who’s ever been stuck on a ride at Disneyland when the lights go on or discovered Santa’s not the one filling their stockings on Christmas Eve, and they’ll tell you this truth: nothing good happens when fantasy collides with reality.

Or ask me, the woman who, literally, just collided into Rhys James. The Rhys James. The celebrity who’s taken up prime real estate in my Dream Man fantasies.

Scene of the crime: the gray stucco hallway of an apartment building on the outskirts of LA, nary a stitch of red carpet or bright lights in sight.

Description of the assailant: small-town girl visiting the big city, no shower yet even though it’s closer to dinner time than breakfast. Ratty t-shirt—an ironic gift from my brother Seb—featuring Grumpy the dwarf and the words I’m Grumpy, Deal With It arcing over his head.

No makeup. No shoes. And the trash I just took out leaked tuna juice down my bare legs.

Description of victim: TikTok thirst trap in vintage denim and too much confidence, giving brooding rock star energy.

To add even more trauma to my fantasy–reality collision, I’ve knocked Rhys’s sunglasses off his face, and as I scramble to pick them up, his deep blue eyes send me into a fit of hyperventilating and scream-giggling.

I stared into those eyes a million times as a teenager, but for the first time, they aren’t looking back at me from a glossy poster on my wall. They’re looking back at me from a fully formed, in-the-flesh, totally real, freakin’ RHYS JAMES!

At least, I think he’s real. I poke his arm to make sure.

“Why are you poking me?” he growls, his voice low and rough, like someone who hasn’t had a good night’s rest in weeks.

“You’re Rhys James!” I stop poking him, but my fingers, of their own accord, curl around his forearm. Logically, I know this isn’t better than poking. But logic is powerless against Rhys’s eyes, which are even bluer in real life. Also, more glare-y.

“That doesn’t mean you can go pokin’ at me.” He removes my hand gently but firmly and steps around me, muttering something under his breath about “boundaries.”

To my brain’s horror, my feet follow him.

“You’re right. I know. I’m so sorry. It’s just that I’m a huge fan, and I used to have the biggest crush on you when I was a kid.

I fantasized about marrying you.” I’ve lost control of my mouth…

and my hands, which I wave in front of my face like an oscillating fan.

Why did I tell him I wanted to marry him? ?

Rhys keeps walking toward our neighbor Dex’s apartment, shoulders tight under his hoodie, and I keep talking. “I thought I was prepared for this. Dex said you might come tonight, but I guess I didn’t take him seriously. And I’m really sorry, but…”

Rhys turns. His sunglasses cover his eyes again, and his hat and hoodie hide a bit more of his face, but nothing can conceal the sharp exhale that sounds halfway between frustration and regret.

I snap my mouth shut, but a tiny squeal of excitement slips out anyway, twisting Rhys’s face into an even deeper grimace.

“You’re headin’ over too, then?” he asks with zero excitement.

I nod so frantically, my head threatens to bounce away like a loose basketball.

“My cousin Britta and I are here for a few weeks, and Dex invited us to watch the game…or match. Whatever it is.” I wave my hand through the air, trying to slow my words and my thoughts enough to explain how we’re connected and why we should be friends.

Rhys grumbles, “Bewdy. Just what I needed.”

I’m not sure what bewdy means, but the sarcasm in his tone gives me a pretty good idea. My chest still bubbles with excitement, but my mind flashes back to a few recent stories I’ve read about him.

I should walk away, redeem myself before it’s too late. But I’m locked in whatever magnetic power he has that’s made him famous.

Rhys pulls back his hoodie and takes off his glasses. “Go on, then. Get your pics now.”

“What?” I don’t even have my phone on me.

“No need to be sneaky about it later. Take them now, post whatever rubbish you’re gonna, but let me watch the match with my mates in peace.” His tone is sharp, but there’s a worn-out edge to it, like someone who’s said this too many times before.

“I wasn’t planning on taking pictures or telling anyone you’re here. I wouldn’t do that even if I hadn’t already promised Dex not to,” I try to explain calmly, but my face is on fire, and the heat comes out in my voice.

