Chapter 8 #2
I pause long enough to watch his face soften into understanding before I go on.
“Whoever it is has given me my dad. The letters always include guidance tailored to the age I am when I get them. In junior high, I got advice about how to know if a boy was just immature or real trouble. In high school, he told me not to be afraid of dreaming big or trying everything to figure out what I really love. In college, I heard about his years in the military and meeting Mom. All of them, though boil down to him wanting me to be kind.”
“So that’s…” He ticks his fingers, counting. “Fourteen letters? Did he write all of them? Or…any of them?”
I lift my shoulders in a slow shrug. “He wrote at least three—maybe before I was born, or maybe right after. Mom says he knew when he was deployed, there was a chance he wouldn’t come home. I think, maybe, he wrote them in case I didn’t get the chance to know him.”
We both know how Dad’s story ends, and there’s no sense letting this lump in my throat get any bigger. I swallow hard, then continue my story.
“The handwriting in the letters changed slightly the year I turned thirteen. I knew Santa wasn’t real by then, but I wanted to see if I’d still get a letter.
So, right after the Christmas parade, I waited in line to ask Santa—Nick…
” I give Rhys a look so he knows I don’t still believe Nick is Santa.
“For the same thing I’d asked for every year since I was nine.
He asked me at least half a dozen times if I was sure that’s what I wanted, but I just nodded and said yes.
Christmas Eve, Nick showed up with a new handwritten letter from Dad. ”
“So it’s Nick who writes them?”
I shrug again. “I don’t think so, but I have no idea who does, so…maybe?”
“You’ve never tried to figure it out?” Rhys’s eyes narrow with wonder.
I shake my head. “That would be like opening a Christmas present before Christmas. The magic would be ruined. I get the letters, but my whole family feels like Dad’s there celebrating with us.
When whoever writes them wants me to know, they’ll tell me.
Until then, as far as I’m concerned, it’s Santa. ”
Rhys cocks his head, studying me before giving my hand a quick squeeze. “That’s really…I don’t even know. Lovely? Sweet? I think I’d believe in Santa too if I were you.”
That’s literally the nicest thing Rhys has ever said to me, and I’m tempted to stay right here, trapped in his eyes. Which is a dangerous place to be.
But he lets go of my hand and waves his head toward the tree. “We should finish, yeah?”
“Not without hot chocolate.” I pop up from the sofa so fast, I’m dizzy and walk to the kitchen a little wobbly.
“It’s thirty degrees outside, Stella. The Santa Anas are blowing like mad,” Rhys says in his typical I-don’t-believe-in-fun tone, but his eyes sparkle almost as brightly as the lights on my tree.
“Thirty degrees is the perfect temp for warming up with hot cocoa.”
“Not in Celsius.”
“There’s never a wrong temp for my hot chocolate. I can turn the AC down if you want it colder in here.” I pull milk from the fridge and cocoa from my pantry.
A noise comes from behind me that could be Rhys strangling a laugh or a raccoon choking. I hope it’s the first. I don’t want to do the Heimlich on any raccoons. They’re mean buggers.
“What should I do while you’re making the unnecessary cocoa?” he growls from the opposite side of the room.
I eyeball-measure the sugar and then dump it into a saucepan. I’ve made my great-granny’s hot cocoa so often, I don’t need the recipe or any measuring cups and spoons.
“Sit there patiently, pondering why you’ll drink hot coffee on a hot day, but somehow hot chocolate is, quote-unquote, unnecessary.”
“Not the same,” Rhys says with no conviction.
“Is that the best argument you’ve got?” When he doesn’t say anything, I assume I’ve won this round. “I’m not a great cook, but I make a mean cup of hot cocoa that will not only change your mind about its necessity but also rock your world.”
Rhys doesn’t reply, so I keep talking. It’s that or try to wrap my head around the fact I’m making hot chocolate for one of the biggest rock stars in the world. Every time I think I’m over the fantasy Rhys James, a thought like that wanders into my brain, and I question whether this is my reality.
“I’m not exaggerating,” I say loud enough to quiet the thoughts in my head. “I use real chocolate and a touch of cream to give it a flavor so rich, half a mug is enough. Especially after I top it with whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles, with a candy cane for stirring.”
“Candy cane?” Rhys asks.
“I have an emergency stash. They don’t go bad, you know, so I stock up when they’re discounted after Christmas.”
“You stock up for the entire year? How many boxes is that?”
“Ummm, a lot. But they’re always marked down to less than a dollar a box.” I open my candy cane cupboard—reserved solely for my stash—and take out a fresh box, then unwrap two canes and stick one in each cup.
