Chapter 2 #2
She grimaces. “Any other year, any other circumstances… I’m a happy person . I am. And here you are, and here I am, and I cannot be happy about this . Do you have any idea how aggravating it is to have your celebrity crush sitting at your dining room table with timing like this ?”
“I—ah—no.”
She blows a big breath out of her nose and rubs her forehead. “Of course you don’t. Sorry. No, not sorry . Something else. Pretend I said something else that’s not sorry but also expresses my regret—no, not my regret. My acknowledgment that this is unfortunate .”
My pulse slows and the panic recedes.
She knows who I am.
She says she likes me.
And she’s clearly having a rough time.
I don’t think I’m in danger. I think she’s having a bad day.
I hope she’s having a bad day.
Not that I wish bad days on people. More that it’s better for her to be weird because of a bad day than because she’s planning on murdering me.
Also, if she’d read all of the news about me, I doubt I’d still be her celebrity crush.
Honestly, I’d probably think less of her if I still was.
My phone dings once more with another message, this one privately from Begonia instead of in the group chat.
She’s the only person in that chat that I’m not related to by blood or marriage—though I know Hayes will likely propose soon enough—and she’s also my favorite.
While everyone else freaked out when the tabloid coverage of Peyton’s side of our divorce story blew up, Begonia simply gave me a hug and a we all make mistakes, and it’s easier to do better with support instead of judgment .
How my brother found a woman with a heart the size of the moon who tolerates not only him, but all of the rest of us too, is one of life’s greatest mysteries.
Proof of life , I type back to her . For the moment. Tell them to call off the hunt. I’ll be back when I’m back .
The typing bubble pops up immediately, letting me know she’s working on a response.
“I’m going to the beach before anyone else is up,” Emma says. “Feel free to do whatever. And good luck with whatever it was that put you in that shape. For both of our sakes, it’s probably best that I don’t know details.”
“You’re leaving a stranger in your villa.”
“It’s preferable to being spotted in public with you.”
I’m not a big fan of being spotted in public with myself either. “Did someone make you watch my movies under duress? Is that why you can quote them but you want me to leave? Or did you…watch the news?”
I get a side eye that suggests she’s seen the news, but she’s a big enough person to not judge me for it. “I’ve had enough attention lately. Being spotted with you would not help that, and you being spotted with me is probably not good for you either.”
My brain is too sludgy to follow.
I hate sludgy brain.
“Who are you?” I ask her.
She grimaces.
Again.
I rise, get woozy in the head thanks to last night’s activities, but I refuse to go down. “Why don’t you want public attention? Who are you?”
She sighs a grumbly sigh, pulls out her phone, and after thumbing over the screen for a few seconds, she shoves it at me.
A video of what looks like a tropical wedding fills the screen.
I blink as the voices register. “I’ve seen this.”
“You and eighty percent of the world,” she mutters.
It’s a train wreck on top of a plane crash on top of a mudslide on top of an earthquake during a fire tornado.
There’s a bride confronting the groom about setting her brother up for jail.
Something about her brother being a secret adult entertainment star.
The groom selling a family business out from under everyone.
At least six friends sent me this to assure me my scandal was being overtaken by some nobodies getting hitched—excuse me, not getting hitched in Hawaii.
I look up at Emma without finishing it, and it clicks.
She squeezes her eyes shut again. “And now my life is fully complete.”
I don’t think.
I just act.
And not like acting acting. Like moving .
This woman needs a hug.
She needs a hug and my security detail.
I grew up in the public spotlight. I know what it’s like, but I’ve had training. Buffers. Publicists and media guidance and when all else failed, money talked.
And here she is, all by herself, wanting to go to the beach before the sun’s fully up and anyone else spots her because she’s famous for her disaster of a failed Hawaiian wedding to a guy who was apparently secretly a massive dick.
“I’m sorry.” I wrap my arms around her.
Can’t help myself.
But it makes sense now. Go away. I don’t want to be seen with you too .
My brother hates the spotlight that I’ve mostly happily lived in my entire life. Hates it. Doesn’t do well with publicity, and he had his own run-in with the press when they caught him and Begonia—let’s just say in a compromising position —last summer.
Almost broke him. And not because Rutherfords don’t get caught in compromising positions .
We’ve both rained down some hits to our family’s reputation.
I belatedly realize I shouldn’t hug strangers— thanks again, whiskey brain —but after the smallest hesitation, Emma’s body droops against me.
“This isn’t your fault,” she mumbles.
“But I still know it sucks.”
“I’m supposed to be on my honeymoon, and instead I’m realizing I’m an idiot who was in love with someone who didn’t love me back, that I alienated my friends to the point that they didn’t want to tell me, and that the whole world knows now just how stupid I am.”
My mother has drilled into me the idea that the world’s problems are not mine. That my fans’ problems are not mine. That my staff’s personal problems are not mine.
But I made myself Emma’s problem when I landed drunk on her doorstep.
So maybe her situation isn’t my problem.
But it’s close enough to my own that I’m making her problem my problem.
Not like helping a person in need will make my life any worse.