Written in the Stars – Jeannie Choe #3
I consider explaining to him that I was out with a friend, but then I anticipate the string of questions that’ll follow, so I keep my message simple. Though it’s not technically a lie, since it was expensed to Paula’s account. I’ll explain to him later who I was with.
Me: Did you need to talk to me?
Rhylan: Just reminding you to stop by for the panna cotta.
I smile at my phone.
Me: Don’t worry. I didn’t forget.
Me: I’m heading into a meeting. I’ll call you when I’m off?
Rhylan: K, Love you.
Me: Love you too.
ELLIE
The rest of my workday passes without a hitch.
I finish the last of the manuscript I’m working on and talk it over with Paula before reaching out to the agent.
She leaves right after our impromptu meeting, rushing to meet with Austin for dinner.
She gushed about how happy she is he’s back home, even if it’s for a short time.
I stop by to pick up a small tray of panna cotta, per Rhylan’s request, and leisurely drive home.
As soon as I walk through the door, I’m welcomed by the absolutely appetizing scent of dinner.
“In the exact same spot I left you in,” I comment, placing the paper bag on the counter. Rhylan turns to face me, turning down the heat on the stovetop with something sizzling in the fry pan. “I kind of like this look on you.”
“What look?”
“You cooking for me,” I say, sauntering up to him with my arms looping around his neck. “Waking up and coming home to my own personal chef.”
He pulls me into an embrace, nuzzling his face into my neck. “We could definitely make that a regular thing.” He kisses me, trailing up my jaw and stopping at my lips, lingering there. His eyes glaze over with lust. “Hi.”
“Hi,” I say. “How was your day?”
“Horrible.”
I frown. “Why?”
“Because you were at work.”
I smack his arm and roll my eyes. “You are so dramatic.”
He laughs, returning to the stove as the meat I now see in the pan sizzles against the heat. “How was your day?”
“Good.” I hop onto the nearest barstool, slipping off my shoes and leaning down to rub out the kinks in the arch. “Busy. Productive.”
“That’s good.”
He reaches for the opened bottle of wine resting on the counter and pours me a glass. I take it from him at the same time I ask, “How was the meeting with the new publicist?”
“It was fine.”
“Just fine?” I take a sip, watching his back as it moves in tandem with his hands stirring and sautéing.
“She’s just . . . whatever.”
“Does ‘she’ have a name?”
“Deanna,” he answers flatly.
“And what’s the problem with Deanna?”
“Nothing yet.”
I frown at him. “What do you mean ‘yet’?”
He turns off the heat completely, sets down his spatula, and walks over to me, bracing his hands against the counter.
“I just don’t think she’s going to take me as seriously as Shana,” he explains.
His voice sounds so defeated, and I feel horrible he’s dealing with this.
I almost wish we could be selfish and demand Shana not retire.
“With Shana, I knew she’d protect my privacy at all costs.
She was always the first line of defense when it came to my personal life, but Deanna doesn’t seem to understand how important it is for me. ”
“Like she’ll tell people things about us?”
“No,” he assures. “Nothing like that.” He walks around the kitchen island, bringing himself closer to me.
I ease into him as he cages me between his arms. My back rests against the rounded edge of the countertop, and I pull him closer to me, wrapping my arms around his waist. “I just don’t want her to think I value my privacy in the way any other client values their privacy.
It’s more than that for me. For us. We’ve been down that road, and I don’t want things to turn to shit again. ”
“Baby,” I croon close to his lips. “We’ll be fine.”
He kisses me, choosing to stay silent instead of agreeing with me for the sake of agreeing. “I guess,” he finally says with a shrug. “We decided on a test run for the rest of the week. Shana’s out of town for a few days, and Deanna’s going to handle things while she’s gone.”
“Okay. And if you really don’t like her, I guess we can find someone else.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“For now, can we forget about things with some dinner and dessert?”
“You got the panna cotta?” he asks, that dejected look vanishing in an instant.
I nod toward the paper bag sitting on the counter and offer a sly smile. “What my baby wants, my baby gets.”
“So, my parents are driving down next Wednesday.”
“And you booked the hotel for them?”
Rhylan nods, settling himself next to me on the couch. “I got them the conjoined junior suite.”
“Fancy.” I hum through a forkful of panna cotta. The rich, creamy custard melts in my mouth, and I tug the plate closer to me and a little farther out of Rhylan’s reach.
“Hey,” he protests, using his own fork to move the plate back to equal distance between us. “We’re sharing that!”
