Chapter Ten
Present Day
Tropical lo-fi vibes hummed through the bungalow’s hidden speakers. Essential oils with hints of tea tree and eucalyptus scented the living room, where two massage tables had displaced the accent chairs.
Lying on her stomach next to Abigail, Jules held her cell phone to her ear, listening to Sloane’s ridiculous idea, as a masseuse kneaded her calf muscle. “Ask me later. I’m half drunk, semicovered in oil, and far more persuadable than normal.”
“Is Abigail there? Put me on speakerphone,” Sloane demanded.
“She has the same state of mind. Mai tai-ed, oiled up, and will agree with everything you say.”
“What does Sloane want?” Abigail muttered, her face down on the table.
“To destroy my blissful massage.”
“Speakerphone, Jules,” Sloane demanded. “Don’t make me call the concierge and have them tap me into the bungalow’s surround-sound speakers.”
That wasn’t an idle threat. Jules would bet on Sloane every time. “Jeez. One second.” She tapped her screen and extended her arm, holding the phone toward Abigail. “You’re on speaker, ruining our romantic couples massage.”
“Here’s the deal,” Sloane said. “Mason is milking this whole sob story—”
“Sob story?” Abigail jerked up and propped onto her elbow. “Did you say sob story ?”
Never in a million years did Jules think Mason would do this to her. Then again, he was a commodity. The machine that ran their lives had a product to save. Production studios had invested millions in him. They wouldn’t simply let him be the cheater. They would spit-polish his tarnished image.
What would happen if anyone ever found out the truth of their relationship?
Her stomach turned. She couldn’t tell a soul—yet she’d told Rhys.
Her stomach flipped again, not because she blabbed to her bodyguard, which was insane.
He’d burned her before under the guise of her security.
But because Sloane was asking for more than Jules knew how to give that man.
“Now you’re listening,” Sloane said. “We have to get in front of the narrative and drown him out. This is a PR war.”
The masseuse moved to her other leg.
“War is a strong word.” Mason didn’t have to be the enemy.
“Should I get Margot on the phone also? Maybe Viv Maddox?” Sloane asked. “Because trust me. Outside the land of fruity drinks and couples massages, there’s a battle of images getting ready to explode.”
“Don’t do that.” Margot and Vivian were as cutthroat as Sloane. They each specialized in vastly different sectors, but their knives were equally sharp and calculating.
“You have two ways to do it. One is wrong. One is right. But in the end, it’s your choice. Keep your head down and let the gossip machine churn, chewing you up and spitting you out.”
Would it be so bad for it to spit her out? She had financial security, stability. Her life would be safer—even her stalker would applaud that move. He wanted her to retire. Jules could use time away. But that meant Mason had chased her away when he’d agreed to their marriage to keep her safer.
“Or,” Sloane continued, “you play your cards right, rebounding with a fake relationship with Rhys.”
“Ugh.”
“Think about how much better that would be than marrying Mason. One hundred percent fake. No so-so sex—”
Jules groaned. “I should never have told any of you the sex was mediocre.”
“I believe you said it scratched an itch,” Abigail added. “So-so but mostly better than getting off alone.”
“Mostly,” Sloane emphasized.
Thank God for her mai tai buzz, because Jules wanted to die of embarrassment.
Abigail laughed.
“Margot is on board,” Sloane said, returning to the business at hand. “Titan is on board—”
Jules jerked up and glared at her cell phone. “You asked Rhys already?”
“No,” Sloane admitted. “I’m not a total bitch. I had his boss sign off on it before I approached you.”
“I think you should do it,” Abigail announced.
“Yeah!” Sloane cried. “Two—or three if you count Viv—to one. We win. You have to do it.”
“ No ,” Jules countered.
“Why not?” Abigail asked. “Have a little fun. Be silly. All you and Rhys have to do is cozy up and fake a little smooch or two when the cameras are looking. Fun? Remember what that is? Because it doesn’t feel like you’ve done that in… well, ever.”
“I agree,” Sloane said. “Two birds. One stone. A spectacular PR campaign that destroys your ex before he destroys you and a little fun.”
The masseuse bent her leg and pressed her thumbs into the pressure points on the ankle. She rolled her foot one way, then the other.
“I don’t want to destroy Mason,” Jules muttered.
“I do,” Abigail said.
Abs didn’t know the whole story, and a pang of guilt flared in Jules’s chest.
“Was that a yes?” Sloane asked.
“No, it was a groan. I’m getting a massage.”
Abigail repositioned as the masseuse moved the sheets and asked her to flip over. “I’d groan if my job required me to pretend that Rhys Callaghan was my new boy toy.”
“Abs, you don’t even like guys. Don’t ever call him a boy toy.”
