Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Stella
Hours later, after signing contracts and too much schmoozing with Danny, Rhys and I walk out of his office together. We make our way to the elevator without saying a word. Rhys is even tenser now than when he walked—no, ran—into Danny’s office.
I assumed he was stressed about being late.
But he never really loosened up. His entire posture grew tighter and tighter with each passing second until he was so stiff and on high alert, he could have been wearing one of those funny hats and guarding Buckingham Palace.
Which surprises me, because I know he’s worked with Danny for over ten years now.
Silently, we walk down the long hallway lined with gold records, and I wonder if Rhys’s are out here or closer to Danny’s office where he can keep an eye on them. When we reach the elevators, he pushes the down button, then stares above the doors.
“Pool house is the best spot for you. You’ll have your own space. I just need some time to get it ready.” His eyes don’t move from the numbers as they slowly change, tracking the elevator’s progress from the first floor.
I scoff. “I’m not moving into your pool house.” The doors open, and he waits for me to step into the elevator, then follows. “Is that why you look so stressed right now? You’re worried I’d actually move in with you?”
A deep crease forms between his brows as the doors close behind us. “You’re not moving in with me. The pool house is out back. And I’m not stressed.” He sounds surprised, not relieved, like I expected.
The doors shut, and I laugh uncomfortably. “I can’t live in your pool house, Rhys.”
“Why not?”
“A lot of reasons…” I blink. “We just…” How do I tell him I don’t want to be stuck hanging out with him during my non-work hours? “I think it would be better to keep a little distance between us.”
He stares at the elevator buttons. “You won’t be a bother in the pool house.”
I bite my lip to hold back another laugh, but I can’t contain my smile. The scene in Pride and Prejudice where Lady Catherine tells Lizzie she can play the piano in some back room where she won’t be in anyone’s way flashes through my head.
The tips of Rhys’s ears grow red, and I wonder if he realizes he might have offended me. I decide to let him off the hook.
“Thanks for the offer, but I don’t need to live with you to make people like you again,” I say, firmly enough to put an end to any possibility of a super awkward situation where I’m living in the pool house of the rock star whose poster I used to kiss goodnight.
He winces, and I realize he’s not the only one who may need to be more careful about how he phrases things. “Up to you, but you agreed with Danny. He won’t quit until you’ve moved in.”
The elevator stops, and I’m forced closer to Rhys as four people pour in.
“I didn’t agree with him,” I say quietly. “I said I heard him.”
Rhys’s eyes dart to mine, wide with surprise. As his eyebrows lower, the corner of his mouth tugs into a reluctant grin, which, if I’m reading him right, has a bit of admiration in it.
“You shoulda been a solicitor, Stella,” he mutters with a soft laugh as he shifts his gaze up to the numbers above the elevator doors.
“Thought about it. I didn’t have the stomach to work with people like Danny all day long.”
Rhys snorts, and smiling to myself, I follow his gaze to the changing numbers.
I don’t have a lot of experience in Hollywood—or any, really—but Danny was pretty much exactly what I expected from an entertainment company exec, based on what Georgia’s told me, and I didn’t come to LA to get pushed around or treated like a na?ve kid from Idaho.
The thing I kept thinking while I watched the first interactions between Danny and Rhys, was what Rhys told me yesterday.
In all my deep Rhys James internet dives, I’ve never found a thing about the “Fa-La La-La Land” everyone sings along to every Christmas season—or all year long, if you’re me—not being the original version.
Witnessing Danny assert his dominance in that room, I get why now.
Rhys was different in there. I’ve seen him stand up to Archie and Dex when he didn’t want to do something they suggested, but he sort of shrank around Danny.
And Danny took full advantage, making little digs he knew would hit Rhys where it hurt.
He left no doubt that he wants Rhys to know who is in charge.
According to nearly every internet search I’ve done on the topic—and I’ve been down a lot of Rhys James rabbit holes—Rhys James the Rock star was Danny’s idea.
The consensus is that Danny saw the Surf City High episode where Rhys’s character, Andy, picked up a guitar and sang a song he’d written for Frankie’s character, Paige.
Danny knew a star when he saw one. By then, he’d already created three different boy bands and a girl group who were all making their way up the charts in 2016 and selling out good-sized venues.