I giggle, taking a larger-than-usual helping and shoving it into my mouth before he has a chance to get more.
“What happened to ‘whatever my baby wants, my baby gets’?”
“I meant me,” I joke. “I’m your baby, right?” Instead of answering, he kisses me while my mouth is still full. “Mmhh!” I cry through pursed lips. He tackles me onto the cushion, pressing his weight on top of me.
“You ate the rest of my panna cotta.”
“We have more,” I plead, trying to swallow what’s left. But Rhylan beats me to it, sweeping his tongue in my mouth and getting the last creamy bits.
“Hmm, that’s yummy,” he moans between kisses. We start to melt into this kiss, our bodies turning into putty against each other. I hook my knee over his hip and his hand starts to weave into my hair, tugging at it with urgency.
“Was this your plan when you asked me to get you panna cotta?” I say breathlessly. His lips travel down my neck and over the sensitive skin of my collarbone as he undoes the top button of my shirt, and I couldn’t care less about having the last of the panna cotta. He can have the whole damn tray.
“Ah, you caught me.”
I giggle at the same time my hand starts to bunch the hem of his shirt. He knows what that means and finishes the job for me, lifting it over his head. When he reemerges, his hair’s all tousled, and the playful bounce to his eyebrows makes my heart skip a beat.
Just as we’re about to resume this joint striptease, his phone buzzes on the coffee table. Rhylan ignores it.
“Are you going to get that?”
“It can go to voicemail,” he answers, his face now wedged between the valley of my breasts. His phone stops ringing, and he scoops me up in his arms just as his phone buzzes again. Rhylan lets out a frustrated groan.
“It must be an emergency,” I tell him.
He sets me down and answers his phone. “Hey, Charles, what’s up?”
I am settling into the cushy sofa, looking forward to a relaxing night in, when Rhylan’s composed voice turns tight and rigid.
“What? Where?”
I sit upright. “What happened?” I ask in a whisper. Rhylan doesn’t so much as give me a sideways glance.
“Yeah,” he continues. “I’ll call Deanna right now. Thanks.”
“What happened?” I ask again. He continues to ignore me, scrolling through his phone with a deep, disapproving scowl.
He stands from his spot next to me, and I suddenly feel cold and empty. He starts pacing the space on the other side of the coffee table, creating distance from the comfy, cozy nest we made just a minute ago.
“Deanna?” he says curtly with his phone pressed to his ear. “Have you seen the pictures online yet?”
Pictures? What pictures?
My heart jackhammers. My fight-or-flight response kicks into high gear, and I start to panic.
“How did you miss this ?” He throws an arm in the air, his composure completely crumbling.
“Deanna, I told you today how important our privacy is. I stressed it, and now these pictures of—” His words cut off mid-sentence, and he glances at me.
With the irate glower shot directly at me, I feel like I’m silently being scolded.
He abruptly ends the call and chucks his phone on the table. It lands with a loud clatter, matching the harsh energy in the room. He runs his hands through his hair, tugging at the roots and letting out a frustrated groan.
“Rhy, what happened?”
With his head lowered to the ground, he slumps next to me.
“Charles and Amelia got an alert from his publicist about a picture,” he says cautiously.
Though he’s measuring his words carefully, there’s a heaviness to them.
Like they weigh too much for him to speak them callously. “It’s a picture of you.”
“Of me?”
He nods. “It’s of you and some guy at a ... restaurant?”
“What?”
He reaches for the phone he tossed aside, then unlocks and scrolls through it before facing the screen in my direction.
There’s a zoomed-in image of me and Austin sitting at a small table for two at the pastry shop where we had lunch today.
Whoever took the picture caught the moment Austin gently placed his hand on top of mine.
Our faces are inches away from each other, and they have perfectly captured an intimate moment.
A moment that was meant to be an exchange of sympathy and comfort between reunited friends.
They took that moment and twisted it into a string of gossip, weaving up a fictitious story full of deceit.
The rapid beats of my heart stop, flatlining into silence. The questions running rampant in my head are stuck there with no passage or channel for them to be spoken. They’re just lodged in my throat.
“Ellie, who . . .”
I stand from the spot, needing to move. To walk and pace. Anything.
“Ellie.” Rhylan follows me, crowding into my space. “Look, please just tell me what happened? Who was it?”
“I can’t believe this,” I mutter, unable to comprehend anything else. “Why can’t they just leave us?—”
“El.” I’m stopped dead in my tracks. Rhylan looks at me, his eyes red, rimmed with the threat of tears. “Who is he?”