“I’ll tell them I’m home,” Abigail volunteered. “I’ll say I was called back to work, and you’re traveling with Rhys.”
Jules raised her eyebrows. “What kind of boat sales emergency would pull you home from vacation?”
Abigail snorted. “Um, hello. Have you met me? They know I’d rather be with my spreadsheets than on the beach.”
Fighting this would only call attention to what she didn’t need him to figure out. Breathing slower, she painted on the best calm, cool, and collected expression she could manage. “I have been meaning to find a good book and just hide away somewhere to read.”
Rhys grinned triumphantly. “I know a fantastic librarian. It’s like she can read your mind and—” He snapped his fingers. “Find the perfect book.”
Oh, good, sweet baby sky daddy, don’t let anyone read my mind.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The private jet climbed into the night sky. Jules wasn’t a nervous flyer, but her nerves had been dancing the can-can since the moment her luggage had been loaded and Abigail waved goodbye next to Wes on the private tarmac.
The jet leveled at their cruising altitude. The cabin lights dimmed, and the captain’s voice flowed through the speakers like a smooth whiskey, promising clear night skies and an easy flight to Virginia.
A stewardess approached. “Is there anything I can get you?” Her gaze lingered on the way Jules rubbed her arms. “A blanket? Hot tea?”
Jules wasn’t cold. Still, shivers prickled on her arms. “Not right now. Thanks.”
“Anything for you, sir?” she asked Rhys.
He shook his head. “No. I’m good.”
After showing them how to call for assistance, she disappeared, and the unexplainable, unnerving tension crankedup another notch, as though someone had turned a dial and shrunk the already tight confines of the jet.
How many flights had she and Rhys taken together? Countless.
How many times had they been alone? Also countless.
They had beenveryalone and in bed at the start of the day, and now breathing in his vicinity made her lungs crackle and thinned the oxygen. Did their arrangement end now that they’d left the island? All she had to do was ask. Too bad that wasn’t happening.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“I’m trying to sleep.” She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she’d taken off her makeup and worn clothing meant for comfort, not shown up to dinner to metaphorically stick up her middle fingers via the paparazzi to her stalker.
Rhys snorted. “Right. Asleep. Got it, sweetheart.”
Her cheeks flamed as though he knew she wished he would join her in the lavatory for the Mile High Club. That tiny bathroom wouldn’t fit both of them together anyway. He probably had to turn sideways to walk in.
Stop. Just stop.There was no thinking of him and her and the Mile High Club.
“Do you like acting?” he asked.
Could their thoughts be further apart? What kind of woman would cause Rhys to try for a tryst in the sky? What kind of person did he usually date? Jules had never asked about his personal life. She didn’t know his type or what caught his eye. And he knew everything about her.
She focused on his chaste question. “It’s what I do. I’m good at it.”
“That’s not an answer.”
She loved acting. Didn’t she?
Though if that was all it was, she could act in local theater or even try her hand on Broadway. She could go the route Tabitha had and land a perpetual role in soaps. Always a new script and constant, steady work, even if her cousin would cut off her arm and eat it with a fork and knife to trade places.
“I dreamed of starring in films since the first time my parents allowed me to be an extra.” She’d been in the background, child number seven on the playground, and had sat in a sandbox for hours. “That was it for me. I liked playing pretend. Being someone else. The acting bug sank its teeth in deep, and I was hooked.”
Was she still? Jules wasn’t sure. Somewhere along the way, acting had turned into a rat race, which had turned into monotony—then her success had created a small economy. She employed her friends. Aaliyah did hair and makeup. Yasmin was her stylist and could handle anything on the red carpet. Olivia was—or rather, had been—a part-time assistant. Not to mention the lawyers, staff, and subagents focused on subsidiary rights and on selling her image and likeness. There were multiple streams of income, revenue options, and royalties.
