Chapter Fifteen
They walked in uncomfortable silence along the paths threading along the beach.
The sounds of waves crashing and the steady breeze kept the quiet from becoming too unbearable.
Jules couldn’t shake the goose bumps that had arrived with the picture of her staring at Rhys like he was the only man on earth.
Embarrassed and aware of how she’d stared at him, she wished Rhys hadn’t seen that picture.
Not to mention, she didn’t have his memory, but she knew the exact conversation they’d had before the picture had been taken.
So long as he couldn’t read her mind, then he’d never know that the moment her question about Mason had slipped past her lips, she wondered what it would be like to kiss Rhys.
Not that she had a crush on her bodyguard.
Not that she could ever trust him enough to date.
But she’d wondered. What would those large, strong hands feel like?
He’d touched her before but never touched her.
And in that moment, captured in that photograph, the wondering had been inescapable. Her heart rate picked up the pace.
She still wondered. Tonight, she’d find out, even if they were just posing for a camera.
“This is where we go.” He gestured to the boardwalk that led to the private beach where Sloane had arranged for them to have their rendezvous photographed.
Pulling in a deep breath, she had to forget that picture and the way he’d looked at her too. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
His casual demeanor was answer enough. “It’s fine.”
“The way to every woman’s heart,” she teased. Did she sound like herself? Did she hit the notes of playful and friendly she was going for? Why couldn’t there be a director calling the shots, telling her if her tone and delivery had landed as hoped? Real life was hard to manage without feedback.
She kicked off her sandals and clapped them together to knock off the sand and have something to do with her hands.
He slid out of his shoes—and took her hand.
Her heart skipped. This was Rhys Callaghan, her bodyguard, the man she’d known for years and years.
Yes, he was handsome, and yes, the internet would cheer for a Rhys-Jules combo.
Something like #Rhules. But they were just them, Rhys and Jules.
Pretend partners. Just two people doing what it took to even the playing field with Mason.
God, she didn’t want Mason’s name in her head anymore.
This might be what she needed to do, but from her lips to God’s ears, she was so done with thinking about Mason Marlow.
She didn’t wish ill upon him—so long as he wasn’t screwing with her career.
Jules even hoped he and Olivia would have a happy life, a healthy baby, and everything a happy couple might want, so long as they left her alone.
Snuggling up with Rhys would help that hope come to fruition.
His thumb caressed her knuckles. The vise grip on her lungs squeezed even tighter.
The timing for this newfound reaction to him sucked.
It was also fantastic. Every nerve in her body hummed.
Excitement skittered down her spine. She knew what lay ahead, knew what they’d agreed to, what might happen.
Professionally, this was a no-brainer, just a snuggle and a kiss.
In reality, the stars shone brighter, the waves crashed louder, and the world came together like an orchestra of unorganized notes blending into a beautiful moment.
Potential hung in the night, and she couldn’t understand why. But God, the possibility felt right.
Rhys led her toward a single tiki torch on their strip of secluded beach. The dancing flame told them—and the photographer Sloane had arranged for—where to position.
Anyone who saw the torch would know. For the first time in hours, she thought about her stalker. Was he watching right now? She squeezed Rhys’s hand tighter.
He glanced down. “You okay?”
She nodded. Her stalker had stolen the magic that had her feet floating over the sand.
Time and time again, she’d been told that whoever her stalker was, he hadn’t done anything illegal.
He hadn’t crossed a line. He’d never broken inside, never showed up on private property.
This time, he’d joined her on her honeymoon.
But this island wasn’t only hers. He could be here, as much as she wished he weren’t.
She was sure her lawyers would say the same thing again.
Anyone could travel where she did.
Anyone could take pictures.
Anyone could act like a complete freak, obsessing over her.
Just so long as they never did anything technically wrong. Freedom of speech and the rules of celebrity made it clear this wasn’t an issue.
As she clung to Rhys’s hand, she tried to pretend she believed her stalker was just another fan with delusions, and she didn’t give a single fuck about his opinion on when she should retire. She leaned closer to Rhys’s side.
They reached the large blanket. An ice-packed container with a bottle of bubbly waited for them on a small table between two loungers. Two glasses and a fruit platter adorned with flowers sat atop a white cloth.
