Chapter Sixteen
Rhys hadn’t lied. Kissing Jules Lowry would never be a problem. The real problem was much bigger. Faking anything with her was problematic because he wouldn’t be faking it.
He didn’t know when that had happened, and he wasn’t sure it mattered anymore.
He wanted this woman, not in the she’s-hot, let’s-bang way that she expected of men but in the she-was-his-and-how-had-he-missed-it way.
Fucking hell.
Wanting her was as real as the problems it created. He’d crossed a professional line and didn’t know how to navigate back to where they had been.
Jules had vulnerabilities he hadn’t expected. That upped the protective ante. He always took care of her. He always kept her safe.
Pulling back was the right call. It should have felt like control, but it didn’t.
This uncertainty she had, he wanted to fix that.
Maybe he would later, but at the moment, they weren’t alone. Somewhere along the beach or on a boat, a photographer with a telephoto lens was tracking them.
Rhys ran a hand over his face and stepped back. “You’re not changing anything with Sloane.”
Her kiss-swollen lips parted as though she might protest, but not a single word slipped out.
“If we have to kiss, we kiss. If we have to be close, we get close. This is fine, Jules. You’re fine. Everything is fine. I promise. There’s no need to freak out. It’s just me.”
She rolled her bottom lip into her mouth then released it.
“We’re adults, and I’m happy to participate in whatever dog-and-pony show you need to perform to shove it to your ex.”
“He isn’t really an ex,” she whispered. “Not like you’re thinking.”
“I get that. I do. You don’t have to explain it again.
” The idea that she’d almost married him because she was scared to be alone was unacceptable.
Rhys had questions, but that was for another time.
“He lied to you. If making out with me on the beach helps you spin the celebrity publicity machine in your favor, then fuck it, Jules. We’ll go make out on the beach. ”
He wished he could see her face better. He had cataloged most of her expressions and body language, but right now, he didn’t know how to read her. It was as though she were getting farther and farther away.
“But…” She wouldn’t meet his eyes.
“Jules.” He cupped her cheek and stroked his thumb over her soft skin. “I don’t know if you noticed, but you and I can kiss.” His lips quirked. “As in no practice needed. Super-Bowl-champs, gold-medal-winning, stand-at-the-top-of-Kilimanjaro-level lip-locking.”
“You’re making me feel ridiculous.” She swayed as though she was considering running from him again but pushed herself to finish the conversation. “I forced—”
“Are you not hearing a word I’m saying?” His hand slid from her cheek to tip her chin up. His mouth hovered over her lips, and he relished in the breathy almost touch. “This…” He brushed his lips to hers. “Works…” Their kiss barely connected. “For me.”
He barely inched back. Her eyes were closed, her lips parted. Jules pressed her palm to his chest. Her fingers curled together, knotting his shirt in them. A heavy weight in his chest thudded into his throat. So much for pretending to fake it.
They might fake a relationship. But there was no pretending they hadn’t just struck a match to gasoline.
Her eyelashes fluttered open, and their gazes locked.
He wasn’t one for over-the-top sentiments, but the sand beneath his bare feet seemed to fall away.
Years of working with her, of objectively knowing she was beautiful, were erased as though he’d never seen her before.
She licked her bottom lip, and every ounce of his self-control was needed to keep from taking that bottom lip between his teeth.
Her breath shook. She released the hold on his shirt as though the scene had ended and stepped back. “I need to go to bed.”
Fuck. Fuck.
He’d fucked this up so badly he didn’t know another fucking word. “Yeah. Sure.”
His muscles ached, and walking over the sand like he was trudging through wet cement, he snagged her shoes, mentally shouted “Fuck!” a few more times, and returned to her side.
Side by side, they quietly ambled toward the boardwalk.
She slid on her sandals once they reached the torch-lit path that led to her bungalow.
He didn’t grab her hand or touch her back, aware the entire time that was what he wanted to do.
All the years spent working together in relative ease had disappeared because of his stupid mouth.
Vivian would kick his ass. She didn’t have to, though. He was mentally doing more than his boss ever could.
They reached Jules’s bungalow. An ache in his chest matched the one in his muscles.
He glanced at the door and stopped abruptly. A piece of paper wedged above the door handle caught his eye before Jules noticed. “Give me a second.”
If her stalker had jumped from mostly leaving her alone in California to taking pictures and leaving notes on her door here, Rhys was going to lose his mind.
