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“They didn’t finish your car?” he asked.
Phillipa shook her head and sighed. “Nope,” she said as she popped her P. “They’ve promised it will be done tomorrow by lunch. Had I known, I would’ve taken them up on the rental, but it’s too late now to ask.”
“Of course,” he said as he locked his computer screen and patted his dog, Fenway, on her head. He likened his staff to family. Rhys never forgot a birthday, or an important event, and three times a year had employee appreciation parties. He was a good boss, and people liked working for him.
Rhys and Fenway followed Phillipa out of the office and down the staircase where he let one of the young women at the counter know he was leaving for the day and to call if they needed anything. On his way out, he greeted customers, told a woman that the bracelet she put on her wrist was gorgeous, and complimented the knit hat a man modeled for his wife.
Only as he walked out the door did he hear someone say, “That’s Rhys.” He was Instagram famous, but it took people a long moment to realize who he was, and by then, he was already gone or onto something else.
“I think we should set up meet and greets,” Phillipa said as they walked to his Range Rover. It was black, with tinted windows, black leather seats, and fully loaded with all the mod cons. He held the door open for Phillipa and laughed as he closed it. Once he was inside, he rejected her suggestion.
“No one cares that much.”
“Clearly not the case,” she said. “Maybe a kissing booth at the next festival.”
He laughed again and shook his head. “Can you imagine the headlines in the Coddington Daily? ‘Rhys Wainwright stoops to new levels to find true love.’”
While the headline would be funny, it would also be true. Rhys was the most eligible bachelor in New England—six states—and he didn’t even have a date for Valentine’s Day. Women, and some men, wanted to date him because of who he was and the dollar amount in his bank account. No one ever cared about his favorite movie or whether he wanted to take long walks on the beach. They wanted the socialite parties, the ability to tag him on their social media, or for the chance to appear on his Instagram. The latter would push their influencer status to a whole new level.
“You’re right,” Phillipa acknowledged. “I wish there was a way to find you someone who loved you for you.” She had tried, many times, but Rhys and relationships often hit a roadblock.
Except for one.
There was the one time he hooked up with someone at a bar who said she had no idea who he was. She ended up pregnant and now lived in a nice high-rise in Boston, thanks to his monthly child support payments for his son, Rhys Wainwright III and affectionally known as Trey, which Rhys absolutely hated. He hadn’t even wanted to name his son after him, but his one-night-stand-turned-baby-mama insisted. As much as he wanted to think Celeste did it for tradition, he often thought she did it for clout.
Rhys and Celeste were on . . . terms. He tolerated her because she was his son’s mother. But Rhys felt she neglected her duties as a mother or co-parent. When she told him she was pregnant, he thought they could make a go of it. He only had one request—that she love him for him—not because of his name, who his family was or what he did. Celeste tried, until she saw what being a Wainwright could do for her. They split before their son was born, agreed on a custody arrangement, and Rhys bought Celeste the apartment that she needed. “It’s what our son needs,” she told him. Their son spent more than 90 percent of his time with Rhys, but who kept track?
Rhys dropped Phillipa off at home and said he’d pick her up in the morning, despite her being at the other end of the island. The drive didn’t bother him as it gave him time to think or listen to a podcast. He decided to stop at the local grocery store even though he didn’t need to do any grocery shopping. He cracked the window for Fenway and told her he’d be right back.
Rhys grabbed a cart and began pushing it around the store. He picked up a box of crackers, some pub cheese, and a few other miscellaneous items. He liked this store because of the ambiance. It was quirky and unique, and he thought it funny that he had a follower.
He’d seen her as soon as he rounded the corner. They made quick eye contact before he turned down another aisle. Rhys smiled when he saw her ditch the stuff she carried in her arms. He caught her out of the corner of his eye. She was shorter than him by a foot, at least. He liked that she had curves and wasn’t rail thin, and clearly wasn’t afraid to eat some junk food even though she had abandoned it on the shelf.
Rhys went to the next aisle. If she followed him, he was going to talk to her. She stood next to him, looking at the same boxes. He reached for one, and then watched as she tried to take one from a shelf she couldn’t reach.
“Here ya go,” he said as he handed her the box. Her eyes met his, and he swore he saw her melt. If this was her way of flirting, he loved it. Rhys focused on memorizing her features, from her rosy cheekbones to her welcoming hazel eyes. He smiled and then dropped the box into her waiting hands. Except it crashed to the floor, and like any gentleman would do, he bent to pick it up. But so did she.
They knocked their heads together and said, “Ouch,” at the same time. Rhys handed her the box and rubbed his head with his free hand.
“I’m so sorry,” she said in the faintest of tones. “Would you like me to look at the wound? I’m a nurse.” As soon as she told him her profession every naughty fantasy he’d ever had about playing doctor flashed through his mind. Her rosy cheeks turned a blazing red. She was embarrassed and anything he planned to say would likely make the situation worse.
“I think I’m fine,” he said.
“You are,” she said so quietly he almost didn’t hear it. He nodded and opened his mouth to speak but the sheer horror that etched across her face told him to walk away. So, he did just that.
He pushed his cart to the next aisle and halted when his phone went off.
Celeste
Can you pick Trey up from daycare? Like now? I have some stuff going on and need you to take him this week.
Rhys groaned at the text from Celeste. Not because he didn’t want his son, but because his mother rarely spent any time with him. Rhys quickly typed a reply.
I’m on my way.
He then pulled up the number to Trey’s daycare, which was almost an hour away, and hit the call button. Once the director picked up, he told them he was on his way, but that it would take him at least sixty minutes to get there. This was par for the course, and unfortunately, they understood. More so because whoever stayed until Rhys got there would be compensated for their overtime.
Rhys abandoned his cart, rushed out the door and ran to his car. He pounded his fist against the steering wheel in anger. When he got home tonight, he would talk to his father about what to do. He wanted full custody of his son. Celeste had every excuse in the book not to spend time with Trey. Rhys could rarely make plans because he never knew when she’d ask him to take him. He wanted his son with him every day, regardless.
