Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
Stella
When Rhys finishes my song, there’s a feeling in the air I can’t describe.
More than one girl has her hand pressed to her heart.
Guys rearrange their hats in that telltale sign they’re hoping no one notices they’re choked up.
The applause is lighter than for “Fa-La” because everyone’s processing their feelings.
I get it. I’ve played the song on repeat since Rhys gave it to me, and it still hits me hard every time.
“December Dreams” is one of those songs that leaves you breathless, wanting more but afraid any more would ruin the moment.
Like when you eat the perfect dessert, wanting to scrape the plate clean while knowing if you take one more bite it’ll be too much.
After calling thanks to Rhys, the guests shuffle out.
We all know what it means when there’s a storm warning.
The air, though, still hums with the final note, lingering even after the last customers walk out of the Garden into the storm.
My eyes go to Rhys’s. We hold each other’s gaze, then look away.
There are things to say, but I don’t think either of us knows how to step into the space between us.
I clear tables. Rhys does the same, but Adam shoos us both toward the door.
“Get home and stay put,” he orders. “This isn’t just a little blizzard. Stella, I don’t care if he’s supposed to leave tomorrow—don’t you dare try to get Rhys through that canyon.”
“I wouldn’t make her do that.” Rhys furrows his brow at the snow pounding the window so hard the outside lights are hazy orbs floating in the distance.
“I know you wouldn’t, but she’s stubborn enough to try.” Adam nods toward me, and I shoot him an irritated glare.
“I get it, mate,” Rhys says. “We’ll stay put.”
“Heard, Chef.” I zip my coat and give Adam a hug he’ll hate. “Thanks for looking out for me.”
Rhys and I dash for the truck, getting pelted so hard by wind and snow, the twenty scant feet feel like a mile.
The drive home is a whiteout the entire three miles.
The wind howls through the trees, whistling against the truck windows like something alive.
Street signs are covered, and landmarks I’ve known my entire life are barely recognizable.
Luckily, it’s a straight shot from the Garden to Mom’s, because I would have missed any turns.
As it is, I almost drive past my mom’s house.
Navigating through the blizzard is stressful enough that Rhys and I don’t talk. But even after I park, the silence continues. We had a moment when Rhys was on stage, and I know he sang “December Dreams” for me. That wordless exchange, though, doesn’t fix what we said before the show. What I said.
Things get even more awkward when we walk inside—at least for me—because now we’re alone.
Not just for a few hours, but until this storm passes and Mom can get home.
I sense Rhys holding back, waiting for me to bridge the gap between us.
Which is only fair. I’m the one who held back how I really feel about him.
We strip off our coats and boots in the mudroom, wisps of breath hanging in the cold air we’ve brought in with us before quickly disappearing.
Rhys follows me into the warmth of the kitchen, where the heater hums. I flip on the lights, blinking against their brightness after hours in the dimly lit Garden.
“Do you want something to eat?”
“Could eat,” Rhys answers. “Was too keyed up before the show. You need a hand? Or mind if I clean up a bit?”
“Go shower. I’m fine.” I need a minute alone to process the last few hours. Really, the last couple of months since VibeHouse hired me.
It’s hard to believe it’s only been a few months—and even less time than that since Rhys and I started seeing each other.
I feel like I’ve both known him forever but also like I’m still getting to know him.
Which is true, I guess. The Rhys I thought I knew doesn’t really exist, except on stage.
I still have a lot to learn about him, but he also has a lot to learn about himself, too.
While Rhys showers, I make grilled cheese sandwiches, thinking about what to say to him when he comes back. The only words that come to me, though, are the lyrics of the song he gave me. He poured out his heart when he wrote them, but when he sang them tonight, he sang with his whole soul.
More than any other moment we’ve shared, those three minutes showed me who Rhys is at his core. There’s still so much to discover about each other, but our hearts are already familiar friends.
I’m scared to death about what comes next, but I have to do what Mom said and grab hold of love when it’s right in front of me. The one thing I left off my 30 Before 30 List was to live without regret. If I let this moment go, I’ll spend my life wishing I hadn’t.
But I don’t want to have to choose between the Rhys I saw on stage tonight and the Rhys who’s been someone else on stage every other time I’ve been to his concerts. That’s not the Rhys I’m in love with anymore. I want the real Rhys.
When he comes back into the kitchen and sits at the table, I hand him his grilled cheese, then sit across from him.
