Nine feet to go.
“There she is! I see her.”
“Are you dating Tommy Kwan?”
“I love you, Jules.”
Five feet left.
“Sign this!”
“Over here. Look. Jules. Here.”
“Almost thirty? When’re ya settling down—”
Rhys had no time for that kind of bullshit and pushed the asshole into the crowd.
Her fingers tightened on his shirt, clinging to the fabric as she bumped against him. “Sorry.”
The crowd jostled.
Frankie shouted, “Back up!”
Rhys held out his arms, jabbing an elbow. Three feet left. “Move it. Move.”
Jules smashed against Rhys again. “Sorry.”
He wrapped one hand over the one that clung to his chest and wrapped the other behind him, holding Jules close against his back. “Almost there.”
“Back up,” Juan ordered, holding the car door open, ready to pull Jules into the Suburban.
Rhys pulled Jules from his back to his chest then handed her off to Juan.
“Got her.” Juan lifted her into the vehicle.
A man dived toward the open door like he thought he was Superman. “Jules—”
Rhys intercepted Superman like he was catching a football. Juan snapped the back door shut, Jules safely inside.
“I love her,” Superman choked out, hands splayed on the tinted window, before Rhys launched him back into the throng of people.
Juan and Frankie rounded the back of the Suburban and jumped in. Rhys checked over his shoulder one last time, committed the faces to memory, then climbed into the front passenger seat.
Their driver took off.
That wasn’t how he expected tonight’s under-the-radar dinner to go. Rhys turned in his seat and surveyed the ladies in the third row. Olivia and Aaliyah were shellshocked. Tabitha pressed her face against the window, watching the crowd instantly move on as they pulled away.
In the second row, Frankie leaned against the door. Juan was stuck in the middle.
Like Tabitha, Jules stared out the window but with a distinctly different expression—pensive, wistful, broody. “What a nice night out…”
Rhys had spent a decade memorizing her expressions. He knew every one of them. He had no idea what this was, and that fact sat with him longer than it should have.
Their wheels screeched to a halt. Two frat-boy-looking dudes stupid enough to stand in the center of New York City traffic blocked their lane. They turned around, held up their phones, and took selfies with Rhys and the driver scowling behind the windshield.
What is wrong with people?
Chapter Thirteen