He approached one producer of the show—Archie’s dad, Malcolm Forsythe—and by the next season, Andy and Paige’s relationship wasn’t the only thing written into the script.
Andy’s rising fame as a rock star was too.
When the show ended a few years later, Rhys James was not only performing the songs he’d sung on Surf City High, but also songs he was writing—or that other people were writing for him.
Fans—me included—loved how funny and a little clueless Andy was.
He played sweet, innocent, and mostly unaware of how devastatingly gorgeous he was.
Rhys carried that Andy personality to the stage, where now he performs amazing dance numbers that feel so natural, you forget they’re choreographed.
He always throws in something silly, like skipping or cartwheels, even—like Danny said—jumping rope.
I guess fans—including me—believed Rhys was Andy. There was no acting.
Now that I know him in real life, I see how much acting is involved in everything he does in public. That’s become even more obvious after our meeting with Danny. There was no acting in there—only a candid look into why Rhys puts on the masks he does, literally and metaphorically.
We reach the first floor, and the doors open. Rhys waits for me and everyone else to exit first before following.
I’m dying to ask about him and Danny. Is there some kind of contractual obligation for Rhys to follow his orders?
For him to let Danny put him down like he just did?
Or does Rhys not know any different? I sort of think that’s it.
He’s never worked with anyone else, and he was so young when he signed with VibeHouse, he and Danny have almost a father-son dynamic.
But the unhealthy kind, where the dad’s more tyrant than trusted advisor.
If I felt like Rhys would do anything other than scowl at me, I might ask. But I think we’re both ready to escape more awkward conversation, so I stop just outside the big glass doors and point down the street.
“I’m parked a few blocks this way. Give me a day or two to put together some ideas of what we can get on camera that will appeal to your followers.”
“You didn’t park in the garage?” Rhys scowls.
“I got a little mixed up with the directions and took the first spot I could find. Parking is terrible here!” I search for what set off his scowl, but I can’t suss out the cause. I guess there’s no way to predict when a Rhys thunderstorm might appear out of nowhere.
“I’ll walk you to your car.” He takes my elbow and guides me in the direction I indicated.
“You don’t have to. I’m good by myself.”
His thumb is rough from strumming his guitar, reminding me that the hand pressed into my bare flesh belongs to rock star Rhys James. Heat spreads from every spot his fingers touch through the rest of my body.
I shift my elbow from his light grip. “Really, Rhys. I’m fine.”
“Sun’s going down, Stella.” He drops his hand but stays by my side, walking silently next to me—which, on an awkwardness scale of one to ten, is around eleven.
There’s this weird, silent energy between us.
The energy part doesn’t bug me—I’m all about energy—but the silence does.
Noise and chatter are my happy place, but I can’t find any words.
I’m too busy trying to pretend that one of the biggest rock stars in the world isn’t walking so close that more than once, his shoulder brushes mine, sending a charge of electricity down my arm.
I explain away the feeling by telling myself I’m reacting to my lingering fantasy of the Rhys James, not the grumpy Rhys who growls at anyone who dares to walk on the same sidewalk as us.
Which, to be fair, is only one guy who wobbles like he’s had too much to drink and tries to ask us for money before Rhys scares him away.
Finally, I can’t take the silence anymore.
“I think the first thing to do is to have some kind of pool party or barbecue at your house,” I blurt.
“Like we talked about with Danny. I mean, you have a pool, right? You have a pool house, so I’m assuming you have a pool.
” I don’t wait for Rhys to confirm. “We’ll invite your closest friends.
I can get video and pics of you hanging out with Dex and Archie, Frankie if she’s in town.
It’ll help people recall where you came from, who you are, what they love about you. ”
“I have a pool. I don’t have a lot of parties.”
It’s not a yes to my idea, but it’s not a no either. Although no one would blame me if I gave up right now, based on Rhys’s level of enthusiasm, which is around minus zero.
But I’m not a girl who gives up. Especially since VibeHouse agreed to pay me a lot of money to make Rhys look good. Not to mention the fact that this opportunity dropped in my path roughly thirty seconds after my job with Georgia got scaled way back.
“We’ll have to make it more than a ‘Surf City’ reunion, you know, to keep Danny happy. But I think it’s a good starting point. You’ve got other friends to invite, right?” I ask brightly.