Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Stella
We come up for air, and Rhys smiles at me. My scalp and cheeks burn, and I’m not sure if it’s from the sun, the kiss, or embarrassment that I just threw myself at Rhys James, my boss. Threw myself at him and very much enjoyed the way he caught me.
I push wet hair out of my face. “That underwater thing was harder than it looked in the movie.”
If I make a joke about what’s happened—act like it was all about my list and not about either of us actually being attracted to each other—things can go back to normal. Rhys can be his every day dull, broody self, and I can count the Rhys in the pool as the rock star I’ve kissed.
“Dad always says nothing’s worth doing if it doesn’t take a bit of work.
” Rhys dips down and blows bubbles on the surface of the water, casting his blue eyes up at me, trying to reel me back in.
“That’s three checked off your list. Twenty-seven more to go.
At this rate, you can knock them out by the end of the year. ”
I laugh and back away from him toward the stairs. “At this rate we’ll never have anything to post on your accounts.”
I look back at him as he glides effortlessly through the water to the stairs. He rushes to climb out ahead of me, then reaches for my hand to help me out of the pool.
“And I only count two, not three,” I say to cool the pulsing heat between us. “Kiss the rock star and kiss underwater.” I hold up two fingers on my free hand.
Rhys turns his eyes on me with a half-lidded look so devastatingly sexy, I literally freeze. Then, to make matters worse, he steps so close I feel the heat coming off his body even though the only thing touching is our fingertips.
“You’re forgetting a kiss that stops the world,” he says in his Rhys James voice. The deep one he uses in all his best songs. The one that made me think I was in love with him the first time I heard it.
“Am I?”
Two tiny words, but I can barely say them without squeaking on the I.
I blame the lack of air reaching my brain.
I can’t breathe with Rhys staring at me like he is, beads of water dripping from his black hair down the sides of his face, caressing the tips of his jawbone before sliding down his neck to his chest.
“I’m willing to give it another go, if you like. Hate to leave anything undone.” He raises his eyebrows, sweetening his invitation.
I’m tempted to take him up on it, but I’m pretty sure the earth did stop turning with that underwater kiss. My heart definitely stopped for a few seconds, along with every thought that wasn’t about getting more of Rhys.
That, however, is not information Rhys needs to hear. Not when I don’t know whether our kiss rocked his world too, or if it was just another day at the office for a rock star. I hope not the first. A meaningless kiss is a lot less complicated.
But, the tips of our fingers stay linked as we walk to the patio, and I’m more confused by that than what just happened in the pool.
That was checking things off a list. I don’t know what this still-touching is.
And I’m worried about how much I like it.
Rhys is still my client. Not to mention number one on my list: Don’t fall in love.
I’ve kissed guys without falling in love—the two aren’t mutually exclusive. But this is Rhys James. I spent years in “love” with him because loving a fantasy meant I wasn’t in danger of falling in love with a real person. Don’t fall in love has been—and will be until I’m thirty—my number one goal.
The problem is, I never actually thought I’d meet Rhys James in person, let alone work for him and live on his property. Obviously, I fantasized about kissing him—my DNA is all over poster-Rhys’s lips—but doing it in person? Still unbelievable.
Which is why I absolutely have to stick to my number one. In fact, I plan on revising it specifically to say, don’t fall in love, especially with Rhys James.
With a smile, I pull my hand from his. “We really should get some work done. Do you want to try the pool again? Without the smoothie?”
Rhys shakes his head, his gaze stuck on me. “I reckon we’ve got some momentum with your list. I can give my tattoo artist a ring, let her know we’re coming.”
I let out a nervous laugh. Rhys’s expression doesn’t change.
“I’m not actually ready for the tattoo,” I say slowly.
“How about surfing? You’ve got your suit on. You’re already wet. Waves won’t be too big this time of day.” The corner of his lip twitches with a suppressed smile.
I should say no. We really have work to do. But…maybe I can combine the two—I’ll learn to surf and then get some pics of Rhys having a good time.
So, I agree. For work purposes only, obviously.
Half an hour later, Rhys has two surfboards strapped to his electric bike and another bike ready for me.
He’s tried to disguise himself with a bucket hat and sunglasses that might work, but I doubt it.
With the picnic Rita packed for us, we’re on our way to the beach with Rhys’s bodyguard, Derek, following behind in an SUV until Rhys and I turn off on a dirt path that leads to the beach.
I’ve never been on an e-bike before—or gone anywhere with a bodyguard, for that matter.
Both take a little getting used to, but the e-bike is a little trickier.
I either put too much pressure on the throttle or ride the brake too hard.
But once I get used to it, it’s an amazing feeling, riding down the winding road to the bumpy dirt path that leads to a relatively secluded beach.
Derek’s already parked at the beach when we arrive, the binoculars he used to watch us on our bikes hanging around his neck. He plants himself near us, but not so close people might think he’s with us—or that he’s protecting Rhys.
