Page 44 of Rhys: and the girl who was always his

The kind of night that feels like maybe, just maybe, anything could happen.

But I’m not focused on the crowd or the noise or even the warm buzz of tequila in my blood.

I’m focused on him.

Rhys.

He’s beside me in the booth, his arm stretched lazily across the back of the seat, fingers barely brushing my shoulder. His thigh presses against mine, solid and steady, like a quiet reminder that he’s there—close enough to lean into if I dared.

He’s never sat this close before. Or maybe he always has, and I just didn’tletmyself notice.

But now?

Now, I can’tnotnotice.

I’m on edge; even the slightest movements from him, like his twitching fingers or his furtive glances, set my nerves ablaze.

There’s something electric between us tonight, something charged and unsaid and brimming just beneath the surface.

He shifts slightly, his fingertips brushing my shoulder, and I swear I forget how to breathe.

He doesn’t pull away.

Doesn’t apologise.

Just leaves them there like he’s testing the water. Like he’s waiting to see if I’ll sink or swim.

And I’m not sure which I want more.

Across the table, voices blur in and out of focus. I should be listening, laughing, contributing something halfway intelligent to the conversation. But my brain is busy cataloguing every damn thing Rhys does.

The soft rasp of his chuckle. The casual brush of his knee against mine. The heat of his palm resting just behind my neck like itbelongsthere.

It’s infuriating.

And addicting.

“You’re wrong,” Chase says, pulling me out of my Rhys-induced haze with a dramatic scoff. “Completely freaking wrong.”

Rhys, entirely unbothered, shrugs like he already knows how this is going to play out. “I’m right. You just hate when I prove it.”

Chase turns to me for backup, exasperated. “Ally, please. Talk some sense into your?—”

He pauses. Squints. And smirks.

“Oh. Wait. What evenishe now? We can’t say ‘best friend’ anymore, can we?”

And just like that, the entire table lights up like a goddamn Christmas tree.

Ella’s eyebrows shoot up. Yasmin leans in like she’s about to conduct a formal investigation. Ashley just sips her drink like the smug little gremlin she is.

I glance at Rhys, silently begging for help.

He just leans back, wearing that cocky, smug,I’m-about-to-make-this-worse-on-purposegrin that makes me want to kiss him and kill him at the same time.

“Don’t,” I whisper.

“What?” he murmurs back, innocent as sin. “I’m just sitting here.”

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