They dropped their shoes alongside the blanket. Rhys extinguished the tiki torch.
The night wrapped around them, the waves and the wind reminding her how magical the beach could be. But tonight was different, unnervingly new. Anticipation rolled over her skin. Her heartbeat quickened. “I can’t see anything.”
“Your eyes will adjust.” The low register of his voice mixed with the crashing waves. “Chairs or blanket?”
Jules had a job to do. Sloane had invested time and money into this project that benefited her career.
Focus. The money shot would be the blanket.
She would lie in his arms and stare at the pinpricks of light and the thin sliver of a moon crescent.
Nerves burned through her body. She didn’t get nervous.
She didn’t know how to handle them. “Champagne first?”
Booze wasn’t the right answer, but it was the only solution that popped into mind.
Rhys effortlessly popped the bottle and filled two flutes, as though drinking champagne on the beach were his day job. He offered her a flute. “Your stalker’s really bothering you.”
Better Rhys think that than realize she was reacting to him. “Have you ever wondered why I call him my stalker when it seems no one thinks he’s crossed the line into actual stalking?”
“I don’t have to wonder. The asshole’s a stalker. He harasses you with unwanted, obsessive attention. That’s the definition of stalking. I don’t care what the prosecutor’s office says.”
“He’s just like every other person who takes it too far. Except he does it all the time,” she mused. “Why does this guy bother me so much?”
“Because obsessing over your job and when you stop working is weird.”
“True.”
“Obsessing enough to need a passport to keep up his charade is five layers beyond absurd.” It was hard to see him, but Rhys studied her face. After a moment, he gestured to the large blanket at their feet. “Sit down. Take it easy. Forget about him. He’s not worth your time.”
She mustered her courage and sat on the blanket. Rhys joined her.
Did the photographer have them in sight right now?
They were supposed to look at the stars.
She couldn’t even figure out how to sit next to Rhys.
She set her flute on the little wooden stand sticking out of the sand by the edge of the blanket.
Jules tucked her maxi dress under her legs, sliding her hands up and down the smooth fabric.
She didn’t know where to place her hands. Didn’t know how to cross her legs.
“Cold?” he asked.
The ocean breeze lifted the loose strands of her hair. She tucked them behind her ears and forced her hands still on her legs. “No.”
Rhys hadn’t touched his champagne and set it next to hers. He slipped off his dinner jacket and draped it over her shoulders. The faint hint of cologne invited her to dip her head toward the lapel. She wanted to breathe him in— breathe in his coat .
Not Rhys. Not Rhys at all.
Jules swallowed hard. She tugged the jacket over her chest. “What will the Rhules followers think about this?”
“That I’m the luckiest guy on the planet.”
God, he made her stomach twist. Every breath labored in her lungs like there wasn’t enough oxygen in the air.
“Usually, I know where I’m going, what I’m doing when we work together.”
She gave a short laugh. “Not tonight, huh?”
“Not tonight.” He laughed quietly. “Always keeping me on my toes, aren’t you?”
Heat rose into her cheeks. She still couldn’t figure out how to sit.
Cross my legs? Stick them out and lean back on my elbows?
She needed instruction on where to sit and stand, a director to call the shots.
Anything that would make this feel less contrived—which was nuts.
Because she was the queen of making people believe whatever she wanted them to.
In love? Sure. Done. No problem.
Except she didn’t know how to do it in real life. “You don’t have to do this, Rhys.”
“I know.”
“Why are you?”
He shrugged. “Why not? You agreed to an arranged marriage with Mason Marlow. Why’d you do that?”
That secret should have stayed with her and her legal team until the grave. Of all the people to tell, she’d chosen Rhys, whom she’d trusted with her truth so many years ago, and he’d turned on her, telling the world when he testified. “It was work.”
“This is work.”
Work. That was all this was. Whatever flutters that had cropped up tonight needed to evaporate immediately. If she could snap her fingers and make everything normal again, she’d do it in a heartbeat. “Thanks.”
“Stop thanking me already. No big deal. I’ll just pretend I’m… I don’t know. Your costar or something. On a much smaller scale.” He leaned back on the blanket. “Are your eyes used to the dark yet?”