Chapter Twenty-Two
After two more days without her sister, Jules was finally able to lure Abigail out of her bungalow. She tipped her head back, keeping her eyes closed against the sunny sky and ignoring Jules as she inspected her for any remaining effects of the flu from hell.
Abigail’s color had returned.
She didn’t groan and moan any time food was mentioned, and as they drank their tropical-fruit smoothies, Jules couldn’t tell that Abigail had been sick at the start of the trip. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”
“Yeah. Now are we finally going to talk about the pictures?” Abigail stirred her smoothie with a straw. “Because wow, you and Rhys sure know how to spark chemistry through a telephoto lens.”
Jules’s gaze jumped to the table next to theirs, where Rhys watched the crowded beachside café for trouble while sipping a coffee and pretending to read a newspaper. He’d likely heard every word Abigail had said, but Jules was thankful he offered no reaction.
She and Rhys hadn’t had sex yet. It was almost sweet and almost filthy.
The man was intent on showing her a hundred different ways they could get each other off without burying his cock inside her.
Part of this had to be building her up, edging her closer and closer to what she wanted—what they both wanted—because even though he came as often as she did, he was hanging on by the same thread she was.
Jules picked up her phone and shot him a quick text message.
Jules: I think tonight’s the night.
He casually picked up the phone and read it.
Rhys: You’re cooking dinner?
Jules: I’m cooking something.
Rhys: I don’t even know what that means, sweetheart.
Rhys: But I like it.
Okay, so she’d grown bolder with him. Maybe she wasn’t texting him pictures of her tits, but perhaps she’d get there by the end of the two weeks. Until then, she had gotten pretty good at asking for what she wanted.
Jules: Got any thirst trap photos over there?
“Are you texting Rhys?” Abigail twisted from Jules to Rhys and back again. “What are you talking about?”
“Hmm? No. Nothing.” Jules shrugged, working harder than she should to maintain a blank face, and picked up her smoothie. If only she had Rhys’s level of nonchalance.
Her phone dinged. She sneaked a quick look, and her cheeks flooded with heat. Her heart stopped. There, on her screen, he smirked, shirtless, with an arm casually reaching behind his head. His muscles bulged. The dark stubble on his cheeks was utter perfection, and his midnight eyes smoldered.
Jules: Oh. My. GOD.
Jules: Why do you have that picture?
Jules: Actually. Never mind.
Jules: I don’t want to know. Don’t tell me.
Abigail frowned. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Hm? Nothing.”
“You just said that.” Abigail’s scrutiny intensified. “Who are you texting?”
“Sloane,” Jules lied.
Her sister beamed. “You finally looked at the pictures! Christ on a cracker, you and Rhys look like you’re horny teenagers who can’t keep their hands off each other. Did you see that one—”
“I’m not looking at the pictures.”
Abigail tilted her head, narrowing her eyes. “Not at all?”
“Nope. Haven’t seen any but one from the first day.”
Her mouth dropped open. “I’m sorry. But what the hell? Why not?”
Jules adjusted the broad brim of her hat, looking anywhere but at her sister. “We saw the first one and decided we didn’t need to see anything like that.”
“Girl, that would be the wallpaper on my cell phone if I were you.” Abigail leaned back to stage whisper, “Rhys, your smolder is hot enough to boil the ocean.”
Cosign. If Abigail had any idea what was on Jules’s phone right now, she’d scream.
Jules saw his lips twitch.
Abigail playfully harrumphed. “Rhys isn’t looking at the paparazzi pictures either?”
Jules shook her head and wished they’d had time to dish about what was really happening, but she couldn’t tell Abigail just yet. She would, just not on their first adventure out after she’d survived the flu.
Another message came from Rhys. Another thirst trap. Sitting on the edge of a bed, forearms resting on his thighs, he looked off camera. Who took that picture? Hell, she didn’t care.
Jules: Seriously?
Jules: Seriously!
She glanced up, furiously blushing.
Abigail squinted, studying Jules’s every move. “I’m sorry. Have I missed something?”
Jules pulled her hat down and readjusted her sunglasses. “Nope. I don’t think so.”
Silence followed as Abigail stared.
Jules stabbed a strawberry garnish with her straw, mashing it against the bottom of the glass without acknowledging the way her sister’s gaze bored into her.
“ Jules .”
“Hmm? What?” She could star in a commercial for this smoothie. She’d never found one more interesting in her life.
Dragging her chair closer, Abigail leaned in to whisper, “They’re real, aren’t they?”
“If they’re photos, they’re real.”
“You know what I mean.”
Suddenly, their waitress arrived with breakfast. Jules glanced at Rhys, but he gave no visible reaction. The man was a coffee-sipping, paper-reading shrine to minding his own business except when he sent her half-naked photos.
