“You don’t seem brokenhearted. I don’t know if that’s the angle Sloane should be selling.”
“I don’t, do I?” She sighed. A small smile curved her lips, not like she was happy but as if she were letting go of a burden. “What do I seem?”
“A little drunk, Jules. You seem like the mai tais are winning.”
She tipped her head back and laughed. “They are.” A minute later, her laughter died. She swung her legs to the side of the chaise. “I’m going to catch Abigail before she falls asleep and make her suffer through a couples massage with me.”
Rhys jumped up, had the butler send their food order to her room, and kept pace with Jules. He allowed four strides between them—close enough that he could intercept a problem but far enough that Jules could feel like she’d stormed away from him.
“You don’t have to follow me,” she called over her shoulder. “I’m going to stay inside.”
He gave her five strides and wondered what had her upset. She’d confirmed the lack of a broken heart. But she was definitely… something.
“I doubt my stalker finagled himself into this resort,” she added with a toss of her hand.
“Probably right.” Titan monitored her threats and worked with the FBI on her issues with stalkers. Scarlett Wu, a maverick of social media and the dark web, and Dean Whitlow had had zero concerns about this location. It’d been kept quiet; the resort policy came with a solid NDA.
“And what are the chances that two hotel staffers try to take pictures of me two days in a row? One in ten thousand. Or a million.”
“Hard disagree.”
Jules climbed the stairs to her bungalow and spun around, hands on her hips. “Do you ever get tired of me?”
“No.”
“That’s a lie. You and I both know it.”
He raised his palms. “I get tired of the world you live in, but at the end of the assignment, I go home. And you’re left with all this.” Luxury villas. Masseuses who showed up at beachside bedrooms. A sister-moon with a bodyguard while a celebrity PR team swept an ugly breakup under the rug. He didn’t envy her, even if Jules had everything people dreamed of.
“I think I’m a little drunk.”
“Yup. Think you are, sweetheart.” He laughed. “Chug some water. The sugar in those mai tais is going to pack a hell of a hangover.”
Sun-kissed and wrapped in a tiny bikini, her image burned in his brain as her head tipped back, laughter flowing like music. “Always with a plan.”
“Always.” Whether he liked it or not, Rhys knew every part of her. That photographic memory of his wanted to work overtimeas she stared at him, gloriously beautiful, waiting, as if there was more to say, just inside her bungalow. He stepped back, turning away and scanning the empty trail of sidewalks that led to their bungalows. “Let me know if you make plans to leave. Otherwise, I’ll check in with the masseuse and be next door.”
“It was an arranged marriage.”
He faltered and turned toward her again. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. He was never lost for words, but he was now. He didn’t examine why that felt significant. He wouldn’t like the answer.
“Did you hear what I said?” Gone was the laughter. Gone was the tipsy mai-tai-fueled smile.
“You don’t need to tell me, Jules.”
She waited as though he would say something brilliant.
Rhys had nothing. Though he’d stake his life that a Hollywood-arranged marriage had an iron-clad NDA. “You probably shouldn’t tell me that.”
“Abs doesn’t even know,” she admitted, “and if my parents found out…” She made explosion motions with her hands. “Upset would be an understatement.”
The mystery as to why she wasn’t heartbroken had been solved. The reason was fucked. It encapsulated everything wrong with Hollywood. He hadn’t expected a stunt like that from Jules. Then again, he wasn’t surprised. So maybe he had.
“I don’t know why I’m telling you this,” she admitted, hanging on the door, swinging it back and forth nervously.
“It’s the booze talking.” He pointed behind her. “Go find Abigail. Down a bottle of water. Take a vitamin and a couple ibuprofen, and we’ll pretend you never said a word.”
“Actually, I do know why—”
