Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Rhys
When I come in from the wave, I feel Stella’s gaze on me, and I’m keen to get back to her.
I tuck my board under my arm and take the last few steps out of the water, but a woman’s pointing her phone at me—doing a pretty poor job pretending she isn’t filming.
Beside her, a muscle-bound bloke in a tank stands guard, his arms crossed over a chest the size of a small country.
Something about the mix of scorn and smugness on his face sets me off.
“You want me to make it easy and pose for your picture, mate?” I direct my question to him, even though his girl’s the one with her mobile pointed my way. I mean it to sound light, but it comes out sharper than I want. Danny’s warned me enough times about keeping my tongue in check.
The guy’s jaw tightens until his eyes almost disappear. “How about you sing Fa-La La-La for us, mate?”
I let out a short laugh and keep walking.
No point giving him what he wants—and it’s not me singing.
But he keeps at it, calling after me, while the woman films every second.
Great. More footage that’ll get cut down to make me look like a jerk.
Derek pushes up from his beach chair, but I shake my head.
He stays put, eyes locked on the couple.
Before I reach Stella, she’s already on her feet, coming toward me.
“You okay?” she asks.
“Fine,” I growl.
“Good, because we’re going back over there.” Her voice is sweet, but her smile’s pure trouble.
“The hell we are.”
“Rhys,” she says through her teeth, still smiling. “Listen carefully. You’re going to turn around, and you’re going to take a picture with those people.”
“I don’t want pictures.”
“Wrong. You don’t want their pictures showing up online. You do want yours.”
I open my mouth to argue, but one look at her face—steady, calm, soft eyes—and I exhale.
“All right,” I mutter.
She loops her arm through mine and steers us back like she’s in charge, which, apparently, she is.
“Hey!” she calls out. “Do you mind if Rhys gets a photo with you? We’d love to put it on his Instagram.”
The couple light up as if they’ve been blessed by the Pope. I paste on a smile.
“Sure!” the woman says, elbowing her bloke.
Stella moves the three of us together like we’re her puppets. None of us resists. She’s talking so much, she wouldn’t notice if we did. She ignores my scowl when she asks Brianna and Chad—Stella already got their full names, including middles—if she can tag them in my post.
“Or do you have a business you’d want us to tag?” she asks brightly, like this is something I do regularly—tag strangers’ businesses in my Insta.
“Really?” Musclehead Chad looks from Stella to me, his face shining almost as bright as hers.
I give him a short, reluctant nod.
“I’m a personal trainer,” Chad says, grinning now. “This is outstanding, man.” He claps me on the back hard enough to knock me forward a step.
“Amazing,” Stella says, tapping on her phone. “I just need you to sign a release form.” She shows him her screen and points. “Put your name up here, then sign below. It’s a tap signature kind of thing.”
When he finishes signing, Stella pulls up a new doc and spins the screen toward Brianna. “What about you? Do you have a business?”
“It’s ours,” Brianna says proudly, signing too.
Then Stella’s smile fades, though her voice stays polite. “Perfect. Now, if you could delete any photos or videos you took before this, that’d be great.”
There’s steel under her sweetness—the kind that makes grown adults listen. They scroll, delete, and show her the empty gallery. By the time we leave, I’m smiling for real. I even shake Chad’s hand and tell him I might check out his gym.
When we’re far enough away, I say, “How’d you do that?”
“Do what?”
“That whole thing—turning it around like that.”
She shrugs, gazing at the horizon where the sun is setting. “I just did. You looked like you needed a hand.”
I drop my board in the sand and towel off. With my towel snug around my waist, I swap the wetsuit for dry trackies. Stella watches—not ogling, more curious than anything.
“You want your own video?” I tease.
Her cheeks color before she laughs at herself. “We’d get a lot of engagement for sure. It’s impressive the way you surfers can make a quick change without flashing anyone.”
I untie my towel and toss it onto the sand. “Were you hoping I would?” I move closer to her.
Her cheeks turn pinker, but then her eyes narrow. “Don’t flatter yourself, Rhys James.”
Stella turns to stuff her towel and our finished lunch into a beach bag, and we ride the bikes back up the trail. Stella chatters the whole time as we ride side by side. The trail’s narrow; the pace easy.
“We’ve got your post for the day,” she says. “A good one, too. Maybe this rep rehab won’t be so painful after all.”
“I never said it would be painful.” I leave the rest unsaid: Not with you around.
She keeps talking—plans for the BBQ, decorations, playlists—and I let her. I like the sound of her voice more than the ideas themselves. Mum’ll be glad for the help; she’s been stretched thin since Dad’s stroke.
By the time we roll into the drive, the sun’s gone gold over the water. I want to kiss Stella goodbye. Really want to. But this isn’t one of those moments I can rush. Not with her.
“You want to come up to the house for dinner?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Plans with Piper. But we could surf again tomorrow. I can get footage while you teach me some more.”
“Yeah, I like that idea,” I say, smiling too easily.
Inside, I shower, then help Mum settle Dad at the table. He looks better tonight—stronger.
“Stella’s not joining us?” Mum asks.
“She’s got plans.”
“But you invited her?”
“‘Course I did.”
Mum’s lips twitch. “That pool house doesn’t have much of a kitchen. She might need to take most of her meals up here.”
I know exactly what she’s hinting at. “She might,” I say lightly.
“I like her,” Dad adds, his voice slow but sure.
“Yeah,” I admit, smiling. “Me too.”
Over dinner, I tell them about Stella and the beach incident. By dessert, her name’s come up half a dozen times. Every time, Mum and Dad share the same look—soft, knowing, like they’ve already seen how this ends.
If they think I don’t know I’m falling, they’re wrong. I’m not that thick. I know exactly what this is. With Stella, I’m not just gone—I’m properly, hopelessly, happily gone.
After clearing the table, I text her:
9:00 a.m. tomorrow? Waves’ll be better early.
Then I sit at the piano and let my fingers find the tune that’s been chasing me all day. Each time I looked at her, the notes grew clearer. I add them to the lyrics I already have and start another verse. By the time I finish, half of the new Christmas song is done.
The city hums with silver bells,
But I only hear your name.
Every corner dressed in glitter
Feels empty all the same.
But you cut through the noise like sunrise,
Breaking through cold with something true.
I never dreamed of Christmas,
’Til the day I dreamed with you.
In two days’ time, I’ve written the song I’ve been under the pump trying to write for months. All because of Stella.