Chapter Twenty-Six
The private jet climbed into the night sky. Jules wasn’t a nervous flyer, but her nerves had been dancing the can-can since the moment her luggage had been loaded and Abigail waved goodbye next to Wes on the private tarmac.
The jet leveled at their cruising altitude. The cabin lights dimmed, and the captain’s voice flowed through the speakers like a smooth whiskey, promising clear night skies and an easy flight to Virginia.
A stewardess approached. “Is there anything I can get you?” Her gaze lingered on the way Jules rubbed her arms. “A blanket? Hot tea?”
Jules wasn’t cold. Still, shivers prickled on her arms. “Not right now. Thanks.”
“Anything for you, sir?” she asked Rhys.
He shook his head. “No. I’m good.”
After showing them how to call for assistance, she disappeared, and the unexplainable, unnerving tension cranked up another notch, as though someone had turned a dial and shrunk the already tight confines of the jet.
How many flights had she and Rhys taken together? Countless.
How many times had they been alone? Also countless.
They had been very alone and in bed at the start of the day, and now breathing in his vicinity made her lungs crackle and thinned the oxygen. Did their arrangement end now that they’d left the island? All she had to do was ask. Too bad that wasn’t happening.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“I’m trying to sleep.” She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she’d taken off her makeup and worn clothing meant for comfort, not shown up to dinner to metaphorically stick up her middle fingers via the paparazzi to her stalker.
Rhys snorted. “Right. Asleep. Got it, sweetheart.”
Her cheeks flamed as though he knew she wished he would join her in the lavatory for the Mile High Club. That tiny bathroom wouldn’t fit both of them together anyway. He probably had to turn sideways to walk in.
Stop. Just stop. There was no thinking of him and her and the Mile High Club.
“Do you like acting?” he asked.
Could their thoughts be further apart? What kind of woman would cause Rhys to try for a tryst in the sky? What kind of person did he usually date? Jules had never asked about his personal life. She didn’t know his type or what caught his eye. And he knew everything about her.
She focused on his chaste question. “It’s what I do. I’m good at it.”
“That’s not an answer.”
She loved acting. Didn’t she?
Though if that was all it was, she could act in local theater or even try her hand on Broadway.
She could go the route Tabitha had and land a perpetual role in soaps.
Always a new script and constant, steady work, even if her cousin would cut off her arm and eat it with a fork and knife to trade places.
“I dreamed of starring in films since the first time my parents allowed me to be an extra.” She’d been in the background, child number seven on the playground, and had sat in a sandbox for hours.
“That was it for me. I liked playing pretend. Being someone else. The acting bug sank its teeth in deep, and I was hooked.”
Was she still? Jules wasn’t sure. Somewhere along the way, acting had turned into a rat race, which had turned into monotony—then her success had created a small economy.
She employed her friends. Aaliyah did hair and makeup.
Yasmin was her stylist and could handle anything on the red carpet.
Olivia was—or rather, had been—a part-time assistant.
Not to mention the lawyers, staff, and subagents focused on subsidiary rights and on selling her image and likeness.
There were multiple streams of income, revenue options, and royalties.
Margot and Sloane dedicated a large percentage of their time to Jules’s career. If she didn’t act, they’d have to find a new focus. Mason had once told her they saw Jules as a cash cow. She’d told him to fuck off. He, apparently, was the one who had seen her like that.
But his sentiment wasn’t far from the truth. Everyone around her made money—stupid money. Because she did. Margot and Sloane would be fine if she retired, but it would be a shock to their system.
Why would anyone want her to retire? Who cared this much? The only thing she knew was that it was someone with money. Someone near home. Someone with the dumbest message imaginable. What could they possibly gain?
“Are you still hooked on acting?” Rhys asked her.
She stared out the dark window. “Would you believe me if I said I was just an award-season junkie?”
He laughed. “Not even a little bit.”
“It’s what I know how to do. I’m good at it, and it would affect more than just me if I stopped.” She refused to say ‘retire’ and would never quit. “My parents—”
“Your parents wouldn’t give a shit if you were giving an acceptance speech for an Oscar or winning the teacher of the year award. They’d be proud of you no matter what.”
“I wouldn’t be a good teacher.”
“Sweetheart, you’re good at everything you do. Everything .”
