Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Rhys
When I leave Stella’s—it’s not really my pool house anymore; she’s made it hers—the only thing on my mind is her list.
Number one—she’s determined not to fall in love before she’s thirty. Interesting. I wanna know more about that. The why behind it. Heartbreak? Ambition? Maybe both. The contrarian in me can’t help seeing it as a challenge. Or maybe it’s because there’s a lot about Stella I like.
Then there are the things I could help her cross off. Those are the goals that really caught my attention. I can’t even think about the skinny dipping one without grinning like an idiot. So I focus on the others—kiss a rock star and kiss underwater.
I happen to be a rock star. With a very nice swimming pool. Perfect for underwater kissing. (And skinny dipping—but I’m not going there. Yet.)
I know exactly the scene she meant from Romeo & Juliet. I watched it a dozen times before auditioning for a local production back in Australia when I was a teenager.
What I’d like most, though, is to stop the world for Stella with one kiss.
As I walk inside, I’m smiling just thinking about kissing Stella like that. Really smiling—for the first time in months. Not only because of the list, but because I had a genuinely good time with Stella, decorating for Christmas in October. The absurdity of it still makes me laugh.
Truthfully, I think I’ve been smiling since I walked into her North Pole remake, even with my stupid song blasting.
Maybe not on the outside at first, but something in me warmed up listening to her talk about Christmases in Paradise.
The Yulefest, the month-long celebration her sister-in-law Hope puts on—it all sounded so… innocent and full of joy.
I’ve spent every Christmas for the last decade in LA—sometimes with my parents, sometimes with mates, sometimes with a performance or concert to do. Rarely with the kind of magic Stella described. And never with snow.
December’s summer back home, so a white Christmas has always been a bit of a fantasy for me, even after moving here.
Usually, whether in Australia or LA, I spend the day surfing and having a cookout on the beach.
Even before Surf City, Dex, Archie, Frankie, and I spent a few Christmases on Burleigh Beach.
Since moving here, it’s been South Bay or Malibu.
But a Christmas with snow? I’ve dreamed about that since I was a kid. And as mad as it sounds, I’m already working out how I might get Stella to invite me to Christmas in Paradise. Mum and Dad too, of course.
That night, I climb into bed completely wiped out from traveling all day, but with a spark of happiness I haven’t felt in a long time.
When I wake the next morning—late, groggy, still fogged by jet lag—there are words in my head. Phrases and fragments that sound like a song. I grab the notepad from my bedside table. Some musicians use their phones, but I’ve always preferred pen and paper.
I write every word spinning in my head, then shape them until they find their rhythm. Until they sound like Stella, beginning with her eyes.
They’re cinnamon wrapped in silence,
Eyes dark as midnight above snow,
You looked at me and somehow,
Made December feel like home.
No blinking lights, no perfect script,
Just your laughter in the glow,
I never saw December,
Until you let it show.
When I finally set down my pen and glance at the clock, it’s almost midday. I check on Mum and Dad—both still taking their sweet time waking up—then ask Rita, our cook, to make us some brekkie. I pour myself a coffee, trying not to text Stella.
But I want more lyrics for my song. And I reckon Stella’s my muse.
I take a sip, then cave and type:
You hungry? Want some brekkie?
Her reply comes fast:
It’s almost noon.
I glance at the time, even though I know she’s right. I’m about to suggest lunch instead when the dots appear again:
We need to plan this party though, so I’ll come over.
I’m grinning at my phone when Mum opens the cupboard beside me for a mug.
“What’s got you smiling this morning?” She asks, voice light with curiosity.
“Didn’t realize I was,” I say, turning away to hide it. But the grin doesn’t budge. Lyrics aren’t the only thing Stella’s inspiring today.
Suddenly, another idea hits, possibly thanks to Stella’s list. I text her back:
Meet me by the pool. Let’s plan the party there.
I ask Rita to put together some fresh fruit and green smoothies, then jog upstairs to throw on my boardies. Ten minutes later, I’m on the covered patio with a platter of fruit and two smoothies waiting on the table.
On the other side of the pool, Stella steps out of the pool house in shorts and a tank. No swimsuit.
“Yeah, nah. You can’t swim in that. Go grab your togs,” I call out, waving her back toward the door.
She blinks at me. “What are you talking about?”
“Turn around and chuck your swimmers on. If we’re throwing a pool party, you need to know what the pool’s like. Plus, it’s hot. And I want a swim.”
Her brow lifts, suspicious. For a second, I think she’s onto me, but then she turns and disappears inside.
I try not to worry she won’t come back, but the thought crosses my mind. When she reappears, I forget how to breathe.
