Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Rhys
Stella wastes no time wanting to post new content on my socials—including live posts. I’m not ready for that yet, so she settles for using tour footage that might distract people from my last concert. But she doesn’t stop there.
Within a week, she’s not only working with my PA to get everything moved out of the pool house—which means Mum roping me into some actual manual labor—but she’s also got Georgia decorating it to match the inside of my house.
Although I get a bit of credit for that.
I told Danny if he wanted Stella living in the pool house, he’d need to fork out to get it in proper shape for her.
He looked surprised, but he didn’t even blink before saying yes.
I owe that to Stella’s morning mantra. Ever since she told me to use it, I’ve been looking in the mirror each day and saying, Know your worth, Rhys.
Feels weird, yeah, but I like the sound of it. And Danny saying yes to my demand? First bit of proof that maybe the bonkers affirmation actually works.
Stella’s inspiring in other ways too. Watching how quickly she transforms that sad old studio space into something shiny and new—but still somehow feels like me—is impressive.
Boxes vanish. The bathroom and kitchenette go from grim to gleaming.
New tiles, new fixtures, fresh paint coming next week, and the furniture Georgia’s picked out right after that.
I’m keen to see the final result. Not just the pool house—but me, once Stella starts sorting out my online presence. What she’s done to the pool house, she can probably do to my reputation. And that’s got me itching to get to work.
For the first time since I agreed to play Winter Lights, I’ve actually got ideas again.
Little bits of melody and chord progressions keep popping into my head.
I’d write them down or record them if I didn’t already know Danny would hate them.
Still, I’m hoping the trip home to Oz I’ve planned with Mum and Dad will get things flowing properly.
Mum reckons a bit of time in Brisbane will help Dad regain some strength and maybe lift his spirits. It’s a long haul, but the doc gave us the okay—said to go while he’s still healthy enough for the trip. At his age, that window won’t stay open forever.
So, a few days before Stella moves into the pool house, we’ll be off to Brisbane.
I’m already feeling guilty that I won’t be around to help her move boxes and set things up.
Now that Mum’s reminded me I’m capable of hard work, I wouldn’t mind pitching in.
Mostly to be useful, but also because I keep thinking about the other day when she grabbed my arm.
I noticed her eyes flick to my biceps—and that she didn’t let go right away.
Wouldn’t mind giving her another look at those muscles doing actual work. Maybe when I get back.
The morning we’re flying out, I spot Stella from my bedroom window.
She’s heading into the pool house with a short red-haired woman I recognize instantly as Georgia Rose.
Painters are supposed to show up today, so I figure that’s why she’s here.
I don’t really have time to chat, but my feet have a mind of their own.
By the time I’ve crossed the lawn, I’m already wondering what the hell I’m going to say.
When I step through the open door, both women have their backs to me. Stella’s dark hair is braided in two long plaits that hang over her shoulders. She’s wearing a tank top and baggy jeans that hang loose everywhere except where they shouldn’t, and suddenly my brain forgets how to form words.
I swallow, then clear my throat—too loud. “Everything okay here?”
Stella and Georgia both jump and turn around.
“Oh, hey, Rhys,” Stella says. “This is Georgia.”
I cross the room and hold out my hand. “I’m a big fan of your show. Cheers for fixing up this place.”
Georgia shakes my hand, flashing her famous grin. “I’m a big fan of yours. Do you want to weigh in on which color looks best in here?”
She steps aside, pointing to the far wall where a dozen shades of white are painted in neat squares. I walk over, pretending I know what I’m looking at. I’m not usually asked for my opinion—especially on stuff like this—so I’m a bit chuffed she cares.
I tap the creamiest shade. “This one looks better in the natural light.”
“That’s what I told Stella!” Georgia holds up her hand for a high-five. She’s as spunky in person as she is on TV. I like her already.
Stella rolls her eyes. “Of course, he’d take your side. He fights me on everything.”
“I don’t fight you on everything.”
“Only who to invite to your party, the food to serve at it, and how to rehab your accounts. So, basically everything you’ve hired me to do.” She lifts an eyebrow, crossing her arms in a way that says she’s waiting for me to prove her wrong.
“I’ll agree with you when you’re right,” I shoot back to get a rise out of her. “Throw some shrimp on the barbie. That’s all a party needs.”