The FBI would have to revamp the stalker’s profile.
As of right now, he wasn’t deemed dangerous.
They’d classified it as an obsessive parasocial relationship with a healthy dose of nagging her to retire.
Text messages? Fine. Rhys gave zero fucks.
Social media posts? Normal. No big deal.
A note on the door? Absolutely not.
He jogged to the door and unfolded the resort stationery.
I have the flu. Maybe the plague. Something awful. Do not come in here.
xxoo,
Abs
Jules climbed the steps behind him. The flickering gas lamps on each side of the front door illuminated her face. “What does that say?”
Rhys handed her the paper. “Abigail says she’s sick.”
She read the note. “Oh, God. I should never have let her leave the restaurant alone. She’s the worst patient ever.” She entered the electronic code and opened the door. “Wait here.”
It hadn’t been that long since she’d left them after dinner. He followed her in but stayed by the front door. “See if I can get her anything.”
Jules beelined for the bedroom. The front door opened into a large kitchen and living area.
Cold and flu supplies littered the kitchen counter.
Abigail must have had room service deliver supplies.
A platter of crackers sat untouched on the dining room table along with a bright-blue drink in a tall glass that he guessed was packed with electrolytes.
Jules returned, frowning, on her way to the kitchen.
“That happened fast. She’s really sick.” She opened the refrigerator, which had plenty of Gatorade options, then opened the freezer.
With an ice pack in hand, she headed back to the bathroom.
“Will you call the concierge and see if a doctor could prescribe something to stop…” She gestured in the general direction of the bathroom. “What’s happening in there?”
He made the call and checked his watch, surprised at how quickly they could get someone to the bungalow.
Jules returned to the kitchen and washed her hands. “What did they say? Can they send anyone over?”
He nodded. “Someone’s on their way.”
“She’s really bad at being sick. Like a chase-doctors-away, throw-things-at-strangers kind of patient.”
“I remember that event in New York a couple years ago.” Abigail and their mother had had food poisoning. Abigail yelled at anyone who even thought of doting on her. Jules said she’d thrown pillows at her after checking on her sister. “We’ll warn the doc.”
“She told me not to call anyone.” Jules eyed the stylish but small couch.
For such a large living room, none of the furniture would accommodate someone lying down.
Not to mention that said stylish furniture looked genuinely uncomfortable.
“And she said she’s kicking me out. She doesn’t want anyone around. ”
“You’re not sleeping on that. I’ll order a rollaway bed. You can set up here.”
Abigail staggered out of the bedroom, half zombie, half woman-used-to-getting-her-own-way. “What are you two still doing here?”
“I’m not leaving you.”
“Go away.” Abigail sank onto a chair at the table and dropped her head into a hand while shakily reaching for the Gatorade. “ Go away. Now.”
“I can—”
“Go away.”
“Abs, I want to—”
“Go. Away.” She peeled her forehead off her palm. “If you don’t get out, I will kill you once I have the strength.”
Jules faced him and mouthed, “What do I do?”
Get a mask? Stay on a bed in the living room? Camp out on the pool deck? He didn’t know. Dealing with a sick Abigail was as much fun as dealing with an angry rottweiler with a bee sting on its ass.
Abigail jerked from the chair, rushed to the sink, and vomited.
Rhys stepped back.
She rested her forehead on her forearm, blindly reaching across the counter. She snagged a box of herbal tea and chucked it in their general direction. “Get out.”
“Maybe we should give her space,” Jules whispered.
“You think?” Abigail staggered toward the bedroom again.
“Abs, I don’t want to—”
“I’ll hate you forever if you don’t leave.”
Jules turned to him. “What do I—”
The bedroom door slammed hard enough to make the framed pictures shift.
“We’ll get you a room,” he suggested. “Or you can have my place, and I’ll go wherever they have available.”
A knock sounded on the front door.
He checked the peephole. Two women waited outside. One was in scrubs, her braided hair tied into a knot on top of her head. Another was dressed business casual, with thick locks hanging heavy over her shoulders.
Rhys opened the door.
Both greeted him with kind smiles. “I understand someone is under the weather. I am the doctor on call. This is my nurse. May we come in?”
Jules inched behind him. “My sister is really sick—and she’s really not easy to be around when she’s that way.”
The doctor stepped inside. “No one wants to feel bad on holiday.”
“After you meet her, if you want to run away, it’s completely understandable.” Jules led the doctor and nurse toward the bedroom.