Chapter Sixteen #2
Rhys stepped outside and dropped onto the top step. He hated that Abigail was sick. She had to be miserable, away from the comforts of her home and her belongings. He wished there were something he could do for her, but knowing Abigail, he was sure the one thing she wanted was to be left alone.
He tipped his head back. The stars didn’t hold the same luster as they had on the beach. He couldn’t believe he’d kissed Jules. What the hell had he been thinking? Rhys pulled in a deep breath and tried to understand what had snapped—or clicked—and changed the way he saw Jules.
Returning to the way they’d been would be impossible. That ship had sailed, and the bridge had been burned. They’d screwed everything up. But since they had, it’d be ridiculous not to continue with Sloane’s plan.
Sea salt floated on the breeze. He couldn’t see the water but could hear it. They were in paradise. Mistakes could survive a tropical honeymoon.
Jules stepped outside, still wearing his jacket, and shifted a beach bag on her shoulder. “Those women are miracle workers.”
He glanced at the door as though they might push their way out and run away. “They’re staying?”
“For a bit. Abigail will talk to them but wants nothing to do with me. So I tidied and packed.”
He nodded at the beach bag. “Overnight bag?”
“Yeah. Staying there on a rollaway bed was not an option.”
He reached for her bag and tossed it over his shoulder. “Let’s go figure out where we’re all sleeping tonight.”
She could have his place, and he’d sleep on the front porch or a pool lounger.
He’d hardly spent any time in his bungalow.
Other than dropping his bag, changing a couple of times, and showering before dinner, the place was virtually untouched.
Jules could stay as long as she needed. The resort was likely to have another bungalow nearby.
He didn’t care so long as she was locked in, safe and sound, and waited for him in the morning before venturing off.
They followed the path to his place. He punched in the door code, and Jules breezed inside. She picked up the phone from the end table and sat on the small couch. “This shouldn’t take long.”
He wandered away but couldn’t give her much room. His bungalow was situated more like a hotel room, with no separate bedroom or dining room, just a sitting area, a kitchenette, and a king-size bed that he perched on the edge of as she spoke with the resort.
Three minutes later, she hung up and chewed her lip. “They’re completely sold out. But they offered to bring over a bed.” She winced. “Rhys, I’m really sorry. This is probably not turning out anything like you thought it would.”
He had to laugh. Nothing in the past two days could have been predicted.
Jules running out of her wedding? Nope.
Arranged marriage confessions? Another nope.
Her stalker showing up at the resort? Absolutely not.
Sloane suggesting a fake relationship PR stunt? Not unbelievable, though his agreement was unfathomable.
Abigail falling ill? That’d happened before, but the timing sucked.
“I didn’t have the last forty-eight hours on my bingo card. But…” He shrugged. “I’ve slept in far worse places than a rollaway bed.”
She straightened, making his jacket flop around her shoulders. “You’re sleeping in your bed. I’m sleeping on the one they’re bringing.”
“In what world is that going to happen? Give me a break.”
“This is your bungalow.”
He blinked. “This is your vacation. I’m working, Jules. I’ll sleep on the floor before I let you sleep anywhere but that bed.”
Swimming in his jacket, she crossed her arms. No matter how much she demanded, they both knew he wouldn’t sleep in that bed.
As if the universe were on his side, a knock sounded on the door. He grinned. “My bed’s here.”
Rhys opened the door. A young man pushed the squeaking bed, folded into a U, into the tight living space.
It creaked and groaned as it was unfolded.
The starched white linens and pillow were arranged.
Every time the man touched the mattress, a coil sprang or the bed frame whined.
For a resort that catered to movie stars and the wealthy, the rollaway bed didn’t seem up to five-star standards.
Rhys tipped the man and locked the door behind him as Jules laughed. “You’re going to break that.”
He went over and circled the bed, trying to decide how right she might be. But he patted the pillow and shrugged. What were the chances it would collapse in the middle of the night? Probably fifty-fifty. “This thing’s calling my name.”
After another long, scrutinizing study of his bed, she slid out of his jacket and laid it on the back of the small couch. “You’re never going to forgive me for this entire trip.”
His mind flashed back to the beach. She had no idea. He might never forget this trip. But forgive her? That wasn’t even an issue.
She rifled through the beach bag she was using as an overnight bag. “Can I take a shower? I’ll be in bed and out of your way in no time.”
“I don’t care how late you stay up.”
“I’m imposing.”
“This is your vacation. Jules, really. I’m working. You’re…” Sister-mooning? “Relaxing. This isn’t a burden. It’s not a hardship. We’re in goddamn paradise. That won’t change if I sleep on a stupid bed and you keep us up all night long.”
All night long. That dress, on the floor, and her in that bed with him. That could keep them up all night long. Jesus. Fuck. What was wrong with him? He scrubbed his hand through his hair then hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “I’ll go take a walk.”
“Oh, be serious. I’m not kicking you out of your—”
“ Your ,” he corrected her.
“Bungalow so I can take a shower. If you leave, I’ll throw a fit the likes of which you’ve never seen.” She waltzed toward the bathroom. “I’m using your shampoo.”
