Chapter Seventeen
Jules faced away from Rhys and squeezed her eyes shut. Regret made her temples throb. She tugged the sheets up to her chin and tried to disappear in a mountain of high-thread-count cotton.
“You didn’t screw anything up.” His rough whisper felt like a heavy weight pressed against her chest. “I did. But we gotta let it go. Just forget it.”
Forget what he said? Impossible. His words burned into her memory, as if she had a photographic memory like him. “I can’t.”
He shifted. “Why not?”
“I said too much. No one has ever kissed me like that before.”
His short, hard exhalation punctured the quiet.
There she went, saying too much again. Her heart slammed against her chest. Every part of her wanted to turn toward him, to curl under his arm like they’d lain on the beach.
He had been so warm and hard and delicious to lie against. He’d smelled so good.
He’d felt so good with her hand on his stomach, his arm around her shoulders.
The waves had crashed. The night had twinkled.
And now it was just them again, but this time, they were alone with the sound of rustling sheets and his judgment.
“Have you ever played a game called two truths and a lie?” he asked.
She didn’t blame him. “Sure.”
“Want to play now?”
She rolled onto her back and rested her cheek on the pillow, facing him. “Who goes first?”
He turned onto his side. His midnight eyes captured her complete attention. She could think of nothing else but what he might say and what she wished he might do—and tried to ignore the strangeness of knowing this man for so long, of thinking of him one way and now seeing him in another.
Had that always been the case? Had she ever wondered? Ever glanced again? Jules bit her lip and wouldn’t admit anything, even to herself.
“Your choice,” he offered, his eyes taking her in as though there were more things to say than whatever might come from a silly game.
Or not. She couldn’t read him.
This was only a game. One to change the subject and release the tension. She could do this, but she stopped looking at him in the dark.
“You go first,” he decided for her.
Jules drifted her attention around the room.
She didn’t know what truths and lies to tell, and nothing came to mind except for secrets that shouldn’t be shared, like the way she’d held her breath, hoping he’d crawl onto her bed, or how the dip of the mattress under his weight had made her stomach bottom out, and the way she couldn’t help but drink in the way he smelled, shower fresh yet so inherently Rhys Callaghan that she hadn’t realized until that moment he had a distinct scent, like sex and man and safety, that made her mind glitch.
“My two truths and a lie…” She struggled to come up with the most blasé tidbits she might give to anyone. “A museum asked to showcase my Louboutin collection. I do my own stunts. I hate driving at night.”
He didn’t say anything. Seconds ticked by, and the walls seemed to grow closer. Jules heard her breath, her heartbeat, her pulse strumming in her ears like a fire alarm.
Finally, she shifted and faced him. “Well?”
“No,” he said quietly. The corners of his eyes narrowed in a way that shivered down her back.
She tugged her lip into her mouth, her nerves growing under his scrutiny. “That’s not a guess.”
He shook his head. “That’s not how this game will go. Try again.”
He didn’t want a subject change. Her pulse fluttered. “I—I don’t know. That’s what I came up with.”
“Truth, truth, lie. Try again.”
“How did you know that?”
“Try again, Jules.”
“Bossy.”
“Not the first time I’ve heard that in bed.”
“ Rhys .” She smacked his chest.
He caught her hand and yanked her closer.
Her heart skipped a beat. The second she said stop, he would.
He’d release her, and they’d never speak of it again.
But she didn’t move a muscle. Not even her involuntary ones worked.
Every time she needed to breathe, her brain had to consciously remind her lungs to inhale.
“Try again.”
“What if I can’t?” She tugged her hand back without trying and could barely breathe. He had to realize that. “Your turn.”
“Fine.”
Thank God. She couldn’t handle the spotlight for another second—and wasn’t that the truth. She didn’t actually like being the center of attention. She liked acting. She liked being the best that she could be. Everything that came with it? Not at all.
“My two truths and a lie.” His thumb skimmed over her skin before he released his hold. “I like watching out for you. I won’t screw up this job. No one’s ever kissed me like that either.”
Her cheeks flamed. Was there a lie on his list?
The first one was the truth. She believed that with every part of her. They’d been together too long and had had too many opportunities to go their separate ways, only to come back time and time again.
The second one? Rhys never screwed up. Never. That one was true also.
Which meant the third one had to be the lie.
Her heart fell. Rhys was a great guy with fantastic hair and eyes that could hypnotize.
Even in Hollywood, where natural and enhanced beauty continually shocked her, he stopped people in their tracks.
She had no doubt he could ask any straight woman on a date and get a yes.
He had his pick. Did she really think she could kiss him like no one else?
Not really. She couldn’t make anyone float the way he’d made her fly. But he wasn’t an asshole, and he wouldn’t make that one the lie. “I’m going to sleep.”
“Jules—”
“I’m sleeping,” she said, shielding herself from the game, the hurt. “At least trying.”
But did she fall asleep? Absolutely not. She’d never been more awake in her life. She waited for him to snore, for the even cadence of his breathing. Maybe that and knowing he wouldn’t try to talk to her again would lull her to sleep.
Minutes ticked by, the snore-less night mocking her. He hadn’t fallen asleep. He was waiting her out. Of that, she was positive. Rhys was more stubborn than her. She’d have to work on that, starting tonight.
Except she couldn’t. Moving a millimeter at a time, Jules turned her head and took in his profile.
His eyes, framed by his long, dark lashes, remained closed.
Strands of his dark-brown hair fell loose and unmanaged around his chiseled face.
The hard cut of his jawline and the day’s worth of scruff on his cheeks gave him a dangerous appearance, like her bodyguard had an edge that never left him, even in sleep.
Wordlessly, without opening his eyes, Rhys shifted and stretched his thick, muscled arm above her head. He rested it on her pillow, waiting for her to match his move. She rose and let him position so that his arm became her pillow, and she could lie on him again as they had at the beach.
“I’m going to screw up this job, Jules.” His whisper was barely audible and scratchy, like he needed to clear his throat. He sounded worried, like he shouldn’t say it. “If I haven’t already.”
Jules didn’t tell him he was wrong. She wasn’t sure she could.
Her lungs didn’t feel like they could take in enough air.
Had no one ever kissed him as she had? She couldn’t believe it.
She didn’t. He’d lied to her before—but that had been so long ago when he testified against Jordan Everett and the world learned how naive and pathetic she’d been.
Rhys had promised never to lie to her again.
Was he keeping that promise? Her stomach twisted.
Rhys leaned onto his side so they lay face-to-face. They were desperately, terrifyingly close.
She wanted him to cover her, cage her, his weight pinning her down.
His midnight eyes searched hers, and she prayed he would kiss her again when paparazzi couldn’t see, and she could forget the world, which wanted to watch her life unfold.
Rhys brushed a stray hair off her face. The tips of his fingers ran from her earlobe to her jawline. “Look at what I’m doing.” He wet his bottom lip. “Screwing up again.”
She should say something. She should tell him this wasn’t a mistake. Better yet, she should kiss him again. That would make everything better.
But she didn’t move, and the corners of his eyes tightened, reading into the way she froze across from him.
“Night, Jules.” He dropped a chaste kiss on her forehead and pulled away.
Everything in her cried out as she melted. “Good night, Rhys.”