Chapter 2
Jonas Rutherford, aka a man in the midst of an epic fall from grace
I thought rock bottom would be when the press got wind of the fact that Peyton and I had quietly gotten divorced. That divorce in the Rutherford family would be the biggest part of this scandal .
My family founded and operates an entertainment conglomerate that pumps out the warm, fuzzy romantic movies that millions and millions of people across the globe watch twenty-four seven.
I’ve been acting in them in some capacity since before I was old enough to remember.
I’ve also been in every holiday parade at our Razzle Dazzle-themed amusement park since babyhood.
Being the basic face of our fairy tale has made the world believe that I live that fairy tale off-set too.
Jonas Rutherford, divorced from Hollywood’s sweetheart?
Scandal .
But it got worse a few days ago when my phone exploded with messages from everyone I knew that she’d gone public with why she filed for divorce.
During a press conference where she also announced she’d found a co-star for an epic project where she’d make her directorial debut.
The project that I should’ve said yes to, and that me saying no to, for all the reasons she just shared with the world, led to our divorce.
That tidbit going public should’ve been my actual rock bottom in this ordeal.
But that was before I tossed my cookies in the bushes outside the wrong villa at the wrong resort where I’m attempting to keep a low profile while everything blows over.
Someone else will have a bigger scandal any day now, and I’ll get to go back to my normal life.
Not that I’m entirely sure what that is at the moment, but I’ll figure it out when I can leave my house without people asking me questions that make me feel like slime.
“Here,” my unexpected host says, sliding a plate of toast across the glass table to me in the small but well-stocked kitchenette with a window view of the ocean. “This might help your stomach too.”
She watches me for a second, her gaze wavering. And then she takes a seat in the wire-frame chair across from me and pulls her knees to her chest.
I can’t tell if she recognizes me or not.
Also can’t decide if I want her to or not.
I nod my thanks and debate with myself if I can stomach the toast and the ginger ale she poured for me while the bread was toasting.
Probably.
What’s the worst that happens if I try it and I’m wrong?
Already been there, haven’t we?
She takes a small sip of her own ginger ale, still studying me.
I need to get myself a ride back to my resort across the island. Back to my own villa, where I know the well-paid staff will be discreet and not tell anyone I’m there.
And where I have absolute faith that my fellow guests won’t bat an eye at me either, even if they recognize me and have seen the news in the past few days.
My host, though?
There’s something in the way that she’s watching me that has me on edge.
But the toast smells good.
Good enough that my stomach is insisting I try it or face more consequences.
I duck my head and take a hesitant bite.
It’s dry. Super dry.
So dry that when I inhale after I think I’ve swallowed it all, a speck of toast dust gets caught in my throat, and it sends me into a coughing fit that I feel in every cell in my body, from my pinky toe to my aching head.
The tabloids would love this.
Jonas Rutherford, former charming star of romantic movies who’s a sexist asshole pig in secret, chokes and dies on a piece of toast .
The woman sitting across from me nudges the ginger ale closer, and I take a swig.
Cough more.
Grimace at the tenderness in my abs.
You’d think I didn’t work with a personal trainer six days a week. One little toss last night’s bad decisions moment, and everything hurts.
Maybe it’s less the ralphing and more the hangover.
“I don’t do this a lot,” I rasp.
“If only you didn’t have to go to work today,” the woman across from me says, her delivery even drier than the toast.
I choke again, this time at recognizing the line.
If I’ve said that line once in a Razzle Dazzle film, I’ve said it fifty times.
Her eyes narrow. “You are Jonas Rutherford.”
“I—”
“Please don’t take this the wrong way—because I love your movies, I truly do—but you need to leave. I’ve had enough attention in the world lately, and I am not up for having you bring more.”
I blink.
Blink again.
Eat another bite of dry toast.
Choke on it again.
Get a sigh from my hostess, who shoves my ginger ale into my hand.
“Guh toe,” I say, not able to enunciate good toast all the way with the toast sucking all of the moisture out of my mouth.
“It’s not gourmet, but it does the trick when you have an upset tummy.” She glances behind me, then rises to shut the curtain on the window overlooking the sunrise over the ocean.
She’s tall. At least five eight, maybe five nine.
Slender. Long arms and legs. Bony shoulders that are hunched in.
Prominent collarbones. Big brown eyes over a pixie nose and a pointy chin.
Ears just this side of too big holding back her blonde hair.