“I wish you could sing your songs at Winter Lights. Everybody loved them tonight. You especially.” I lift my gaze to his, trying not to push, but wanting so badly for him to have his Christmas wish.
“You loved being on stage tonight in a way I’ve never seen you love it before. ”
I try not to sound like I’m delivering an ultimatum, but he’s shaking his head before I finish.
“You know the risks, Stell. VibeHouse will sue for copyright, breach of contract—the whole lot. And they won’t stop there. You’ll lose your shot with any other artist under the label. They can wreck me, sure, but they’ll crush your career before it even starts.”
I reach for his hand, but the frustration in his expression stops me. “You don’t have to worry about me,” I say gently. “You don’t have to protect me. VibeHouse isn’t the only game in town. Don’t use me as an excuse to stay with them.”
Gentleness doesn’t work. Rhys’s face twists with irritation. “Not using you as an excuse, Stella. Just being practical.”
His voice cuts sharp, and for a second, all I can hear is the wind battering the windows before a swell of anger rises in my chest. “Well, quit being practical, Rhys. Just be yourself, the man I saw on stage tonight. Because if you can’t be true to him, then how do I know you’ll be true to me?”
Rhys goes still. His eyes turn a cold, hard blue. “You’re one to talk about being true to yourself, Stella. You let some list you wrote at fourteen tell you when you’ll fall in love. I’m the one sticking my heart out while you’re still deciding if you’ll open yours.”
I stare at him. I don’t know what to say. He’s echoed all my own thoughts, but I don’t like them thrown in my face. I want to defend myself, but I don’t know how.
Rescue comes with a loud buzz of my phone. “I’m sorry,” I say, taking it from my pocket. “I should see if that’s Seb or Mom. If this storm is as bad as everyone’s predicting, they need to know I’m okay.”
Rhys sits back with a frustrated breath.
I unlock my phone and find half a dozen texts. I start with Britta’s. She’s sent me a TikTok, which I’m about to ignore until a message pops up under it with Rhys’s name. My heart drops, but when an Instagram post follows, I feel sick.
I open my other texts, all from friends sending me posts they’ve seen of Rhys’s performance on Tik Tok or Insta. The last one I open is from Liv.
I’m so sorry Stella! Rhys was AMAZING. I had to send to a friend. Had no idea she would post or that it would take off.
A frustrated sigh escapes, and I close my eyes to keep Rhys from seeing the worry that has to be in them.
The timing couldn’t be worse, but I can’t ignore the posts.
Knowing what people are posting and saying about Rhys is literally my job.
I open the TikTok first and hear Rhys singing his version of “Fa-La La-La Land,” followed by a second clip of him singing “December Dreams.” Someone at the Garden tonight must have posted them.
“What’s that?” I hear the apprehension in his voice before he leans across the table to look at my phone.
“Just a second.” I shield my phone from his eyes. Until I know how bad this is, Rhys can wait.
I read the caption. Rhys James. Best songs yet. The knot in my chest loosens. I scroll through the comments. There are a few negative ones, but most are positive. And the likes are already in the hundreds. The situation isn’t ideal, obviously, but it could be so much worse.
I slide my phone to him. “Somebody posted your performance. I’m sorry. I should have been watching.”
Rhys snatches up my phone, then watches the video, his face draining of color. “This is bad, Stella.”
“I know. It’s a problem, but one we can work to our advantage.
Read the caption…Rhys James showing the love for a snowed-in town.
” I stretch to point to the screen. “And look at the comments. People like it—love it. Not just your music, what you’ve done for Paradise.
You’ve already got the views to prove it. ”
He pushes the phone back to me. “And when VibeHouse sees it, we’re done. You, me—both of us.” He stands, his grilled cheese untouched. “And I’m stuck here. Can’t even do anything about it.”
“Just give it a second, Rhys. This post is on a trajectory to go viral. If people keep liking it, we can use that to our advantage with VibeHouse.”
Rhys doesn’t listen. Or maybe he doesn’t even hear. The caged-animal energy is back, and he’s halfway to the stairs before he says, “Gotta ring Danny.”
His phone rings before he can. He glances at the name, sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth. Pushing away from the table, he’s halfway up the stairs before he answers. “Danny…”
That’s all I hear. Seconds later, the lights go out. The hum of the fridge dies, the heater clicks off, and we’re left with only the wind for company.