Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Stella
The shower washes away the tuna smell but not my humiliation. That clings to me for another couple hours until I work up the nerve to go over to Dex and Archie’s, determined to make a better second impression on Rhys.
By the time I return to my apartment later that night, Rhys has made an even worse impression on me.
He’s not only rude, he’s boring. Apparently he only knows how to sing, because every time I tried to talk to him, he shut down.
I was lucky to get a one syllable answer from him.
The good news, though, is that my fantasy relationship with him is officially over. I hope I never see him again.
Except, within a few days, Britta has agreed to marry Dex for reasons I’m not allowed to talk about, and I’m on a private plane headed to Vegas with…
you guessed it… Rhys James. He’s as awkward as he was the first time we met, but I’m not.
When he complains about how the media is treating him, I seize my chance.
I look around Britta and Dex to where Rhys leans his head against the side of the plane, closing his eyes against the sunlight beaming through the window.
“You’re letting the media control your story instead of controlling it yourself through your socials,” I tell him.
“Your accounts are boring. They don’t feel personal at all. ”
His eyelids slowly flit open, and he tilts his head to shoot me a condescending look. “You think my accounts are boring? You think you could do better?”
“Yeah, I do.” I give him engagement stats from Georgia’s account to prove it, then nudge Britta to change places with him so he’s sitting next to me.
We talk for the next hour—or, mostly I talk.
By the time we land in Vegas, I’m hopeful about having a relationship with Rhys.
Purely professional, of course. I’ve at least laid the groundwork for a year from now when Georgia plans to move production of her show to LA, and I plan on curating a long list of celebrity clients for my social media company, Stella Sparks Social Strategy. 4S for short.
After Britta’s wedding, I don’t see Rhys again before going back to Paradise a few weeks later. I watch his socials, though. That’s all I can do, a thousand miles away in Idaho. They don’t get better. In fact, they get worse, and so does the media lashing out against him.
A few months after meeting him, he texts me a question about his social media and what I’d do differently. I answer it without one squeal of excitement or hyperventilating. I’m not texting Fantasy Rhys James. I’m networking with potential client Rhys James.
Over the next year, I get another couple texts from him—always about business. I let him know when I move back to LA, inviting him to officially come on as a client. My expertise isn’t free. I’m ready to make my dreams come true in La La Land.
Reality, however, keeps trying to sidetrack my dreams. Working on the set for Georgia Rose’s latest home reno show is not going well.
She’s supposed to restore a historic home in the Hollywood Hills in her latest season of At Home With Georgia Rose.
Instead, in the first week of filming, she’s spent most of her time in the bathroom while her husband, Zach, clenches his fists every time the director complains about her morning sickness.
So, that’s roughly about a million fist-clenches a day.
Twice already since we started filming this morning, Georgia has rushed away, overwhelmed by nausea.
I’ve recorded as much footage of the kitchen as I can, documenting its transformation from a small, closed-off galley into an open-concept space shared with the living area.
Sadly, the videos I’ve captured are mostly of her nodding while the director, Sid, gives her instructions, which doesn’t exactly make for compelling content.
I’ve tried to keep smiling through the never-ending parade of problems we’ve had since starting this project. So, I shoot Georgia a smile and a thumbs up while I keep recording.
My personal phone buzzes on the table next to me, but I don’t take the call, even though it’s from the Rhys James, who, despite our first meeting, has asked me more than once for advice about his social media presence.
He’s not as big of a jerk as I thought he was that day, but he’s also not the fun, engaging person I thought he was.
If anything, he’s standoffish and broody, but not in a sexy, mysterious way.
More like in an awkward, nervous way. Worst of all, he’s kind of…
boring. Which, I hate to say, is a deal breaker and also why I let the call go to voicemail, choosing instead to focus on what’s happening here on location.
But that doesn’t explain why my thumb hovers over the trash icon next to his voicemail. Nope. I’m tempted to delete his message because Rhys James is one more reminder that I prefer fantasy to the real thing. I’d rather keep my distance from the real Rhys.
Quick footsteps draw my eyes back to the set in time to see Georgia rushing from the room—again. I cut my video. I’m not about to record Georgia retching in the bathroom.