Nearly certain she’s not wearing a bra for the small breasts under that black tank top, and her loose cotton pants are hanging low on her hips.
I take another sip, watching her as she methodically closes the rest of the curtains in the sitting room beside the kitchen.
“You don’t want to be seen with me,” I say.
She grimaces but otherwise doesn’t answer.
“What’s your name?” I’d add my normal smile—tends to come easily, or it did, until my personal life imploded beyond anything I’d ever prepared myself for—but once someone sees you ruin their bushes with the contents of your stomach, smiling feels insignificant and unnecessary.
Or maybe futile is a better word.
She takes the seat across from me again, squinting at me like she doesn’t trust the question. “I’m Emma.”
“Lovely to meet you, Emma. I’m Jonas.”
“Are you, though? Or are you someone who looks like him and knows Razzle Dazzle movies by heart so that you can sneak into an unsuspecting woman’s villa to get the inside scoop on her disastrous life like a complete and total bastard?”
Would you look at that?
I have a smile in me after all. “I swear on my favorite Razzle Dazzle film, I’m Jonas Rutherford.”
“If you were really Jonas Rutherford, wouldn’t you have security?”
“Ditched them.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want to be Jonas Rutherford right now.”
She’s full-on scowling now. “Are you sure you’re not using his situation to try to weasel your way into my life right now?”
“I—sorry?”
“You don’t know who I am, do you?”
Ah, fuck.
My mother always said this would happen, and now, it won’t be toast that kills me.
Jonas Rutherford, secret two-faced prick, dies at the hand of a stalker after refusing to listen to his mother’s advice to lay low at his brother’s favorite hideout while waiting for the media shitstorm to blow over .
“I always warned him not to trust strangers whose porches he passed out on while he was drunk, but the child had a mind of his own,” Mrs. Giovanna Rutherford is quoted as saying .
And now, we have questions about his drinking habits in addition to his feelings on the place of his wife in a marriage .
“Have we met?” I ask. Nearest exit is probably the back door, but I don’t know how fast I can run in my current condition.
Probably fast enough—instincts would take over, wouldn’t they?—but unlike that time I got trapped with my brother in a port-a-john when I unwisely snuck off a set and got spotted by fans despite my disguise, my security team isn’t close by.
“Never mind,” she says quickly. Her freckled white cheeks take on a pink hue, and she ducks her head into her knees. “Just never mind.”
I reach for the ginger ale, then pause.
I don’t remember how I got here last night, but I—oh.
Oh .
This house is familiar.
The black curtains patterned with embroidered pineapples. The island sandscape painting with the weird shell in the corner that looks out of place. The layout of the kitchen and living room and the door. The sleek lines of the ivory furniture and the straw rugs on the floor.
Fiji .
The Morinda.
I’ve stayed in this house.
I shot a movie in this house.
With Peyton.
The headlines are getting better and better by the moment.
Rabid stalker fan tricks Jonas Rutherford into his final demise at the spot where he asked his ex-wife on their first date .
I slowly push the ginger ale back, hoping it’s not poisoned. I saw her open the can. I saw her take the bread out of the bag.
I don’t think any of this is poisoned.
I hope.
Emma—if that’s her real name—squirms in her chair, then rises. “All I mean is that this will be a lot easier if you just leave so I don’t have to deal with...” She flaps both hands in my direction, clearly indicating so I don’t have to deal with you .
I feel like I’m reading this wrong, but then, my brain is operating on last night’s whiskey and three months of divorce hell. “Is that… a threat?”
Her pale brows wrinkle together. “A— what ?”
“Did you help me get back here last night? Were we drinking together?”
“I haven’t left here since I arrived on Sunday other than to go to the beach.”
Sunday.
Today’s—fuck me. I don’t know what day today is.
“Today’s Thursday,” she says.
Is it? Is it really? “Is go to the beach a code word?”
She squeezes her eyes shut and mutters something I can’t understand as she glances at the door.
And she doesn’t try to stop me when I reach into my pocket for my phone and verify that it, too, says on my home page that today is Thursday.
It also says I’ve missed seven text messages from my mother, three from my brother, and one from his girlfriend.
I cast a covert glance at Emma.
She’s grabbing sunglasses even though it’s barely light outside, and I’m realizing that paranoia is not my friend, no matter how much it claims to be when I drink too much.
She’s trying to get rid of me.
Not the bad way though. “You don’t want me here.”