Page 24 of Fa-La La-La Land
But he lets go of my hand and waves his head toward the tree. “We should finish, yeah?”
“Not without hot chocolate.” I pop up from the sofa so fast, I’m dizzy and walk to the kitchen a little wobbly.
“It’s thirty degrees outside, Stella. The Santa Anas are blowing like mad,” Rhys says in his typical I-don’t-believe-in-fun tone, but his eyes sparkle almost as brightly as the lights on my tree.
“Thirty degrees is the perfect temp for warming up with hot cocoa.”
“Not in Celsius.”
“There’s never a wrong temp for my hot chocolate. I can turn the AC down if you want it colder in here.” I pull milk from the fridge and cocoa from my pantry.
A noise comes from behind me that could be Rhys strangling a laugh or a raccoon choking. I hope it’s the first. I don’t want to do the Heimlich on any raccoons. They’re mean buggers.
“What should I do while you’re making the unnecessary cocoa?” he growls from the opposite side of the room.
I eyeball-measure the sugar and then dump it into a saucepan. I’ve made my great-granny’s hot cocoa so often, I don’t need the recipe or any measuring cups and spoons.
“Sit there patiently, pondering why you’ll drinkhot coffee on a hot day, but somehow hot chocolate is, quote-unquote,unnecessary.”
“Not the same,” Rhys says with no conviction.
“Is that the best argument you’ve got?” When he doesn’t say anything, I assume I’ve won this round. “I’m not a great cook, but I make a mean cup of hot cocoa that will not only change your mind about its necessity but also rock your world.”
Rhys doesn’t reply, so I keep talking. It’s that or try to wrap my head around the fact I’m making hot chocolate for one of the biggest rock stars in the world. Every time I think I’m over the fantasy Rhys James, a thought like that wanders into my brain, and I question whether this is my reality.
“I’m not exaggerating,” I say loud enough to quiet the thoughts in my head. “I use real chocolate and a touch of cream to give it a flavor so rich, half a mug is enough. Especially after I top it with whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles, with a candy cane for stirring.”
“Candy cane?” Rhys asks.
“I have an emergency stash. They don’t go bad, you know, so I stock up when they’re discounted after Christmas.”
“You stock up for the entire year? How many boxes is that?”
“Ummm, a lot. But they’re always marked down to less than a dollar a box.” I open my candy cane cupboard—reserved solely for my stash—and take out a fresh box, then unwrap two canes and stick one in each cup.
With a mug in each hand, I walk back to where Rhys is sitting on the couch. I got a little excited with the whipped cream, so I carry the cocoa carefully to keep the perfectly piled froth from falling.
“This is quite a list you’ve got, Stella,” Rhys says.
A second passes before what he says registers. My eyes dart to Rhys, who’s holding my scrapbook in his lap, smirking.
Whipped cream sloshes over the rims of the mugs as I rush to Rhys. He’s less than ten feet away, but I can’t get to him fast enough. By the time I do, my hands are sticky with chocolate and cream. I set down the mugs and rip the book out of his hands.
“Who said you could read that?” I slam the book shut and clutch it to my chest.
“I didn’t know I needed permission. It was right there on your coffee table.” Rhys points to the spot where I’d set the scrapbook—then forgotten about it when he knocked on the door.
“That doesn’t matter,” I say through gritted teeth. My face is on fire. I can’t even look at him. “You don’t just go through people’s stuff without asking.”
Rhys stands, his chest puffed out like a rooster ready to defend his territory. “It’s on your coffee table, Stella. If you don’t want people to look at it, put it away. Or put a warning label on it.”
“That’s not an excuse, Rhys!”
He scowls and looks ready to fight back when suddenly his shoulders drop, and his armor with them. “I really am sorry. I didn’t mean to invade your privacy. I started looking at the photos and your memories, and…” His shoulders creep up in a slow, bashful shrug. “I couldn’t stop.” He pauses long enough to catch my eye. “You were a really cute kid.”
“Of course I was,” I sputter, losing steam even though my embarrassment sticks around like a too-hot summer day after the sun’s gone down. “I’m still cute. Or at least according to you,not ugly.”
Rhys’s face changes from playful to serious, and he shakes his head. “You’re more than not ugly. And definitely more than cute. You’re beautiful.”