Rhys sets up our chairs and the umbrella, then helps me into a wetsuit. I didn’t know October could be this hot, but I’ve been in the Pacific. I know it’ll be cold. The wetsuit will keep me warm and help me float.
I’ve tried surfing before, when I was here last summer with Britta, but while she fell a little more in love with her fake husband, I spent most of the day lying on the beach after toppling from my borrowed surfboard one too many times.
Once I’m in the wetsuit, Rhys lays my board on the sand and teaches me how to pop-up on it, moving from my chest to my knees to my feet in three intentional moves. I practice the moves over and over while he counts, one, two, three.
I’ve worked up a sweat by the time he says, “Righto. You’re ready.”
He grabs my hand and, carrying my board under his arm, leads me into waist-deep water.
“Climb on,” he orders, then holds the board steady while I shimmy on from the back. He guides me into chest-deep water, turns me to face the shore, and with a gentle push, propels me forward and yells, “Up!”
The pop-up’s a lot harder on the water than it is on the sand, but the water’s shallow enough that when I fall, I barely go underwater before I’m able to stand.
We go out a few more times. On my third try, I make it up—only for a second.
But I’m up. And it’s awesome. After that, every time we go out, I get to my feet and I stay up a little longer each time until I finally ride a wave all the way in.
That ride turns out to be my best one of the day. I try a few more times, but I’m too exhausted to stay up again. Rhys carries the board back to our spot on the beach and helps me out of the wetsuit, saying at least half a dozen times, “Good on ya, La-La.”
I guess Millie’s nickname for me has stuck. It’s better than Sparky, but I’m worried how I come undone every time Rhys says it. La-La melts on his tongue like butter on a hot roll. My limbs are all jelly, which makes getting out of the stupid wetsuit even harder.
Rhys laughs at my struggling to get out of it and holds one sleeve while I yank one arm out of it, then the other.
Nothing sexy about that, until he goes the extra mile and peels the wetsuit down over my hips, down my thighs, all the way to my ankles.
Sure, Rhys moves fast, but not faster than my pulse does when his fingers graze my skin.
Rhys helps me sit on my towel, then motions for me to hold up one leg, then the other, so he can tug the suit over my feet. “Couple more lessons, you’ll be paddling out on your own. You’ll be ready to compete against Dex.”
I laugh and lie back on my towel, too exhausted to think about going in the ocean again. Rhys drops next to me, right on my towel. He’s not wearing a wetsuit. His bare, inked skin is right there for the touching.
I close my eyes, my heart pounding with his nearness. A drop of water hits my cheek, and I open my eyes. Rhys’s deep blue eyes, perfectly straight nose, devastating cheekbones, square jaw, and very kissable lips hover above me. He flashes a smile, pecks my lips, and then jumps up.
“Waves are picking up. Going out while you rest.”
As if that kiss hadn’t rattled my brain enough, Rhys puts on a wetsuit, which, I have to say, has to be a million times sexier than my attempt to claw my way out of one.
Obviously, I could close my eyes, but that would require the neurons in my brain to behave nicely and send recognizable signals to the muscles in my body. Instead, they’re going crazier than a five-year-old hopped up on candy canes Christmas morning.
Rhys scoops up his board and jogs toward the ocean, leaving me doing anything but resting. Not because I just watched him squeeze his body into a suit that hugs his form better than any superhero costume has ever hugged any actor ever—including Chadwick Boseman’s (RIP) Black Panther thirst trap.
Nope. That’s definitely not what’s got my neurons misfiring.
Okay, maybe it is a little, but it’s like a 70/30 split.
The seventy going to Rhys and the kiss that was barely a kiss.
Nothing like the way he kissed me in the pool.
This kiss was so fast I would have missed it if I hadn’t been paying attention.
The biggest difference, though, is I have no idea what this kiss—this peck—means.
I run through each number on my 30 Before 30 List. Yes, I have the whole thing memorized. I wrote it when I was fourteen, so I’ve had a lot of time to learn every word. Who cares that it took Rhys roughly ten seconds to commit it to memory?
I’ve made a few revisions in the last nine years, but trust me, I know what’s on my list. And I can’t think of one entry that matches that last kiss.
I brush the sand from my legs, then wrap my arms around my knees. I’m still covered in sand. I suspect I will be as long as I live in LA. It’s as inescapable, apparently, as my teenage crush on Rhys.
I watch him paddle out to the lineup, past where we surfed together. Even from this distance, I can feel his ease in the water. He takes a wave, moving gracefully over it, up and down. He’s relaxed. Enjoying himself. Comfortable in the ocean, but in a different way than he is on stage.
I rest my chin on my knees. I can’t take my eyes off Rhys…or stop thinking about that last kiss. Barely a peck. But the familiarity of it still has my pulse sprinting.
As much as I thought I loved Rock star Rhys James, I think there may be something between me and the real Rhys James. As hard as I’m trying not to, I think I like him.