“Shouldn’t you be on your way to Australia?” Stella asks dryly.
I check my watch and mutter a quiet curse. “Yeah. I’m late. Just wanted to check in before I leave. Sorry I won’t be here to help.”
Her brown eyes lift to mine, catching me off guard. I’ve always thought brown was a flat color—ordinary, dull. But not in her eyes. Their color shifts between deep chocolate and warm amber, and for a second, I forget what I’m saying.
“There will be plenty to do when you get back.” Stella turns to study the wall again, missing my grin.
Georgia doesn’t. She throws me a knowing look, one that makes me turn toward the door faster than I mean to. “Good to meet you, Georgia. I’ll be back in two weeks. Make a list for me, Stella.”
“You’re the one who needs to make a list. Tell me who to invite to the party besides your mates!” Stella calls after me as I step outside.
The door shuts behind me, but the windows are open—and Georgia’s voice carries. “I thought you said he was rude.”
“More grumpy than rude.”
“I’ve met grumpier,” Georgia replies, and I can’t decide if I should be grateful or insulted.
“Trust me, he’s grumpy. And boring. He barely talks.”
Ouch. I should’ve known better than to eavesdrop.
“Boring? Rhys James? The man whose poster you spent the better part of a year kissing goodnight?” Georgia teases, and suddenly I don’t regret listening at all.
“Who told you that?” The mortification in Stella’s voice is obvious. If she knew I was hearing this, she’d probably faint.
Then again, she did call me rude, grumpy, and boring. So maybe I’ll hang on to this bit of intel for later. I push away the thought of her lips on anything and the heat that comes with it.
“Your mom told everyone, Stell,” Georgia says with a laugh, and I have to bite back my own.
“Yeah, well, that poster had more personality than the real Rhys James. He’s nothing in person like he is on stage.”
That one hits harder than I’d like to admit.
She’s not wrong.
The version of me Danny built all those years ago is easier to like than the real one—and maybe that’s the problem.
The two weeks in Brisbane are not only what Dad needs, but what I need too.
We see family and old mates. We sit on the beach.
I surf. We do all the things that used to be normal before I moved to the States for Surf City High.
The time away gives me space to think—and to make the call that’s been obvious all along.
I’ve got to get back with the program and be the only Rhys James I’ve ever been.
At least on stage. That’s what people want—the Rhys in loud costumes who’s goofy and endearing, not the Rhys who feels anything deeper than what a bouncy beat can carry.
Fans don’t want acoustic guitar-playing Rhys singing about the day after Christmas when the magic’s over and the decorations come down.
The song I write for Winter Lights can’t be that. It needs Christmas Eve energy, when you’re a kid too excited to sleep.
I started as an actor, so I’ll keep acting on stage. And I do love performing. I wish I had more say in what and how I perform, but most musicians would give anything for my career. Instead of wishing it looked different, I’m going to be grateful.
Off stage, though, I am who I am—a bloke who’s happy at home with his parents, playing the piano and board games, reading epic fantasy, or watching the footy with his mates.
I’ve been to the hottest parties in LA, attended all the award shows.
They’re full of people congratulating themselves and trying to one-up each other. They’re dull.
So if people—one in particular—find me dull, I can live with that.
She’s not the girl for me. She’s my social media strategist, and that’s it—the girl whose job is to make people believe I’m the same offstage as I am on.
If that means Stella’s got to finesse some of the video she takes of me, so be it.
I can play a part on stage, but at home I’ve got to be myself.
With that settled, I decide it’s time for a proper chat with Stella about her plans for my socials. She needs to know that if she wants footage of the onstage version of me, it’ll have to be scripted. Filming me around the clock at home won’t get her that Rhys—if he’s who she’s after.
The night Mum, Dad, and I get back to LA, I’m wrecked from the flight.
Sorting things with Stella can wait ’til tomorrow.
But as I help Mum settle Dad in, my eyes keep drifting toward the pool house, even though I can’t see it from their room.
My thoughts keep drifting to Stella too—whether she’s unpacked, whether she needs a hand.
That’s the excuse I use to tell myself it’s fine to pop over.
And if the talk drifts to my socials, maybe I’ll sound less combative if I’m being helpful while I say what I won’t do.
This itch to see her has nothing to do with wanting another look at her eyes.
Or her smile. Maybe that little dimple at her collarbone.