Chapter Twelve
Five Years Ago
The crowd outside the Tribeca restaurant had grown exponentially.
Rhys scoured the scene through the floor-to-ceiling tinted windows.
They could see out, but no one could see them as the chaos churned and turned, energy building as the crowd shifted and swayed to see everyone who exited the restaurant.
Paparazzi and tourists jostled one another for the fifteen feet between the front door and their waiting vehicle.
A quiet dinner with friends shouldn’t require more than a three-person security detail.
Yet as Rhys glanced from Frankie, a security agent at his side, to Juan, another security agent posted outside, ready to sweep the women into their Suburban, he wouldn’t have minded at least one more person and a line of cops to make a path.
They could wait for the cops to help out, but that would only give extra time for more people to show up.
“We’ve got a party tonight,” Juan said into their comms. “Seems like it’s growing. We going to get a move on or what?”
Rhys grumbled. “So much for a chill night out. Yeah. Give me a minute to confirm.”
Jules stepped up to him and rested her hand on his forearm, pushing to her tiptoes. “We’re ready when you are.”
“All right.” He glanced over her shoulder. Olivia, Aaliyah, and Tabitha moved to Frankie’s side, eyes wide at the spectacle. “The three of you first. Get in. Get settled.” Rhys dropped his gaze to Jules. “Then we’ll move you.”
She tucked herself closer to his side. Her jaw tensed. Jules darted her green eyes at the photogs and tourists then schooled her features into a calm, nonchalant expression that masked her nerves. It was her game face. “Anyone out there concerning?”
“Nope.” Rhys had cataloged every face. Apart from the tourists, he pinpointed professional autograph seekers and a handful of photographers with whom he was on a first-name basis.
Several, he recognized as photogs Jules’s publicist worked with, though he didn’t think Sloane Ellis had tipped them off tonight.
That would be something Jules’s people would have to figure out. “No one special.”
“That’s good.” Jules bit her lip, momentarily letting her game face slip. “Not that Retire Guy?”
They didn’t know what he looked like. Retire Guy was a new addition to her collection of weirdos. The problem with Retire Guy was that he was a sneaky fucker. He never crossed a line. Never showed up in person. He was just on brand. On message. It was time for Jules to retire.
Rhys clamped his molars down.
“God, there are a lot of people here for a dinner that no one should know about,” she said.
Jules had to wonder who had called in the paparazzi. He sure as hell did. Her friends? It wouldn’t be the first time someone she was close to burned her.
Or it could have been the restaurant owner or maybe the waitstaff. They probably all had phone numbers for photographers to report celebrity sightings. They would be cut in when—especially since this was Jules Lowry—the tabloids and gossip magazines paid fistfuls of money for the shots.
Tabitha smiled. “Let’s go.”
Rhys nodded to Frankie. Frankie opened the restaurant’s front door for the ladies. Tabitha strode ahead like she was on a runway, leading Aaliyah and Olivia, whose chins were tucked down.
“She’s in her element, isn’t she?” Jules asked of her cousin. “Sometimes, I think maybe the wrong Lowry has all the attention.”
That would be a hard no. He didn’t agree. Tabitha Shade hung on to Jules and her parents like they were the tethers to the life she desperately wanted.
He rested a hand on her back, guiding her closer to the door that Frankie had just shut. “Ready?”
“Is my game face on?” she asked.
He cupped her chin, pretending to inspect this way and that. “It’s on.”
“Then I’m ready.”
Rhys pulled out the strobing flashlight that messed with paparazzi shots and nodded to Frankie. Frankie nodded back just like before and opened the door.
The roar of the crowd and the freezing air rolled over them like an avalanche.
Rhys barreled out, arms pushing. “Make a path.”
Jules placed her palms on his back. Frankie would pull up the rear.
Lights flashed. Cameras popped. The cold winter air snapped over them like cracks of a whip. No one could even see Jules yet. They were only getting pictures of him.
Rhys pushed onto the sidewalk. Fifteen feet. That was all they had to cover. “Move it. Back up.” He elbowed into the chaos. “Make a path. Move it.”
Frankie sandwiched Jules against Rhys. One of her hands wrapped around his stomach. Rhys scanned the crowd, eyes sweeping across, down, back up, and around. He pushed forward, cataloging people.
“Can you sign?”
“Selfie?”
“We love you, Jules!”
“Jules, over here. Over here.”
Someone stuck a mini boom mic in their way. “Any truth to—”
Rhys smacked the microphone into the crowd. “Get the fuck out of here, man.”
Nine feet to go.
“There she is! I see her.”
“Are you dating Tommy Kwan?”
“I love you, Jules.”
Five feet left.
“Sign this!”
“Over here. Look. Jules. Here.”
“Almost thirty? When’re ya settling down—”
Rhys had no time for that kind of bullshit and pushed the asshole into the crowd.
Her fingers tightened on his shirt, clinging to the fabric as she bumped against him. “Sorry.”
The crowd jostled.
Frankie shouted, “Back up!”
Rhys held out his arms, jabbing an elbow. Three feet left. “Move it. Move.”
Jules smashed against Rhys again. “Sorry.”
He wrapped one hand over the one that clung to his chest and wrapped the other behind him, holding Jules close against his back. “Almost there.”
“Back up,” Juan ordered, holding the car door open, ready to pull Jules into the Suburban.
Rhys pulled Jules from his back to his chest then handed her off to Juan.
“Got her.” Juan lifted her into the vehicle.
A man dived toward the open door like he thought he was Superman. “Jules—”
Rhys intercepted Superman like he was catching a football. Juan snapped the back door shut, Jules safely inside.
“I love her,” Superman choked out, hands splayed on the tinted window, before Rhys launched him back into the throng of people.
Juan and Frankie rounded the back of the Suburban and jumped in. Rhys checked over his shoulder one last time, committed the faces to memory, then climbed into the front passenger seat.
Their driver took off.
That wasn’t how he expected tonight’s under-the-radar dinner to go. Rhys turned in his seat and surveyed the ladies in the third row. Olivia and Aaliyah were shellshocked. Tabitha pressed her face against the window, watching the crowd instantly move on as they pulled away.
In the second row, Frankie leaned against the door. Juan was stuck in the middle.
Like Tabitha, Jules stared out the window but with a distinctly different expression—pensive, wistful, broody. “What a nice night out…”
Rhys had spent a decade memorizing her expressions. He knew every one of them. He had no idea what this was, and that fact sat with him longer than it should have.
Their wheels screeched to a halt. Two frat-boy-looking dudes stupid enough to stand in the center of New York City traffic blocked their lane. They turned around, held up their phones, and took selfies with Rhys and the driver scowling behind the windshield.
What is wrong with people?