Chapter Fourteen #2
He wasn’t always serious. Jules snorted and slapped her hands over her mouth. His shoulders trembled with silent laughter. Okay. He wasn’t a robot. He could smile. He’d agreed to one of Sloane’s insane stunts. They’d passed the point of absurdity.
“I want to see the picture,” Abigail tried again.
“Fine.” Jules swiped her phone open, flashed the screen up, and tossed it onto the table again. “Happy?”
“That’s so stinking cute. Forget who sent it to you. It’s a great picture. You have to own it. Take it and make it yours.”
“Not a chance.”
The waitstaff swept away their appetizers and topped off their water glasses. Fresh cocktails from the bar arrived for the ladies. Rhys stuck with his mango-pineapple drink.
“You know what would be really fun—and evil?” Abigail pushed her fish around her plate without eating. “But really fun?”
“The way your mind works, there’s no telling,” Jules said.
“What if you soft launch your new relationship with that picture? No faces. Just the handhold. No comment. Or maybe something like ‘Mine? Maybe.’ Or something more obvious—”
“No. Sloane has a plan.”
Abigail waved away her protest. “Sloane would eat this up. Come on, Jules. What do we post?”
“We don’t post it.”
“But if we did,” Abigail prompted. “Ten out of ten. Would recommend this guy.” She pursed her lips. “No, not soft enough. It has to be something vaguer. Rhys? Ideas?”
“I’m not helping.”
“Brother, you are the most helpful part of this whole debacle. Weigh in already. It’s your launch we’re soft launching.”
“He’s not a rocket,” Jules said.
“Didn’t hate the company,” he offered, having absolutely zero idea why he’d opened his mouth.
He didn’t do social media. He didn’t have witty one-liners to pair with that picture.
Though he liked the idea of taking the picture and making it her own.
Any number of profilers and psychologists would probably say not to bait the guy who obsessed over Jules enough to fly here, but Rhys wanted to kick the hornet’s nest and drive the guy out.
If he made a bigger mistake, they could find him more quickly and end the mystery.
Abigail’s eyes widened. “Let me see the picture again.”
Jules held it up, and the women stared at it.
“Didn’t hate the company,” Abigail whispered. “Total soft launch vibes. I love it.”
He shifted, suddenly uncomfortable with the understated comment paired with their holding hands. “Maybe we let Sloane do what Sloane does.”
“If Sloane knew this picture existed, she would have already tossed it like chum to starving sharks.”
Jules and Abigail shared an unspoken conversation. She picked up her phone and tapped on the screen, and a devious smile curved on her pretty face. “Done.”
That was one way to take ownership of a picture that had made her feel out of control.
Jules’s cell phone vibrated.
Abigail snorted. “That took Sloane an eternity to see. You should talk to her about that slow reflex time.”
Jules answered the call.
He couldn’t hear the words, but he could absolutely hear Sloane.
“Hang on. I’m putting you on speaker.” Jules tapped her phone and laid it on the table. “Okay, we can all hear you.”
“You beautiful, smart, gorgeous people,” Sloane crooned. “I want to kiss you. Brilliant move. The first comment says, ‘I know that guy.’ They know it’s Rhys. Okay, my phone is blowing up. Let me know how tonight goes.”
“Guess that was a good move,” he said, not comfortable with the picture and not comfortable that anyone had recognized him from behind. It was a taste of his own medicine. He could usually identify anyone from any viewpoint. Yet somehow he’d never been able to pinpoint her stalker.
“You’re not eating,” Jules said to Abigail.
“I’ve been laughing.”
“You didn’t eat your shrimp.”
“I’m not as hungry as I thought I was.”
“Or you have a hangover from day drinking,” he pointed out.
“Or that,” Abigail admitted.
His phone buzzed. Rhys glanced at the notification on the screen. Scarlett had sent a paragraph’s worth of heart-eye emojis.
If he could get away with silencing his phone for the rest of the evening, he would.
“What’s that face for?” Jules asked.
Grimacing, he held up his phone. Their laughter shook the table and didn’t stop through the rest of dinner. Abigail didn’t eat. Jules had dessert. Rhys didn’t think of himself as Mr. Serious but guessed they did.
“What about you?” Jules asked.
He hadn’t been listening. “I don’t know.”
