Chapter Eleven
Seven Years Ago
“Gun!”
From somewhere along the rope line, shouts came again. People screamed. Law enforcement and security dived into the crowd.
Rhys covered Jules, lifting her off her feet and rocketing away as her security detail wrapped around them. They did not stop until they were out of sight, where food services and award show staff stared, eyes wide and unaware of the chaos unfolding on the red carpet.
Breathless and staggering in high heels that might break her ankles, Jules didn’t let go. “Was someone shot? What happened?”
His comms were patched into the event security feed. “There was a gun, but no one was hurt. They have the situation under control.”
Her chest heaved with adrenaline, with anger. “What the hell is wrong with people?”
“That’s my line.”
She smacked his chest. “Don’t be cute right now.”
The other men and women on her security detail fanned out to give them space. The holding area was humming with people evacuated from the red carpet. Then he saw the reporters. The cameras were filming. The lights were flashing. They needed to get out of their line of sight. “Let’s go.”
“Where?” She took a wobbly step.
He tilted his head. “Anywhere but here.” Getting her driver would be a nightmare. But just as he was thinking about ways to escape, an update went out that the red carpet had been shut down, but the event would go on. Of course it would. “I can get you to your table.”
“What time is it?” she asked as they walked toward a dark corner.
“A lot earlier than you want it to be,” he admitted. “I’ll find Sloane and get your phone, and you can sit there and play Wordle or something.”
“If I look at a screen, then have to sit at a table all night, I’ll get a migraine.
” She pointed at a curtained area near an emergency exit, where no one was gathered.
She stepped forward but stumbled again. Jules reached down for her shoe but jerked upright, shuffling deeper into the corner.
“Will you fix my shoe? I can’t bend over, or my boobs will pop out. ”
His double-take was answer enough.
Jules gripped his arm as she shuffled. “I’m serious, Rhys.”
“I’ll find Sloane.”
“It’s a stupid buckle on my shoe. Not a bomb. You’ll manage.”
Well, yeah. Of course he would. That wasn’t the problem. But shoe repair and buckling seemed far more up Sloane’s alley than his. “Stay put.” He backtracked to a tower of stacked metal chairs he’d seen and returned with two. “Sit down.”
She rolled her eyes but dropped onto the chair. “Stay. Sit. Want me to roll over?”
Jules Lowry’s unbelievable ass flashed through his mind for longer than he would ever admit. Rhys crouched and eyed her feet. “Which one?”
She raised her foot. “The one with the unfastened buckle.”
“To be fair, these shoes have lots of buckles. You have to give me that.” But he spotted the loose one around her ankle.
“Most of them are decoration. They don’t do anything but look pretty.”
He rested her heel on his knee and gingerly inspected the problem shoe. “The little hole tore.” He threaded the strap into the tiny gold buckle. “I can make it tighter or looser.”
“Tighter—oh, no. Ouch. No. Looser.”
He repositioned the buckle, stood, and held out his hand. Jules tried out his handiwork, waffling her hand. “That’ll work. But maybe we hang here until everyone has filtered out. So if I fall, it’s just you and me.”
“I will gladly keep you from face-planting.”
She eased into the chair again.
He repositioned the other chair so it faced her. “What are we going to do until it’s time to shuffle you to your seat?”
“Want to play a game?” she asked.
Rhys shrugged. “What? Like Rock, Paper, Scissors?”
“What about Never Ever Have I Ever?”
“Isn’t that a drinking game?” he asked.
She flashed a genuine smile and shimmied her shoulders like she was actually excited for this secretive conversation in the dark corner of a banquet hall. “It’s a get-to-know-you-better game.”
He laughed. “All right, then. Who goes first?”
“You,” she said.
“Never ever have I ever…” He tipped his head back and sorted through ideas for something appropriate for Jules. “Ditched the outfit my stylist said—”
“No, come on, Rhys. I’m being serious. Don’t be like everyone else. That’s why I adore you. You literally hate everything here.”
“No lies detected,” he muttered with a shrug. “All right. Let me think.”
“Fine. I’ll go first. Never ever have I ever… flirted to get out of trouble.”
He laughed. “I bet you have.”
She raised her hand. “Guilty. You?”
A blush warmed his neck. He raised his hand too. “Guilty.”
Her eyes rounded. “What does it look like when you flirt?”
“That’s not a never-ever question.”
“Fine,” she said, her glossy pink lips pouting. “Your turn.”
He squirmed in his seat, tugging at the collar of his starched dress shirt. “Never have I ever…” He smirked. “Felt like an ass for saying those words when I’m not a teenager.”
“ Come on .”
“Fine. Never ever have I had a crush that I refused to admit.” Where had that come from? But he didn’t take it back.
Her hand shot up.
“Who?” he demanded. She could literally name any person, and they would throw themselves at her.
“No way. That’s not part of it. You?”
Had he? Did he? What the hell was wrong with him tonight? “I don’t think so.”
Her face crumpled with disappointment before she masked it, saying, “Never ever have I smiled at my phone because of a text—”
“Sorry.” A man pushed a cart behind the curtain. “Coming through.”
Rhys moved his chair out of the way. “Who doesn’t smile at text messages? Serial killers and actuaries.” He remained on his feet as another person approached with a rolling cart. “We might need to move.”
He held out his arm to escort her to her table, keeping her upright in case of another shoe incident. “Why don’t you have a date we can assign to do this?” he joked.
“Eh.” She slipped her arm in his. “Men are always so needy. The ROI on a date is in the negatives. It’s easier this way.”