Chapter 16 Rhiannon
Rhiannon
It’s been seven days since I walked out on my wedding.
Six since the meeting at the PR manager’s office.
Five since Robert and I laid down the law over our new fake relationship.
Four since we decided not to go on what would have been my honeymoon with George.
Three since my dad hit the roof again—because bombarding me with texts about how big of a mistake I’m making seemingly wasn’t enough. I don’t think my family will ever get over that I’m going out with the man who trashed Dad in the press.
Two since we changed our minds and decided to flee the stress—and the country full of people who want a story on me right now—and pay the change fee so Robert can come with me instead of George.
Sitting in the departures lounge of Belfast International Airport, a hysterical laugh bubbles up in me. Am I really doing this? About to step onto a plane to Dubrovnik, Croatia with a near stranger?
Seems so.
I need out. Between the angry family, the prying public, and the ex who saw a picture of me necking with the sports journalist, sold his story, did a one-eighty and is now blowing up my phone, I’m spent. My nerve endings are raw as fuck, and I need a bloody break.
Plus, George’s mum couldn’t get the money back for the honeymoon. Waste not, want not, am I right? I think I might be right.
The PR manager lit up like a Christmas tree when I put the idea forward to her. “It sells the whirlwind romance story,” she’d said. “And shows that you’re intent on getting over that piece of shit by getting under…”
“Another one?” I’d offered. We’d both laughed.
I might hate Robert and everything he stands for, what he did to people I care about in the name of journalism, but outside of my own personal dealings with the sports journalist I’m now fake-dating, people on the internet love him.
Against all odds, they love the idea of us together. At least for the most part, there are always haters who want to watch you fail, who type out every single stray thought that crosses their mind in the moment. Sometimes they even send you letters about how disappointing your existence is to them.
That’s not what’s happening here. I don’t know what magic my PR manager is spinning, but so far, it’s largely positive. Maybe because the world saw me flame out on the back of an awful experience where I was betrayed by my nearest and well, not dearest, but I thought for a while that they were.
The internet is shipping me and Robert.
Not sure if that makes it better or worse to be honest.
Well, most of them.
Rugby royalty princess with the hero journalist who saved a bunch of athletes from potentially getting sucked into a whirlpool of doping and performance enhancing risks. When they put it like that, it’s hard to stay quite as mad at him as I was a week ago. But I’ll surely do my best to try.
The number of dick pics and propositions from men on the internet have slowed, but they’re still coming.
Some of the braver ones claim they could “dick me down better than the cripple.” Charming, really.
I don’t trust a man who can’t tell the difference between your and you’re to accurately convey how “good he’ll make it.”
Also—and I can’t believe I have to say this—the number of limbs a person has doesn’t determine how good they are in bed. Who knew?
Every message in that inbox is some variation of vulgar, brash, or “I’ll destroy you with my cock.” It’s like the collective IQ of male rugby fans took a nosedive the second my name hit the news.
Robert’s knee bounces next to mine as he scrolls on his phone. He hasn’t shaved in a few days, and I’ve got to say, the scruff is working for him. “You need anything?” He turns his head to look at me.
“Me? No. Why?”
“You were burning a hole in the side of my face with your glower.”
“Sorry, I just think this is mad craic.”
The corner of his mouth ticks up. “Running away from our problems to a five-star resort in Croatia? Or that you’re using commercial air travel like a mere mortal?” He folds his arms. “I suppose, if the flight’s delayed, you can just summon your dragon, right? I assume it’s parked next to your ego.”
“Careful. He’s hungry, doesn’t carry dead weight, and he prefers pompous journalists.”
He goes quiet, but there’s something in his eyes that tells me he enjoyed that little exchange. Truth be told, so did I. Banter is the official second language of Northern Ireland. In love? Banter. Mortal enemies? Banter. We can’t turn it off.
He nudges me. “You strike me as the type who loves a dramatic entrance—smoke, fire, terrified villagers.”
“And you strike me as the type who’d run away screaming before the smoke even clears.”
He winces like I slapped him across the face, and a sting of guilt crawls along my skin. What nerve did I hit, there?
After what feels like a long, punishing moment of awkward silence between us, he clears his throat.
“Why would you think that’s mad craic? Sure, it’s not like we’re strangers or anything.