She’s wearing a colorful bikini top and a long wrap skirt that moves with each step, showing flashes of tanned legs. The browns, golds, and oranges in the fabric make her eyes look deeper, brighter. I swallow hard and lick my lips as she crosses the patio.
“Chef made us some smoothies,” I say, forcing my eyes anywhere but the curve of her collarbone.
“Chef?”
“Rita. My chef.”
“You have a full-time chef?” She takes the smoothie I hand her and sips, her red lips closing around the straw like a ribbon tied on a present.
“Mostly for Dad,” I say with a shrug. “He’s on a special diet. Didn’t want Mum stressing about cooking three meals a day.”
“Oh, that’s yummy.” She smacks her lips. “I didn’t realize your dad had health problems.”
I try not to watch her mouth. “He had a stroke about six months ago. He’s still recovering. We’ve kept it quiet—he and Mum shouldn’t lose their privacy just because I’m their son.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” She sets down her glass, tilts her head. “Would he be up for meeting me? I’d love to meet your mom too.”
Her sincerity throws me. Most people get awkward around Dad now that he’s slower and can’t talk like he used to.
“You can meet them right now,” I say, setting my smoothie aside and nodding toward the house.
We head inside through the back door. Rita’s at the sink, washing dishes. Stella walks right up to her, hand outstretched.
“You must be Rita. I’m Stella. That smoothie was the best I’ve ever had. Thank you.”
Rita looks surprised—probably the first time a guest’s ever thanked her for anything. She dries her hands and shakes Stella’s. “Thank you. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
“I loved it! Can I have the recipe—or is it top secret?”
Rita chuckles. “No secrets. Rhys gave it to me.”
Stella glances at me, eyebrows raised.
“Got it from Archie,” I explain. “He’s the smoothie expert, after coaching Dex for so long.”
I guide Stella toward the kitchen table, where Mum’s helping Dad with his oatmeal. He’s doing better, feeding himself again, though the long flight probably set him back a bit physically. Mentally, though—he’s been sharper since seeing old mates in Brisbane.
“Mum, Dad, this is Stella, my new social media specialist.”
Mum’s grin could light a stadium. “Are you all settled into the pool house, love? Sorry we weren’t here to help you move in.”
“I think so. It’s nice to meet you.” Stella shakes Mum’s hand, then gently squeezes Dad’s, realizing he can’t lift it.
“Rhys says you and I will be working together a bit, Mrs. Smith,” she tells Mum.
“Oh, please, call me Millie,” Mum says with a warm laugh. Most people call her Mrs. James, not knowing James is my middle name. Surf City producers thought “Smith” was too plain, so Rhys James was born. I’ve had little say in it since.
“Millie, not Camellia?” Stella asks softly.
“Absolutely not,” Mum says, chuckling. “I’ve only been called that twice—once when I was christened and again when that same priest asked if I’d take Jack here to be my husband. But if you’d rather, I can call you by your nickname.”
“Aussies love their nicknames,” I say to Stella. “Dad’s real name is—”
“John,” she finishes, a little pink in the cheeks. Then quickly to Mum: “My brother and cousins call me Sparky, but I hate that name.”
“Then how about La-La?” Mum teases, squeezing Stella’s hands like her smile was a yes. “I’m so glad Rhys found someone he trusts to show the world who he really is. He’s allowed to have feelings, you know. Doesn’t always have to be the happy-go-lucky one.”
“I agree,” Stella says warmly. “But he probably needs to show a bit more of that sunny side—for a little while, anyway.”
Mum laughs, looking over Stella’s shoulder at me. “Can be a bit moody, can’t you, love?”
“Mum,” I warn.
“Bit of a grump too,” Stella adds, smirking.
Dad chuckles, voice slow but amused. “She’s got you pegged, son.”
I squeeze his shoulder gently. “Righto, you two. We’d better get to work on this party. You get some rest, Dad.”
“Lovely to meet you both,” Stella says as we go.
“You too, La-La!” Mum and Dad say together, tittering like magpies at dawn.
Outside, Stella whispers, “I love them already. How long have they lived with you?”
Without thinking, my hand finds the small of her back as I guide her past Rita, who she waves to. I’m oddly glad she doesn’t already know. I’ve worked hard to protect their privacy, even with Mum as my manager.
“I moved them in not long after I bought this place with the money from ‘Fa-La La-La Land.’” I pause, smiling faintly.
“As much as I hate that song, it’s let me take care of them.
” My fingers curl at her waist before I force my hand away, following her outside to the table where our smoothies and fruit wait.