The corners of her pink lips tipped up in a smile. “He wasn’t listening.”
“If we’d never been born into the movie business,” Abigail said, “what would you be doing?”
“I’m not in the movie business,” Rhys pointed out. “I’d still have my job—maybe without the fake-boyfriend shtick. But I like protection details. What’d you say?”
“I’m not in the family business either,” Abigail said.
Family business. What a different lens to see the world. Through the eyes of one of the most well-known families.
“But if we didn’t grow up in this lifestyle, for lack of a better word, I’d be in Maine. Selling boats and married to a lobster boat captain.”
“A lobster boat captain?” Jules hooted. “Specifically, a lobster boat.”
“Specifically.”
He snorted. “Jules? What about you?”
“I could be anything?” she asked.
“Anything.”
“I’d be a spy. One of those people everyone thinks is one thing—like an actress—but I’m secretly dropping a notebook with a hidden message near a bench by an embassy.”
“This isn’t the first time you’ve thought about this, is it?” he asked.
“It’s my secret dream job that you know nothing about.”
Abigail’s phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen and made a face. “Do you want to talk to Tabitha?”
“No. Not when I’m daydreaming about my next act. She probably saw the post.”
“Yup. She probably did and has a dozen opinions.”
“Opinions aren’t inherently bad,” Jules said.
But she had to admit that when they came from Tabitha, her cousin didn’t operate from an altruistic starting point.
“They are when they come out of her mouth. You’re too nice to her,” Abigail replied.
“She’s family.”
“Only because of a technicality and her epic levels of clawing her way into Mom’s attention.”
“She’s not that bad.”
Rhys tended to agree with Abigail but wasn’t going to get into the middle of the sisters’ back-and-forth about Tabitha.
In his nonexpert opinion, Tabitha couldn’t act.
Her talent lent itself to whining and finagling.
She’d squirmed her way into a recurring role on a soap opera that wouldn’t fall apart if her character were killed off.
And truthfully, he hated that he even knew that much about Tabitha Shade.
Abigail declined her call one more time before Jules’s phone lit up. “That’s her, isn’t it?”
Jules nodded and answered. “Hey, Tabs.”
Abigail leaned toward Rhys, stage whispering, “She’s too nice for her own good.”
Jules shushed Abigail while uh-huh-ing Tabitha. “It does look like him, doesn’t it?” She winked at Rhys.
Fucking winked. His throat bobbed, and he rolled his eyes to counteract the strange tightening in his chest.
“Yes, that’s what I wrote,” Jules said. “Yes, me. Not Sloane.” She tipped her head back, making a face. “If you’re going to see Mom, that’s fine. You can tell her. I posted it online; it’s not a secret. All right, I have to run.” She ended the call. “Good gossip travels at the speed of light.”
“She’s with Mom?” Abigail asked.
Jules nodded. “Headed over there tonight.”
“She’s probably getting there as fast as she can to be able to tell Mom you’re dating Rhys.”
“That’s not what my post said.”
“But that’s what the world will think by tomorrow morning.”
Their waiter returned to ask if they needed anything else, but they declined and departed the restaurant.
Rhys was exhausted, though the night was still young. Jules wanted to wander through the resort until they had to report for stargazing duty.
Abigail looked ready for bed. “I’m heading back to the bungalow.”
“You look pale,” Jules said.
“Gee, sis. Thanks. I’m fine. Just… hot.” She pressed a hand to her forehead. “I’ll probably be asleep when you get back.”
Rhys and Jules walked Abigail to her room.
“Want me to come in?”
Abigail waved her away. “No. My head hurts. I’m going to bed.”
“You’re sure—”
“Stop. Go…” Abigail waved them away again. “Do whatever Sloane tells you to.”
Jules faltered, as though she’d forgotten about their plans. Her cheeks pinked, and with a twirl of her long dress, she spun around. “I’ll be back in a bit.”
He shoved his hands into his pockets as he followed her. Why the hell had he agreed to Sloane’s project?
She twisted her hands into the side of her skirt.
He was making this uncomfortable. He didn’t know how he was doing that, but Jules Lowry could act.
This was a gig. A job. A stupid assignment.
She didn’t fidget on set. He hadn’t often seen her during production, but he’d seen it enough to know the woman didn’t blush and fiddle as she did now.