With nothing else to do, I opt to listen to Rhys’s deep voice and Australian accent, if for no other reason than nostalgia for the breathless feeling I used to get when I fantasized about meeting him in real life.
Anticipatory excitement is the best. My favorite thing about a roller coaster isn’t the ride itself but the moment at the top of the first hill, that breath of fear and excitement before the drop that builds enough momentum to push the coaster up, down, and over the rest of the track.
The part I hate is the screeching stop, the whiplash forward and back before you have to exit the ride. Which is exactly how I felt when I discovered Rhys is kind of a tool.
After listening to the voicemail, I read the transcript of his message to make sure I heard him right. Reading confirms what he said: He wants to have dinner with me. He didn’t say why, but if it were for business, he would have said as much.
And now I have to find a polite way to turn him down without offending his super-sensitive rock star ego.
If nothing else, Rhys could be a good connection when it comes to adding clients to my Stella Sparks Social Strategy roster.
Which, so far, is comprised of Georgia Rose Beck and my cousin’s semi-feral cat, Willy Wonkat.
And Georgia’s the only one of the two who’s paying me, mostly in free room and board.
Sid tosses his script onto his chair, then yells after Georgia, “We’re burning money here!”
A few feet away, Zach, who also happens to be my cousin, lets out an uncharacteristic growl. I’ve known the man my entire life and have never heard the kind of scraping frustration mingled with anger that just came out of him.
I erase the few seconds of video I got of Georgia running for the bathroom. My job is to create posts, reels, and TikToks that show all the good stuff: The perfectly renovated home. The perfect couple. The perfect outfit. The perfect life.
Not someone about to barf.
“I’ll check on her.” Zach walks through the sunken living room with a glare that sends Sid shrinking into his director’s chair, though Zach wouldn’t touch Sid, despite the six inches and fifty pounds of muscle he’s got on the director.
I jog after him. “Zach! Zaaaach!”
“Not now, Sparky,” he says over his shoulder at the same time something crashes to the floor.
Sid bursts into a creative string of curse words, and Zach comes to a slow stop as he’s about to turn down the hallway. He clenches his fists—that’s a million and one—before turning around. “I’ve warned you about your mouth, Sid. There are ladies and kids on the set.”
He glances at me, and I roll my eyes.
“I’m not a kid. And don’t call me Sparky,” I whisper.
Zach doesn’t hear. He’s already cruising toward Sid with the same velocity as a runaway train, and Sid, with steam practically coming from his ears, huffs toward Zach on a course that’s about to become the math problem of nightmares.
There’s no actual collision, but only because Zach puts on the brakes.
Despite his size, he’s not a fighter. That doesn’t keep him from looming furiously over Sid while the director yells up at him.
I’ve never seen Zach this mad, which gives me a sense of how much pressure he and Georgia must be under.
None of which I film, for obvious reasons.
Georgia’s fans want the fantasy behind this new version of her show in Los Angeles, not the reality.
Because the reality is, it’s a disaster, and everyone here knows it, but no one wants to admit it.
Especially not Sid, who has to know Georgia’s pregnant, even though she hasn’t made the news public.
While Zach and Sid tear into each other, I go down the hallway and knock on the bathroom door. “You okay in there?”
My phone rings again, and I switch it to silent.
Georgia opens the bathroom door, looking only slightly less green than Elphaba. “I can’t do this,” she moans, leaning against the doorjamb.
“That’s okay. I’ll talk to Sid. Maybe a day off will help you feel better.”
Georgia’s look as she shakes her head makes me very nervous.
“I don’t mean today, Stella. I mean, I can’t do this at all.”
I blink. I can’t is not something I’ve ever heard Georgia say before, and I’ve known her my entire life.
“Of course you can! You’re Georgia Rose! You can do anything!” My job isn’t only to manage Georgia’s social media accounts—it’s to manage her. Not in a spoiled celebrity kind of way but like a cheerleader who lifts her spirits when they occasionally dip.
And they’ve been dipping a lot since she and Zach started filming this new season of her show with a different director from her last season in Paradise. The pregnancy isn’t helping either.
Georgia shakes her head. “I can do anything when I want to do it…but I don’t think I want to do this. Not right now.”