Abigail asked, dropping her voice even lower, “You slept with Rhys?”
“No,” Jules said between clenched teeth. “I didn’t sleep with him.” Yet. Yet? Definitely yet. Especially if he posed in bed with those dark eyes and perfect lips. It was definitely going to happen.
“But you have… something . Something happened.” Abigail jerked toward Rhys, who didn’t react, and spun back to Jules, her mouth gaping. “Oh my God. You have.”
“I have not.”
“You won’t look at me.”
She tipped her sunglasses down and bugged her eyes at her sister. “I’m looking straight at you, and you’re acting like a two-year-old.”
“I’m acting like your sister who knows things. Look, I don’t even like men, and I can objectively say Rhys is a stud.” She twisted in her chair again. “Did you hear that, Rhys? Stud. Super stud. Hot bodyguard stud. Studly .”
“Nope.” He turned the page of his newspaper. “Not hearing a word.”
Jules had heard every word and wanted to die. She cut her French toast with the side of her fork and chewed with more intention than she’d ever given a bite before.
Abigail pointed her fork at Jules’s neck. “You even have a hickey. Faint, but it’s there.”
Jules pressed her hand against the spot Rhys had paid particular attention to that morning. “I do not.”
Abigail cackled. “Nope, but you told on yourself.”
Jules stabbed another piece of French toast and unclamped her teeth to eat it. She’d tell Abigail all the details but couldn’t while sitting next to the thirst-trap stud himself. “You’ve seen the pictures. It’s no lie that we’ve hung out.”
“Hung out, huh? Is that what the kids are calling it these days? Rhys?” Abigail turned toward his table again. “Want to weigh in on this conversation?”
“Absolutely not.” He turned another page of the paper and never looked up.
Abigail snickered. “Okay. Fine. We’ll stop talking about you and Rhys. For now . What else have I missed?”
Thank God. “Margot, Sloane, and Scarlett are making a list of my ‘colleagues’ who might be unhinged enough to be Retire Guy.”
Abigail’s eyebrows rose. “Really?”
“Yup.” Breakfast tasted so much better when her sister wasn’t nosing into her private business.
Jules dipped her next bite into the syrup then explained what had happened with the flowers and Vincent Von Charles.
“Anyone can order flowers. But paying for rooms? That’s like paying for a paparazzi photo. Not cheap.”
“I can’t think of anyone—well, what about Laney Boyle? I haven’t seen her in a while, and she hated you when you landed that sci-fi thriller. What was it called? Origins Now ? Origins Point ?”
“ Zero Hour: Origins .” She’d hated filming that one.
They were always so cold and wet. “Laney married a gazillionaire and is pretending to be a trad wife in the Midwest. She’s got a whole reality, social media thing going on with five kids and a hidden fleet of nannies.
She no longer has any interest in our kind of show business.
That, and I think it was someone else that Laney disliked. ”
Abigail nibbled a croissant. “Oh. What about… No. Hmm. Jeez, Jules. People adore you. It’s kinda gross how likable you are.”
“Thanks, Abs.”
“I’m serious.”
“I like the people I work with. I like the work they do. Someday, it won’t always be me on the marquee, and I want to see my friends and coworkers get it too.” She took another bite. “Besides, it’s too much work to be a cunt waffle.”
“I bet it’s not that hard.” Abigail chewed her French toast. “What would you do if you weren’t acting?”
“Like if Retire Guy got his way?”
“No. Fuck that guy. And can we stop calling him that? It’s so stupid. What I mean is if you didn’t have any films that caught your eye.”
“I already told you. I’d be a spy.”
“Who would you even sneak around for? CIA? NSA? The Actors Guild?”
Jules shrugged. “I’d live someplace where everyone knows my name but not because of whatever’s on Netflix. And I’d hang out with my fellow spies, reading romances and drinking lattes with extra foam.”
“Oh, you want to spy in a small town. Maybe for the PTA. Or the neighborhood watch. You could form a posse to discover who doesn’t pick up after their dog. Then you’d be a hero spy.”
“Your spy ideas are awful,” Jules said as she swirled her French toast in syrup. “But I’m serious about the small town. I want to live somewhere with an indie bookstore with a killer romance section and cozy stuffed chairs—and no Retire Guy for miles and miles.”
“Again, we need to retire that name. It’s like a bad moniker penned during a D-list screenwriting camp.”
“Forget I brought him up.” Jules chewed a bite. “How’s work surviving without you? Have you checked in?”
“No. I’m sure they’re selling boats fine without me.”
“Well, you’re not in sales,” Jules pointed out. “So, they probably are.”
“The paperwork will be piled up.” Abigail grinned. “Invoices and spreadsheets are my happy place. Almost as good as a pukey island vacation.”