“Find Abigail. Drink water. Down a vitamin—”
“You’re the only person outside my family I’ve ever met who doesn’t care who I am. Did you know that?” She released the door and leaned against the jamb. “Sorry about your luck.”
“Woman, you’re going to have a hell of a hangover before dinner if you don’t listen to me.”
A uniformed butler with a silver-domed tray walked toward the bungalow. After a quick inspection, Rhys nodded to him then gestured to the fish tacos. “Eat something too.”
She shook her head like good advice wasn’t welcome in her bungalow but disappeared inside with the butler and the tacos.
He stared at the door. An arranged marriage. What had possessed her to do something so ridiculous? Rhys blew out a deep breath then hurried up the stairs to follow up on the delivery. Everything was as it should be.
“Is that who I think it is?” he asked Rhys, shuffling down the stairs.
“No.”
The other guy whistled long and low. “I’m not going to say a word.”
No, he probably wouldn’t. The resort offered a level of anonymity for people like Jules Lowry. The operational risk assessment dropped significantly when they were on the resort’s property.
Two women wearing white approached, each with a large bag draped over their shoulders. Their gear was emblazoned with the resort’s logo, and their smiles were pleasant and professional. Rhys still gave them a careful onceover, walked them in, made sure all was the way it should be for the couples massage, then headed for his place.
His bungalow was situated slightly behind Jules and Abigail’s, set up like housing for bodyguards, nannies, or whoever else traveled with the rich and famous. His chest ached like heneeded to take a deep breath, and rubbing his sternum didn’t alleviate the pressure.
She almost married Mason Marlow because…
Because why?
Why on Earth would Jules Lowry need to arrange for a husband? She could have her pick of men, and she didn’t need anyone. Not a soul. She had money. Clout. Power. She had everything. Yet apparently, she needed to marry that man. She’d pickedhimwhen she could have picked… someone else.
Rhys rubbed the back of his neck. First, it was his chest. Now, his head. He couldn’t place the discomfort. The ache. Nothing felt right. Everything was off. Like the axis of the world had tilted too far and wobbled. What the hell was going on?
Mason Marlow. That was his problem.
Then again, Jules had arranged for a goddamn marriage. How did that happen in this day and age? Why had it happened? What was Jules Lowry missing in life that she had to marry a guy for business?
Rhys guessed Mason Marlow was a solid pick. The cheating asshole had his own fans and money. He wasn’t at Jules’s level, but he certainly was in the same stratosphere.
His phone buzzed as he unlocked his bungalow and slipped inside. Air conditioning rolled over him. He still couldn’t take a deep-enough breath as he glanced at the screen and answered Scarlett’s call. “Hey—”
“Rhys Callaghan. Do you know how proud I am of you?”
He rolled his eyes. “Scar—”
“Do you know how much work you saved me?”
This time, he laughed. “You’ve trained me well.”
“I can’t believe I had to hear about this thirdhand from Sloane when you know it would have made my day if you’d told me yourself.”
“I had a lot going on yesterday, and today…” He couldn’t wrap his head around Jules’s admission. “Almost as busy.”
“Yeah. Let me find my tiny violin. Because I saw what your bungalow looks like, and I’m so far beyond jealous I could scream. I want you to get me something from the gift shop. I’m sending you the link now.”
He rubbed the back of his neck and crossed the living room. “Is that why you’re calling?”
“No. I drew the short stick and have to convince you of the impossible, so pull up your big-boy panties and say yes so I don’t have to beg.”
“Scar…”