“No offense, love, but I’ve met a million girls like you.

” His eyes drill into me with a coldness that cracks the image I’ve had of Rhys James as warm and funny.

“One minute they’re gushing about how they dreamed of marrying me, next they’re twisting my words and flogging it to the tabloids.

” He pauses, jaw tightening before he adds, softer, “Just…don’t. Not tonight, yeah?”

There’s something under the exhaustion in his voice. Something that almost sounds like hurt. But it’s gone before I can be sure.

“I don’t want pictures of you,” I stutter, frantically trying to put words together that will reassure him I want nothing from him.

He huffs, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck, then stalks past me to open Archie and Dex’s door. Much to his annoyance, it’s locked, so he pounds on it until Dex answers. Rhys storms past him, muttering something about “flamin’ rabid fans.”

It’s straight-up overkill.

Dex shoots me an apologetic smile. “You all right, Stell?”

I nod mutely, and he goes back inside, leaving me to stare at the black metal door, my face growing warm again as I replay every embarrassing moment of the last thirty seconds.

The most mortifying part is, Rhys James isn’t the first celebrity I’ve ever met.

I work for Georgia Rose Beck, the biggest home reno influencer on social media and TV.

She’s the first in what I hope will be a long list of celebrity clients for my fledgling social media management company.

I can’t turn into a babbling idiot every time I meet someone famous.

Granted, Rhys James is the only celebrity whose poster I spent years kissing goodnight.

And who I fantasized about marrying…I still have the Pinterest board of dream wedding ideas to prove it.

But as I walk back into my apartment, my embarrassment grows.

My behavior was inexcusable. I’m not a teenager anymore.

I shut the door behind me and lean against it for support. Humiliation turns my knees rubbery, and I have to fight the urge not to wish for a sinkhole to open beneath my feet and swallow me.

“What’s wrong?” Britta asks.

Dex is taking her out tonight, and she’s dressed in a gorgeous green dress, which I picked out, FYI.

Cut low in the front, it flows elegantly to her gold sandals, and she looks the epitome of chic California casual.

Basically, the total opposite of my look right now.

And I’m the one who cares about fashion.

“Taking out the trash turned into the most cringe moment of my life.” I push away from the door and walk the few steps to a barstool at the kitchen counter, then recount what just happened with Rhys James.

The sympathy on her face makes me feel equal parts seen and more embarrassed. “I can’t go over there tonight.”

A knock draws her gaze from me to the door. She gives my hands a quick squeeze and says, “Yes you can. You were overly excited, but he was a jerk, and that’s much worse.”

She lets go and opens the door to let Dex in, and after I beg him to explain to Rhys that I’m not a lunatic, they’re on their way to eat sushi—a first for Britta.

I slink to the shower to scrub away the stink of tuna and shame. Neither of which washes off easily. By the time the bathroom is good and steamy, I’ve internalized Britta’s advice, and my embarrassment has been replaced with indignation.

Rhys was a jerk out there. Is a jerk, if the stories are to be believed.

Plenty of rumors have leaked lately from former employees and girlfriends, claiming Rhys James isn’t really the fun, personable guy he seems on stage.

I’ve seen more than one TikTok of him being rude in public to the same fans who’ve paid a lot of money for tickets to his shows.

I know better than anyone not to believe everything—or anything—you see on social media, so I assumed the videos were cut and stitched to make Rhys look bad.

But the fact is, in the hallway just now, he came off as the entitled tool those videos have portrayed him to be.

He’s the one who should be embarrassed, not me.

I don’t need Dex to tell Rhys I’m not crazy.

I’ll go to their get-together and prove it myself.

My fantasy about what meeting Rhys James would look like may have turned into a nightmare, but I won’t let what he thinks about me affect my reality. Fantasy is strictly for escape. Reality is about facing life with a smile, finding ways around—or through—whatever challenges it throws at you.

Rhys has not only proven once again why fantasy and reality shouldn’t mix but also given me the challenge I need to smile and move on from ever again confusing the fantasy Rhys James with who he is in real life.