“I used what they had here.” It was probably a big difference from what she’d brought with her.
“And I’m stealing one of your fresh towels.”
“It’d be weird if you used the one I already did.”
She glanced over her shoulder, grinning, then shut the door behind her. Were they getting back to normal? Maybe. Maybe not.
None of this would be so awkward if he hadn’t kissed her like that on the beach then opened his goddamn mouth to tell her she kissed like a goddess.
Rhys dropped onto the couch and pinched the bridge of his nose. All he’d had to do was act like the woman’s rebound. Instead, he’d stuck his tongue into her mouth.
Pinpricks skirted down his neck. He did not need to think about that kiss again. Nor did he need to think about how she was in the shower, less than a dozen yards from where he sat.
Why was he thinking this? They’d stayed in adjoining hotel rooms many times before.
They’d once stayed in an English manor, pompous rooms across a hallway from each other.
Then there was that time in Ireland they stayed in a literal castle with a stone wall separating their living spaces.
Every time, every place, they’d showered like normal people, and he’d never thought twice.
Her shower wasn’t long. She walked out in a two-piece pajama set, silky and covered with flamingos, a towel wrapped around her hair. She didn’t wear much makeup unless an event called for it, but shower-fresh Jules knocked him in the chest.
“All yours,” she said.
It took him a second to push off the couch. His gaze swept up her long legs and lingered on her pretty face. “I won’t be long.”
His shower was fast. He couldn’t explain why.
It would probably have been better to rub one out.
But that would have meant acknowledging the woman in the other room.
He’d just needed to get in, get out, and get to bed.
The sooner he could fall asleep, the sooner they could start the next day with a fresh slate.
She was in bed when he walked out of the bathroom. Rhys flicked the lights off on the way to the rollaway bed.
“Do you care if I read on my phone?” she asked.
“Stop acting like you’re inconveniencing me.” The bed creaked when he lay down. The wheels were locked, but he might be able to knock over the whole damn thing if he rolled over too hard.
He moved. It creaked.
He coughed. It creaked.
He held his damn breath. It fuckin’ creaked.
“Good night, Rhys.”
“Night, Jules.” The bed creaked.
There was zero chance he would fall asleep in this bed tonight. There was too much awareness in the air and too much awkwardness too. Throw in a bed that could have been an auditory torture device, and this wasn’t happening.
As quietly as he could— squeak, creak, squeak —he rolled off the bed and grabbed the pillow. The sofa or the floor would be better for both of them.
“Absolutely not,” she called. “There’s no way you’re sleeping anywhere but a bed.”
So much for sneaking out of the torture device. “I’m fine.” He smacked the pillow and bedded down on the micro couch. It had looked tiny before. Now that he lay on it, his legs dangled over the sofa’s arm. “Yup. This works.”
“Are you the most stubborn man on Earth?” Her sheets rustled. “This bed is big enough for six people.”
He squeezed his eyes shut. Yeah, this was a test. He wasn’t sure how the cosmos had lined up to torment him like this, but it was happening. “I’m almost asleep. Stop waking me up.”
“For a bodyguard, you’re a pretty shitty liar, Rhys.”
He snickered.
“Let’s go. Before all the blood rushes out of your feet, into that big head of yours, and I have to wake up the two sweetest medical professionals I have ever met.”
“No,” he said, already unable to feel his left foot. Pins and needles tickled as he repositioned it. “I’m fine.”
“‘What’s wrong with him?’ they’ll ask me,’” she said.
“‘Oh, well. It’s his big stubborn streak. All the blood went to his head.’” Jules tossed a pillow at him as though she were Abigail on a tirade.
“Stop being so stubborn. You can’t sleep like that.
We both know, and the sooner you come over here, the sooner we’re going to sleep. ”
He caught the pillow and held it to his face.
Maybe he could just pass out. Except the pillow was slightly damp from her wet hair and smelled feminine and floral.
He fought against breathing in the stupid pillow.
This was a losing battle. He couldn’t sleep like this, and sitting up with her pillow, he ran a hand over his face.
He marched toward the bed like walking toward a death sentence. “Don’t throw pillows like your sister.”
“Don’t be bullheaded, and I won’t.”
He’d already messed up by kissing her, by telling her what they both knew but she was choosing to ignore, and now he was crawling into bed with her.
Marvelous. Fucking genius. Rhys was going to lose his best assignment—his favorite assignment, despite how much he despised Hollywood—then Vivian would kick his ass.
Scarlett too. Sloane would probably throw a sucker punch just because she was like that.
He sat on the edge of the bed. “This is yours.”
She took the pillow and tucked it behind her head again. “If I hadn’t asked you to do this whole stupid charade with me, you wouldn’t be acting like this. I’m sorry I screwed everything up. Don’t be weird with me in the morning.”
She turned on her side, and Rhys crawled into bed and prayed for the strength to keep his hands by his sides. He didn’t even know himself anymore when it came to Jules Lowry, the woman who had been a constant in his life for years and years.