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.”
Chapter Eighteen
Brilliant, bright light poured through the windows. Jules stretched as she woke. A little thought at the back of her head asked why she hadn’t closed the drapes the night before. She rolled over, falling against warm, hard muscle—then remembered where she was and who she was with and forgot how to breathe.
She froze against him, unable to remove her cheek from his chest and unwilling to detach her arm from over the hard ridges of his stomach. If she had any self-respect, any self-control, she would have thrown herself out of bed with a chipper “Good morning” and a promise to start the coffee, but her body had Velcroed itself to Rhys, and logic wasn’t doing a damn thing to help her run away.
“Morning.” The sleep-soaked timbre of his voice rolled over her with an intoxicating rawness that made her body swoon.
Jules basked in the moment and the way he sounded. His strong, corded muscles held on to her. She’d fallen asleep andcurled into him—on and around him. Her leg had snaked over his powerful thigh. Sometime during the night, she’d burrowed against him. She bet he didn’t sleep in T-shirts and sweatpants, and she wished he hadn’t last night.
Reasoning and logic finally made an appearance and yelled at her to pull away. But she didn’t move a single muscle.
At the very least, she needed to say good morning. But that would confirm she was awake. He might want to talk about yesterday. Ignoring it made more sense to her, especially when she wanted to see him in the daylight to get a better look at the way those gray sweatpants fit him.
He rolled away before she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed that mouth that had appeared in her dreams.
Guess he didn’t want to talk.
Rhys grabbed a handful of clothes and padded toward the bathroom. “I’ll get dressed and give you the place to get ready.”
He disappeared behind the bathroom door, and she hadn’t even said good morning. What was wrong with her?
She sat alone in a big bed full of regret. She and Rhys didn’t flirt. They were friendly, sure, but not the kind of friendly where they whispered in the dark and woke up wrapped together in the sheets.
Without a camera in sight, she couldn’t blame it on Sloane’s itinerary and needed to talk to Abigail.
God, Abigail.If there were a trophy to be awarded for the worst sister, Jules would win it. She’d fallen into bed with her too-hot-to-handle bodyguard and completely forgotten her sister was sick enough to need a doctor last night.
Jules tugged on her clothes and quickly rushed to check on her. She keyed in the code and slipped inside. The silence was potentially a good sign. No puking and no throwing things.
Carefully, she slunk across the living room and pushed open the slightly ajar bedroom door. Relief flooded her. Abigail sleptin the center of the bed like a starfish. Her hair was mussed, and her sheets were tousled. It couldn’t have been a restful night but perhaps restorative.
Jules left Abigail to sleep and eyed the kitchen. There wasn’t much left to clean up. Abigail hadn’t touched the crackers. Later, when Abigail was up and about, Jules would clean and try to fuss over her sister. Abigail wouldn’t let her, but it would be the thought that counted.
She washed her hands, and a knock sounded on the front door.
“Shush.” She launched toward the door, grimacing and praying that they hadn’t woken up Abigail. She threw the door open as the knock started again. “Please,” she whispered. “My sister’s sleeping.”
The man took a step back. Jules shooed him down the stairs.
He wasn’t dressed like resort staff and looked like a tourist in his forties dressed in Dad-core—knee-length fishing shorts with too many pockets, polo shirt tucked in, an expensive watch, and a fanny pack. He had no cameras, so he wasn’t a photographer.
“Can I help you?” she asked, irritation edging her tone.