Lightning skittered down the nape of her neck. Everything shouldn’t make her stomach clench. She repositioned on the leather couch and tucked her feet underneath her. “Do you like what you do?”
“Yes,” he answered with no hesitation, just like everything else about him. Rhys never wavered. His default mode was decisive. Decisions were black and white. Gray, blurry options didn’t exist in his world.
“Why?” she asked.
He settled back and crossed his arms. Interesting that his answer didn’t come so fast. He tilted his head to glance out the oval window. Nothing but black skies could be seen. “Have you ever had something in your career that you couldn’t break away from?”
“Like a typecast?”
He pursed his lips, considering, and after a moment, he nodded. “Yeah, I guess so. Seems like you’ve avoided it.”
“My parents helped.” She’d distanced herself from them when she was starting out, wanting to earn the roles on her own.
Except for their strict demands on her security, they’d allowed her to stumble and fumble into her career.
They didn’t call in favors for her or anyone in their family, but they freely gave advice when asked.
“They helped select roles, gave insight on how to talk to casting directors. Then Margot came into the picture, and we were on the same page, not wanting to pinhole myself.” Just run herself ragged.
Maybe it wasn’t acting she was tired of, but the dog and pony show, the fakeness and the frenzy.
Maybe she’d needed this vacation more than she’d realized.
“I’m rambling. Sorry. I’ve avoided typecasting. ”
“I wasn’t at the FBI long but was sorta typecast. They had me for one reason, and no matter the assignment, it always came down to that.”
“Your memory.”
He nodded, casually shrugging. “It’s helpful.”
“It’s how you found me. I’m alive because of that big, beautiful brain of yours. Otherwise, I would’ve frozen to death in a barn. Not the way I want to die.”
Rhys stretched as though suddenly uncomfortable, as if the spacious, luxurious leather seating and infinite legroom had turned into a tiny box. He stood and paced to the end of the small aircraft and back then settled on the opposite side of her couch. “It’s a blessing and a curse.”
“What do you mean? Everyone wants you on their trivia team. You probably had perfect grades in school. You recognized a damaged highway billboard in the background of a picture Jordan Everett sent me and somehow saved the woman who talked you into making out for the paparazzi.”
Rhys shoved his hands into his pockets. “Yeah, well…”
“Well?”
He sighed then leaned back, seeming like he couldn’t sit still.
“Today’s the perfect example. I walked in, heard what I heard, saw what I saw, and even though I know you’re okay, that it probably wouldn’t have turned as dark and ugly as it could, I’m literally never going to be able to erase those moments from my mind. ”
She’d never thought about that before. Her lips parted, but she didn’t know what to say.
“What happened today will never dull or fade from my mind. The fear on your face is permanently etched in my memory.”
“God, Rhys. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t say that.” He shrugged like he hadn’t dropped a bomb. “Like I said, it can be a blessing and a curse.”
She couldn’t imagine the evidence he’d seen, the situations he’d assessed. His ability to compartmentalize must be unimaginable. Otherwise, she didn’t know how he was still standing. “I’d never thought about it like that before. I’m sorry. I should have realized.”
“Don’t be. Why would you?” He stared at her as though he were memorizing what was in front of him now to erase what he’d seen earlier that day.
She didn’t know what to do with being someone’s good memory. She’d never thought of that before. Jules shivered.
“I only brought it up to explain why Titan is a better fit. I still see the ugly, but more often than not, it’s in real life, not an evidence file, and I can do something about it in real time rather than try to find something from the past.”
She chewed on her lip. “How do you deal with the memories?”
“I put it away and never pull that mental file again.” His gaze held on to hers. The hum of the jet clashed against the solitude of the night. “And when I can’t forget, I make good ones that outweigh the bad ones.” After a moment, he looked away. “You should try to get some rest.”
She reached for the pillow and small blanket that rested nearby on the small shelf between them then laid her head on his thigh, spreading the blanket over her legs. “We made good memories that will outweigh today’s.”
His fingers stroked her hair, and her eyes drifted shut. The unnamed, unsettled tension ricocheting in her chest slowly drifted away. Contentment bled through her arms, her legs, her head, and her heart.
Before everything had fallen apart with Mason, Jules would have sworn on a stack of bestselling scripts she’d been content. But whatever this blend of contentment was, it was bliss.