Chapter Thirteen
Present Day
Agreeing was one thing. Actually facing Rhys and receiving their marching orders was another. Jules had agreed and ignored the ticking hours as they crawled closer and closer to her dinner reservation when she and Abigail would step out of the bungalow and face the music.
Jules fidgeted with the flowy skirt of the backless maxi dress. “Do I look okay?”
“Of course you do,” Abigail said from their bedroom.
“You haven’t even looked at me.”
Abigail glided from the bedroom and slung a bag over her shoulder. “I didn’t have to. You always look great.” She put her hands on her hips and scrutinized Jules from head to toe. “Yup. Beautiful.”
She took a shaky breath. “You are too.”
“Yeah, well.” With a casual shrug, Abigail threaded her fingers into her hair, tying it into a bun on top of her head. “I’m not the one nervous about meeting up with my fake man. So I don’t need to hear it.” Her expression softened. “It’s just Rhys. You’re fine.”
“Of course. I know that. I’m not worried.” I’m talking too much. She twisted her fingertips into the buttery-soft fabric and wished she could strangle her dancing nerves into submission.
“Well?” Abigail gestured toward the door.
Rhys waited outside, and Jules couldn’t open the door. “I guess we’re ready.”
Abigail arched her eyebrows. “Then what are you waiting for? I thought we were starved.”
“Yeah. Starved.” Half an hour ago, absolutely. Now, Jules couldn’t imagine stomaching a single bite. She couldn’t shake the fluttering in her stomach and flipping in her chest and tried for an internal pep talk.
This was acting.
Hello. They were acting.
Acting doesn’t make you nervous.
But her nervous system had apparently relegated its control to the bundle of anxiety ricocheting in her chest like she was stepping onto her first red carpet. And Rhys was the reason.
She’d asked something of him without even discussing it with him first.
He’d agreed without even questioning her.
“Come on. He’s not going to bite unless you ask him to.”
Jules was going to kill her sister.
Abigail threw open the front door with a flourish that made her floral-print skirt billow. If Jules concentrated on their wardrobe, she wouldn’t have to look at Rhys waiting for them outside their bungalow like a sentry on duty. But she did anyway.
Damn. Sentry duty looked good on him. Jules had noticed that before. She’d just never let herself stand still long enough to notice that she’d noticed.
That flutter in her chest intensified into a drumroll against her sternum.
She couldn’t meet his gaze and instead analyzed his wardrobe—pants tailored by a god, a sexy button-down linen shirt with the collar loose, and a fitted jacket that probably hid a weapon.
Standing in front of the sandy white beach with the pink-and-orange sky, he looked like a model ready for a photoshoot.
She didn’t mean to meet his gaze, but sizing him up meant she couldn’t avoid that face. His five o’clock shadow sat over his cut jawline. And those midnight eyes squeezed the breath from her lungs. Then he smiled.
God.
That barely there twitch of his lips made her squeeze her thighs together. She was in far more trouble than she had prepared for.
Pull it together, woman.
Rhys was the same man he’d always been. That he’d agreed to play pretend with her for the paparazzi made no difference.
Except it did.
This is completely ridiculous. She pretended for a living.
She’d been a siren of the sea. A slayer of aliens.
A savior of the universe. Jules could handle a little flirting and snuggling for the paparazzi’s prying camera lenses.
But those roles had been on sound stages and production company lots.
Boom mics hovered inches out of sight. Directors and producers made demands.
They told her how to act, what to say, where to look, and how to feel. Or at least look like she was feeling.
That safety barrier didn’t exist. This was her real life.
She forced a deep breath and descended the broad white stairs from the bungalow. Time to act as cool as a cucumber. “I should be mad at you.”
Rhys smirked. “Yeah, this is my fault.”
Conscious of every step closer, she hoped he couldn’t see through the carefree air she fought to maintain. Her hair rose on a warm sea breeze. He tracked the strands then dropped his sunglasses into place.
“The reservation isn’t for another fifteen minutes.
It’ll take five minutes if we go that way.
” Abigail gestured toward the resort hub then fished her phone out of her bag.
“Or we can take the scenic route and follow the trails.” Sidewalk paths covered with blooming flowers and rare foliage circled the resort.
She held up her phone, which had a large red flower on it. “Do you want to see this?”
Rhys couldn’t look any less interested in a flower. “Sure. Whatever you want.”