” He purses his lips. “You know, you’re right.
It is utterly wild, but it’ll give everyone time to calm the fuck down, clear their heads, and it’ll give us some quality time to get to know each other for real so we can fake it with conviction. ”
His hand covers mine stopping me from plucking the jagged piece of skin down the side of my nail, his thumb sweeping back and forth over my fingers.
“Plus, Clíodhna is right, what better way to honor your whole ‘Hot Girl Healing… Find yourself before turning thirty because of a public betrayal by your ex-fiancé and best friend that shattered your identity and left you questioning who you are outside of rugby and relationships—’ ” He sucks in an audible breath.
“You need to work on a snappier title. That one’s just far too long. ”
I groan. “You heard that?”
“Rhiannon, I was sitting at the bar in the Anchor, not outer space. The Morrigan sisters don’t exactly do quiet.”
I smile because he’s not wrong. “Taking some time for a reset is never a bad thing, especially when your whole world came apart at the seams.” He hasn’t stopped caressing my hand, which has stopped me from making my fingertip bleed. Again.
“This is unsanctioned contact, Mr. McAllister.”
“I’ve noticed, when you’re agitated or anxious, you pick at the skin around your nails. You’re going to make yourself bleed again, and airport plasters cost a fortune. If you say you’ll stop, I’ll stop.”
Am I that easy to read? I’ve picked at my cuticles since I was a little girl, but I thought I was subtle about it.
As a kid, Mum told me not to fidget, to sit on my hands if I couldn’t sit still.
Back then, we didn’t really understand what anxiety was or how it manifested in a physical way.
“Ants in your pants,” they said. So, I found something distracting to help, though it did sometimes end in a stinging, bloody mess.
“And I’ve noticed you sometimes rub your thigh.” I point at his other hand on his leg. “Is that an idle rubbing, or because it hurts?”
He tips his head to the side. “You looked me up?”
My cheeks heat. “Know thine enemy.”
“Hopefully you didn’t dig too deep.” His voice is strained. It’s like he’s trying to be funny, but there’s an underlying tension I can’t figure out.
He gives me a smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
Something flickers beneath the joke—too quick to name, but sharp enough to cut, just like my quip about the smoke clearing.
I want to ask, but I don’t. It’s on the tip of my tongue to press him on whatever it is, but someone shuffles in front of us, dragging a small suitcase behind them.
It rolls over the loafer on his prosthetic foot.
“Ow,” he exclaims loudly enough for the person to hear.
“Sorry,” comes the grumbled reply.
I nudge Robert. “That didn’t even hurt you!”
He grins at me. “Yes, but it could have. If it put pressure on my leg at the wrong angle, it could have been painful. Even though it wasn’t, that doesn’t mean people can get away with being careless. Anyway, stop changing the subject; you looked me up.”
“Like I said, know thine enemy.” I nod, turning over his words thoughtfully. It wouldn’t have ever occurred to me that running over his prosthetic foot might have caused real pain. I feel like an idiot.
His face falls. “I’m not your enemy, Rhiannon. Though I can understand why you think I am.”
My phone vibrates with a boarding update, so we abandon our discussion and make our way to the gate. When we’re onboard, Robert listens to the safety briefing ahead of our three-and-a-half-hour flight.
“Given the number of times you’ve flown, I’d have thought you would be able to give the safety announcements by now.”
His lips twitch as though he’s amused that I know things about him from an internet search. “It’s still worth a listen—in case something changes.”
It seems my new fake boyfriend is a stickler for the rules. Interesting. I tuck that nugget of information away for future reference, lean my head on the window, and close my eyes.
When I wake up, we’re on the ground in Dubrovnik, my head is resting on Robert’s shoulder, and there’s a trail of drool from my mouth onto his shirt.
Perfect.
There’s no time to freak out, however, because he’s already up and ushering me out of my seat.
We deplane with our bags, and it’s a short trip to where we’re staying. As we pull up outside, Robert whistles. “Huh. That prick ex of yours likes the finer things in life, eh?”
“Yeah, the honeymoon was his choice. He had very strong opinions on where he wanted to go.” I shrug. “I just wanted to get away somewhere warm, just the two of us.” The words stab somewhere in my gut, reminding me of the betrayal of that piece of shit.