“Gay doesn’t mean blind, Jules. Rhys is a stud. Sloane? Agree or disagree?”
“Ten out of ten on the hotness scale. Everyone on this call knows that.”
Her cheeks heated. “Stop.”
“We also know that you’ve always had a little thing for him,” Sloane added, reminding Jules for the millionth time that her publicist knew too much for her own good.
The heat in her cheeks morphed into a full-fledged blush. “What are you talking about?”
“We both know,” Sloane continued. “This isn’t breaking news.”
“I always thought you would date right when you stopped hating him,” Abigail said. “Then this thing with Mason happened. Maybe if Rhys didn’t live on the opposite side of the country.”
The masseuse moved the sheets between her thighs, covering one leg and exposing the other. Jules’s skin prickled as cold air and warm hands covered her calf. “He shared what he shouldn’t have when he testified. I can’t be interested in a man I can’t trust.”
“He did that to protect you,” Abigail said quietly. “You’re going to have to let that go.”
“More than fifteen years,” Sloane snapped. “Our girl is a grudge holder. And this one makes her an idiot. You still want him around, and he will always go wherever you need him. Because you trust him. You’re just bad at losing control.”
Hence the arranged marriage. Hence Jules keeping Rhys close yet untouchably far. Yeah, Sloane wasn’t wrong.
Abigail nodded. “He’s always protected you. And has since the day you met him. His testifying was him acting in your best interests. Even if you wanted to hide.”
They all fell quiet, Sloane and Abigail maybe realizing they’d taken the conversation too far. Rhys had rescued her from a man she’d thought had loved her. Nope. That lunatic was simply a crazy guy who’d stolen her away from the world and hidden her in a frozen barn.
Rhys finding Jules half dead hadn’t exactly been a cute meet-cute.
But what came after that was loyalty. Even if he’d testified to the deepest secrets she admitted on that cold day.
It had put her abductor in prison for decades.
It had shared her most intimate thoughts with a court and jury, who reported the embarrassing details for the world to consume on their phones, as if her life were one of the movies she acted in.
Yet despite all that, there wasn’t another person she trusted with her life.
“His people will talk to him,” Sloane said with far more composure. “If he says yes, will you?”
Jules closed her eyes. “When do I have to decide?”
“I don’t know why you’re fighting this.” Abigail tried to add the levity back into their conversation. “He’s like a Dorito. Broad shoulders. Tapered waist. Bet he’s hot and spicy.”
Jules groaned but had to laugh. “You’ve had too many mai tais. That’s terrible.”
Sloane giggled. “He’s more like Cool Ranch. Super chill.”
“Don’t egg Abs on.”
Their laughter blended. Though now that Abigail had put the triangle-shaped chip in her head, it was hard not to join them. “Fine.”
“Fine?” Abigail shrieked, scaring both their masseuses.
“Yeah, fine. I’ll talk to him before dinner.”
“He’ll say yes. I’ll get everything arranged—hang on a sec. Scarlett Wu’s texting me.” Sloane paused, then squealed. “Rhys is in if you’re in.”
Jules snapped her head toward Abigail, panic rising into her throat. “He’s in?” There was no way. “Really?”
“ He’s in . Which means you’re in? Right, Jules? Are we a go?”
Rhys was in. Holy shit. Her lungs squeezed. Her stomach threw itself off the edge of a cliff.
This was only freaking her out because—she didn’t finish the thought. She couldn’t finish it with Sloane waiting on the line and Abigail watching her like she already knew the answer.
Her heart hammered with the taut edge of excitement even as her self-preservation presented an important question: would a fake relationship for the paparazzi ruin their working relationship?
Of course not.
The fake relationship wasn’t real. They’d do whatever Sloane asked them to do, then they’d forget about it. Just shake it off and never speak of it again.
But if her last arranged relationship was any indication, the collateral damage could be unexpected and extensive. Ugh. Could she risk losing Rhys?
“Say yes,” Abigail pleaded.
“Say yes,” Sloane demanded.
Jules bit her lip and accidentally imagined him wrapping his large hands around her waist. She could almost feel his strong hold.
Then her heart fluttered at the possibility of his mouth brushing against her neck for a photo op.
After the publicity stunt ended, there would be tangible proof of how he’d held her.
Her pulse trilled. Jules swallowed hard.
“Are you still there?” Sloane asked.
She squeezed her eyes shut. “Will you let me get back to my massage if I say yes?”
Sloane and Abigail cried, “Yes!”
The way her stomach jumped high and fluttered low was hugely problematic. Heat that couldn’t be blamed on too much sun burned up her neck. Rhys had agreed to a fake relationship for the cameras. Why couldn’t she? “All right. Let’s do it.”