“All right.” He glanced over her shoulder. Olivia, Aaliyah, and Tabitha moved to Frankie’s side, eyes wide at the spectacle. “The three of you first. Get in. Get settled.” Rhys dropped his gaze to Jules. “Then we’ll move you.”
She tucked herself closer to his side. Her jaw tensed. Jules darted her green eyes at the photogs and tourists then schooled her features into a calm, nonchalant expression that masked her nerves. It was her game face. “Anyone out there concerning?”
“Nope.” Rhys had cataloged every face. Apart from the tourists, he pinpointed professional autograph seekers and a handful of photographers with whom he was on a first-name basis. Several, he recognized as photogs Jules’s publicist worked with, though he didn’t think Sloane Ellis had tipped them off tonight. That would be something Jules’s people would have to figure out. “No one special.”
“That’s good.” Jules bit her lip, momentarily letting her game face slip. “Not that Retire Guy?”
They didn’t know what he looked like. Retire Guy was a new addition to her collection of weirdos. The problem with Retire Guy was that he was a sneaky fucker. He never crossed a line. Never showed up in person. He was just on brand. On message. It was time for Jules to retire.
Rhys clamped his molars down.
“God, there are a lot of people here for a dinner that no one should know about,” she said.
Jules had to wonder who had called in the paparazzi. He sure as hell did. Her friends? It wouldn’t be the first time someone she was close to burned her.
Or it could have been the restaurant owner or maybe the waitstaff. They probably all had phone numbers for photographers to report celebrity sightings. They would be cut in when—especially since this was Jules Lowry—the tabloids and gossip magazines paid fistfuls of money for the shots.
Tabitha smiled. “Let’s go.”
Rhys nodded to Frankie. Frankie opened the restaurant’s front door for the ladies. Tabitha strode ahead like she was on a runway, leading Aaliyah and Olivia, whose chins were tucked down.
“She’s in her element, isn’t she?” Jules asked of her cousin. “Sometimes, I think maybe the wrong Lowry has all the attention.”
That would be a hard no. He didn’t agree. Tabitha Shade hung on to Jules and her parents like they were the tethers to the life she desperately wanted.
He rested a hand on her back, guiding her closer to the door that Frankie had just shut. “Ready?”
“Is my game face on?” she asked.
He cupped her chin, pretending to inspect this way and that. “It’s on.”
“Then I’m ready.”
Rhys pulled out the strobing flashlight that messed with paparazzi shots and nodded to Frankie. Frankie nodded back just like before and opened the door.
The roar of the crowd and the freezing air rolled over them like an avalanche.
Rhys barreled out, arms pushing. “Make a path.”
Jules placed her palms on his back. Frankie would pull up the rear.
Lights flashed. Cameras popped. The cold winter air snapped over them like cracks of a whip. No one could even see Jules yet. They were only getting pictures of him.
Rhys pushed onto the sidewalk. Fifteen feet. That was all they had to cover. “Move it. Back up.” He elbowed into the chaos. “Make a path. Move it.”
Frankie sandwiched Jules against Rhys. One of her hands wrapped around his stomach. Rhys scanned the crowd, eyes sweeping across, down, back up, and around. He pushed forward, cataloging people.
“Can you sign?”
“Selfie?”
“We love you, Jules!”
“Jules, over here. Over here.”
Someone stuck a mini boom mic in their way. “Any truth to—”
Rhys smacked the microphone into the crowd. “Get the fuck out of here, man.”