“Jules doesn’t want to see it either.” Abigail beamed like the conniving sister she was. “I’ll meet you there.”
Before Jules could protest, Abigail trotted off on a mission to snap photos to add to her nature app.
He glanced past the beach. The water took on a deeper hue as the wave crashed and retreated toward the intense sky. He scanned like he always did, searching the ocean for speedboats with photogs and long-range lenses. “I haven’t heard from Sloane. Have the paparazzi arrived?”
“Not that I know of.” She forced her arms to stay at her sides.
It would be so easy to protectively cross her arms and shield herself.
But this man had always been a safe harbor.
Mostly. Jules twisted her fingers into her skirt.
“I’m really sorry that Sloane called your boss. I would never have agreed to that.”
“Sloane does what Sloane does. It’s fine, and it’s actually made Scarlett pretty happy too.”
That caught her off guard. “Why?”
“You know what Scar does. Trolling the internet all day long, hunting down the ugliness. I think she’s excited to focus on this and not a predator or money launderer who should be tracked and obliterated.
” He gestured to the greenery and flowers that curled around the sidewalk. “I can stomach flowers if you want to.”
“I would much rather see if they can seat us when we arrive. Thanks for the tacos, by the way. Those mai tais packed a punch.”
Another couple approached. Rhys rested his hand on the small of her back, moving her closer as they passed. His hand fell away, but the imprint of his palm remained as they wandered toward the center of the resort.
Tiki torches danced along their path. The orange-and-red sky melted into dreamy pinks and purples. Their agreement hung awkwardly between them.
“Honestly, I don’t want you to think…” Think what? That she was using him for his body? Taking advantage of his looks when it was his brain that had saved her life then kept her safe year after year? “That I’m taking advantage of you.”
He laughed. “How the hell would you take advantage of me, Jules?”
“You know.” She stole a glance. Rhys had dark hair and beautiful eyes.
He was tall, broad, and deadly and had a quiet demeanor and a mind that worked faster than anyone she’d ever known.
He could recall who she’d been with and what she’d worn to any press junket, red carpet, or movie screening.
Without having to think about it, Rhys could recollect what was said in any conversation.
Dating him in real life might be hard. It’d be impossible to win an argument.
Then again, who decided to date someone based on whether they would win a fight?
“I don’t. Enlighten me.”
“Are you dating someone in real life?” she asked.
“No.”
“Are you going to hold this over my head for years?”
“Maybe. Or maybe just Sloane and Scar.”
She laughed.
“Speaking of which…” He pulled out his buzzing cell phone and glanced at the screen. “I had a feeling this might be one of them.” Rhys pressed the phone to his ear. “Hi, Sloane.”
Jules inched closer. “Why’s she calling you and not me?”
“Uh-huh.” His eyes jumped to her and away again. “When?”
“What?” Jules gestured for the phone. “Put it on speaker.”
After another moment of listening and agreeing, he hung up without letting her hear Sloane’s update.
“Why didn’t she call me?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know why Sloane Ellis does a single thing.”
“Well?” Jules pressed.
“We’re on, sweetheart.”
Her heart jumped.
“Don’t know when and where other than it starts tonight.” Rhys grabbed her hand as though he’d spent a lifetime lacing their fingers together. “Let’s do this.”
Her breathing did something embarrassing that she blamed on the ocean air.
They had a history of high fives and handshakes.
A time or two, he’d physically carried her.
Once, he knocked her down while slide-tackling someone who had jumped a rope line.
The paparazzi had gone batshit for those pictures.
Even more when Rhys scooped her up and placed her on her feet, using his tuxedo jacket to block the world while she readjusted her boobs and her halter top on the red carpet.
What no one knew about that moment was that little whisper of “You look beautiful” before he stepped back and let the pops and flashes memorialize her next steps.
His thumb skimmed over her knuckles as they walked.
This was all for show. Though her hammering pulse said otherwise.
“I walked into your house last night,” he said. “After you said you had it handled and thought we left.”
Her chin snapped up. “You did? Why?”
He shrugged. “I don’t think it’s news that I’m protective of you.”
“I said I had it handled.”
Rhys laughed. “Woman, you did have it handled. If it wouldn’t have detracted from the moment, I would have clapped.”
“Mason messed up.”
“Yeah, he did. In more ways than one.”
“That fallout wasn’t going to land on me.”