“Look, Jules. We can change all this. Don’t worry about it, and I’ll deal with Sloane.”
“No.” She didn’t meet his gaze. “We’ve already soft launched.”
“You can soft launch a dozen men after what happened to you. No one will fault you.”
“Have you ever looked at the gossip sites—”
“No.”
“You don’t even know what I was going to ask.”
“I don’t have to. I don’t look at any of those things.”
She side-eyed him. “Never?”
“Never. Why would I?”
“They’ve mentioned you sometimes. Don’t you want to know?”
Heat rose up the back of his neck.
“There have been posts guessing about us for years,” she explained. “You’re not even the tiniest bit curious?”
Now he was. He’d never thought about it before.
There was always speculation about anything related to her.
Him? Nope. Scarlett had once told him that her fanbase had learned his name.
But that was that. She didn’t say it was a security issue, and he didn’t put any energy into it.
He sure as hell didn’t search for why they wanted to know who he was.
Jules pulled out her phone, tapped on it for a moment, and handed it to him.
“What is this?”
“Every hit for #Rhules.”
“What is Rhules?”
“Rhys and Jules. Rhules.”
He blinked slowly, staring at the screen. Scarlett had not warned him about Rhules. “This is the stupidest—there are pictures of us.” His brow furrowed as he scrolled. “A lot of pictures. None of these are actually compromising situations.” He glanced up. “They make us look…”
“Like we’re together.” She nodded.
“This picture is from years ago. Someone posted it last week.” He turned the screen toward her. “That’s Italy. Three years ago.”
“You look great,” she said.
He was standing on the back of a twenty-eight-foot luxury speedboat that Abigail had insisted they take out on Lake Como.
They’d raced along the water and found a cove to slip into, allowing the ladies to cool off in the water.
Wearing dark shades and with his arms crossed, he eyed the paparazzi speedboats that had followed them.
Except in the angle of this picture, Rhys looked like he was glaring at the photographers. “I look like I want to murder people.”
“I always thought it looked like you were watching over me.”
He had been, but he should have kept a neutral expression. “I was, but I look like murder is on the table if they get too close.”
“They didn’t. Your glare kept them away.” Jules laughed. “What about this one? Remember how you saved me?”
He didn’t know why she’d asked. He literally remembered everything.
Rhys thumbed the next picture into view.
It was him holding out the sides of his dark suit jacket, looking away, as she and Sloane fixed a near-wardrobe malfunction.
“That’s not Rhules. That’s me ensuring you didn’t have an FCC violation for a boob popping out on a live broadcast.”
“It’s you being a gentleman, Rhys. Close your eyes. Let’s play the Rhules lotto. I’ll swipe, and we’ll see what memory we land on.”
“I’m not closing my eyes.”
“You’re certainly not being fun.” She scrolled through her screen and counted to three. Her thumb stopped the freefall of Rhules posts. “What’s this one?”
The cast of the sci-fi thriller she’d starred in beamed for the rows of photographers shouting their names. Except Jules faced him. He stared at her. A million things were happening in that picture, but neither of them seemed to notice anything but each other.
He vividly remembered that night and that dress, the way it clung to her sides and how the slit showed off her leg. But more than that, he remembered her asking if she should go on a date with Mason Marlow. They were friends, and he’d asked her out.
Rhys had said sure, if Mason made her laugh and helped her forget that they were living under a microscope, then she should go for it.
Jules had said no; that was his job. Rhys had almost corrected her, telling her his only job was to keep her safe.
But her look grabbed him by the throat, and he didn’t say a word to contradict.
Everyone shouted her name. Rhys couldn’t tear his gaze from her. She didn’t look away either. Three seconds ticked by until she turned toward the cameras—an eternity on the red carpet.
“I don’t remember that one,” she said, quickly scrolling.
She was lying, and that night grabbed him by the throat all over again.
“Anyway,” she managed. “They’re just silly pictures.”
“Yeah.”
“Like the ridiculous ones Sloane has roped us into down here.”
“Yeah,” he said again.
They were both lying, and it changed the air pressure on this warm Caribbean night.
What if he’d told her Mason Marlow was a tool? Rhys hadn’t known that about the guy at the time. What if she’d never asked his opinion? Then they wouldn’t have this picture, where it looked like they were trying to read each other’s souls.