With a mug in each hand, I walk back to where Rhys is sitting on the couch. I got a little excited with the whipped cream, so I carry the cocoa carefully to keep the perfectly piled froth from falling.
“This is quite a list you’ve got, Stella,” Rhys says.
A second passes before what he says registers. My eyes dart to Rhys, who’s holding my scrapbook in his lap, smirking.
Whipped cream sloshes over the rims of the mugs as I rush to Rhys. He’s less than ten feet away, but I can’t get to him fast enough. By the time I do, my hands are sticky with chocolate and cream. I set down the mugs and rip the book out of his hands.
“Who said you could read that?” I slam the book shut and clutch it to my chest.
“I didn’t know I needed permission. It was right there on your coffee table.” Rhys points to the spot where I’d set the scrapbook—then forgotten about it when he knocked on the door.
“That doesn’t matter,” I say through gritted teeth. My face is on fire. I can’t even look at him. “You don’t just go through people’s stuff without asking.”
Rhys stands, his chest puffed out like a rooster ready to defend his territory. “It’s on your coffee table, Stella. If you don’t want people to look at it, put it away. Or put a warning label on it.”
“That’s not an excuse, Rhys!”
He scowls and looks ready to fight back when suddenly his shoulders drop, and his armor with them.
“I really am sorry. I didn’t mean to invade your privacy.
I started looking at the photos and your memories, and…
” His shoulders creep up in a slow, bashful shrug.
“I couldn’t stop.” He pauses long enough to catch my eye. “You were a really cute kid.”
“Of course I was,” I sputter, losing steam even though my embarrassment sticks around like a too-hot summer day after the sun’s gone down. “I’m still cute. Or at least according to you, not ugly.”
Rhys’s face changes from playful to serious, and he shakes his head. “You’re more than not ugly. And definitely more than cute. You’re beautiful.”
My whole body flushes with a different heat. Rhys James called me beautiful. His blue eyes grow darker and dance, reflecting the twinkling lights from the tree. If not for the coffee table between us, I might jump into his arms right now, whether or not he wanted me there.
But I get the sense he’d like it a lot. I don’t have much experience with men—and zero with rock stars—but I know hunger when I see it. And it’s written all over Rhys’s face.
“Thank you.” The words come out as whisper. “You’re more than cute, too.”
“Of course, I am.” His mouth pulls into the teasing side-smile he perfected in Surf City High, and I wonder if he knows what that smile does to me—has always done to me.
I don’t think that’s in my scrapbook, but he’s had a lot of experience using it on adoring fans.
He’d have to be stupid not to notice women melting when he flashes it.
With one long stretch of his leg, followed by the other, Rhys steps over the coffee table, so he’s near enough for me to take in the spectrum of blues in his eyes.
He tugs the scrapbook from my arms and sets it on the table before putting his hands on my shoulders.
It’s not quite kissing position, but close.
I should stop him.
I wonder if I want to.
“No need to be embarrassed, Stella. The only thing I saw on that list was a lotta big goals. Good ones.” A thousand thoughts cross Rhys’s face before he squeezes my arms in a friendly way, then drops his hands and steps back. “I reckon I’d better drink my cocoa and go. I’m knackered.”
He picks up a mug and empties it in one swallow, then licks his lips. “Delish. Thanks.”
I barely hear his words. My brain is too busy replaying the vision of the tip of Rhys’s tongue making its way across his full lips to focus on anything else, including remembering to breathe.
Rhys is halfway to the door before my brain recovers from the Rhys-induced power surge. I catch up with him as he opens the door.
“Thanks for your help.”
He turns his dangerous gaze on me again. “You’re welcome.” His lips purse playfully. “Let me know if there’s anything else I can…” His eyes dart across the room to the scrapbook on the table. “Help you with.”
My face grows hot again. Is he talking about my list? He has to be. Specifically, number two: Kiss a rock star.
The way Rhys is looking at me right now—at a low simmer, waiting for me to turn up the heat—I’m more than tempted to let him help me cross that one off my list. Remembering what his arms and stomach look like under that T-shirt, I briefly consider whether he might help me cross off the skinny-dipping one too.
But as he slips out the door and I quickly close it behind him, I remember this Rhys James is my client, not Rhys James, exclamation point.
I’m spending the next six weeks basically living with him.
If I kiss him now, before I’ve even started my job, I’ll be in danger of ruining any chance of crossing off number one on my list: Don’t fall in love.