Chapter 4 #2
Then I have to look away. He really is drop-dead gorgeous, even when he’s doing absolutely nothing to be. I can’t risk falling for the fantasy again, not if I’m going to work for him, and especially not when I know the real Rhys is so different from the version the world sees.
“But your story isn’t about what you aren’t. It’s about what you are. Who you are. That’s what we need to show your fans,” I tell him as Diva, the barista, sets my coffee in front of me.
Rhys scoffs. “What if ‘wildly popular teen pop star’ is all I am?”
I study him over the rim of my cup. There’s no arrogance in his voice, only exhaustion. “Would that be so bad? You’ve made a lot of money, right? You could probably live off royalties alone from ‘Fa-La La-La Land.’”
He shifts in his seat, turning slightly toward the window. “Could do, yeah. But I’m keen to leave a better legacy than that stupid song.”
“I love that song. I listen to it all year long.” I’m surprised he hates it so much, but at least we’re getting somewhere.
“‘Course you do.” He huffs out a laugh and shakes his head. “Figures. That’s why you’re perfect to sell me to the fans the way the label wants. Danny’ll love you.”
“I thought you wanted me.”
The words are out before I can catch them. I hear the double meaning instantly, and my face heats. Perfect.
“I do.” He smirks faintly. “You’re exactly what I need.”
The intensity of his words, of his gaze, catches me off guard. For a second, I think he took my you wanted me in a way I didn’t intend—at least not consciously. But the way his mouth twists with frustration makes me think he didn’t notice my slip…or his own.
I shut my laptop and return Rhys’s gaze. He doesn’t need me to take notes. He needs me to listen.
“So, what is your story, Rhys? It doesn’t sound like ‘wildly popular teen pop star who wrote a wildly popular Christmas song’ fits who you are anymore.”
Rhys shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “Didn’t write that song.”
I blink with surprise. “Your name is on the credits.”
“I wrote a song with the same title,” he says, his voice low and bitter.
“Label rewrote the lyrics—turned it into a cheesy pop hit I’d be happy never to sing again.
Don’t think anyone expected it to become the earworm it did, even with VibeHouse’s massive marketing push.
” The tension in his shoulders is tight enough to hum. No wonder he snapped on stage.
“I didn’t know that,” I say softly.
“Nobody does.” He takes another sip of coffee, the bitterness in his tone now replaced by something quieter. Regret, maybe.
“Why not?”
“I’m contractually obligated to keep that story to myself.” His eyes wrinkle above his devastating smirk, and for a second, the Rhys James across from me looks like the actor and singer I crushed on for most of my teens. “If you tell anyone, I’ll have to deny everything.”
“Hmm. Too bad. That would add a personal element to this,”—I gesture toward him—“persona you’re committed to.”
“Tell that to the label,” he teases back. “Actually, don’t. I’ll owe them my firstborn if they think I’ve said a word about the real ‘Fa-La La-La Land.’” He uses air quotes, his grin turning wry.
“Got it.” Usually sarcasm turns me off, but on him it’s somehow charming. Like a glimpse beneath the armor.
“But this brings us back to the story you do want to tell,” I remind him.
Rhys tugs on the brim of his ridiculous bucket hat. “The label wants the same story we’ve always told. The one that’s always worked. I’m the easygoing guy who sings happy songs that make people smile and shell out money to hear more of them.”
“Really?” I arch an eyebrow. I might suspend reality for Santa Claus, but now that I know Rhys, he’s anything but easygoing.
“Danny and VibeHouse built that version of me,” he says with a quiet scoff. “It sells tickets. Doesn’t mean it’s true. But truth doesn’t matter much in this business, so I don’t have much of a choice, do I?”
“You always have a choice, Rhys.”
He exhales, a dry laugh catching on the way out. “Says the girl from a blip on the map called Paradise. This is LA, Stella. The industry’s a machine, and I’m just another cog.”
The front door opens, and a line of people pours in. Rhys glances over his shoulder, then pulls his hat lower and slides on his sunglasses. “I’ve gotta run. Let me know how it goes today with VibeHouse, yeah?”
He keeps his head down as he moves toward the counter, squeezing between customers to slip out the back door. A couple of girls dressed head to toe in Lulu crane their necks to watch him go.
“Was that Rhys James?” one of them says to the other, who’s already pulling her toward the door, their identical high, tight ponytails swinging behind them.
I smile, knowing I would have done the same thing when I was their age if I’d seen Rhys James in public.
But as they run out the door, one of the girls holds up her phone and presses record. “It’s Maddie and Lola live! We just spotted Rhys James in Frothed looking completely unhinged!”
I miss the rest as the door closes behind them.
I pick up my coffee, then set it back down, my heart tugging in a way I didn’t expect.
For the first time since meeting him, I think I understand why Rhys isn’t the happy guy off stage that he seems to be when he’s performing.
I’ve always seen his smile, but now, I see what it’s cost him not to keep it plastered on at all times.
No wonder he’s tired and perpetually in a bad mood. He must be exhausted, playing a part night and day to keep fans happy.
I have no idea who the real Rhys James is, and I’m not sure he does either, but he’s going to have to find that truth before I can tell his story. I won’t sell a lie. Not about him. And not about the fantasy version of him I wish was real.