Page 33 of Fa-La La-La Land
The flower is delicate but detailed, with soft, sweeping lines etched in black and gray. Beneath it, in cursive script, the nameCamellia.On the opposite side, almost like a counterweight, is a minimalist compass rose. A clean, sharp font spells outJack.
I trace the flower with my eyes, not my fingers. “It’s beautiful,” I say quietly. “What’s the flower?”
“A camellia,” he says with a touch of sarcasm.
“I guess that should have been obvious,” I answer with a laugh. “But why the name Camellia if she goes by Millie?”
The corners of Rhys’s mouth soften. “She’s called that, but she planted camellias around our house in Brisbane, then didthe same when she moved here.” He nods to the flower bed near the pool house, where pink flowers with the same delicate petals cover the green-leafed bushes. “Sometimes I wonder if she became Millie the same way I became Rhys James. Someone else decided for us, and the name stuck too tight to shake off.”
I take a deep breath. “Is that what I smell when I walk outside? Camellias?”
Rhys bobs his head up and down. “Nice, yeah?”
I nod and move closer, unable to resist touching the flower before drawing my finger to the compass entwined in the camellia’s leaves. “Why this for your dad?” I ask.
Rhys’s gaze moves from my fingers to my eyes with a searching look before he says, “He’s solid as they come. Never has said much, even before his stroke, but he’s always there. Like true north.”
I cup his biceps and trail my thumb around the compass. “I know I just met them, but it seems like you got them both right.”
He lifts his opposite shoulder, a little self-conscious. “Didn’t want anything flashy. Just something that’d point me home if I ever forgot the way.”
“I’d like something like that to honor my parents,” I say, still studying the camellia’s intricate petals juxtaposed with the sharp lines of the compass.
My gaze moves to a spot along his ribs where a thin, sweeping line of ink follows the curve of muscle and skin. My fingers follow. At first, I think it’s a wave. But when I look closer, I see it’s not just a wave. It’s a bluff drawn with soft, deliberate strokes. There’s a single pine tree etched into the curve of the hill, tucked above the break. And beneath it, in tiny, nearly hidden script, 28.1011° S, 153.4556° E.
“What’s this?” I graze my fingers over the tattoo, and Rhys sucks in his breath.
“That’s Burleigh Point—where I learned to surf. Where I used to watch the sun come up before anyone knew my name. Got it inked the day before my plane touched down in LA so I wouldn’t forget where I started.”
I glance up at him, surprised by his sentimentality. I’ve never seen that on stage or heard it in his songs. It’s a piece of himself he keeps hidden, like this tattoo. I wonder if that’s by his choice…or by Danny’s.
“You really are full of surprises, Rhys James.” Impulsively, I tip my chin, wondering if it’s too late to ask for help crossing at least one kiss off my list. Knowing I’m swimming in dangerous waters but feeling completely safe.
He grins, then drops his gaze, almost shy. “Don’t tell the tabloids. Gotta make them think I’m all glitter and green sequin vests.”
“I know you’re more than that, Rhys.” My words are as much a revelation to me as they seem to be to Rhys, judging by the surprise on his face. “Maybe everyone else should know, too.”
I don’t return his chuckle, even though it might make him more comfortable. The more I get to know Rhys, the more I wonder if comfortable isn’t what he’s actually looking for anymore.
With his hands still on my hips, Rhys pulls me closer. “You think you know me pretty well. What else have you figured out?”
A warm breeze blows through the palm trees that line the backyard, rustling their fronds while carrying the light, woodsy smell of camellias. The wind runs invisible fingers across my shoulders, sending a shiver down my spine, across my waist to meet the very real fingers Rhys has cupped around myhips.
“I still have a lot to learn.” My gaze is drawn to his blue eyes, shimmering ocean-like in the bright sun. “But I’ll tell you what I’d really like to figure out.”
“What’s that?”
“Why you’re so different on stage than off.”
Rhys blinks, his eyes turning dark before he drops his hands and puts distance between us. “I’m paid to be that person.”
I should let it go. I’m getting paid to make sure Rhys isRhys Jamesin front of his fans, not ask him uncomfortable questions like I’m his therapist. I’m not even sure if he has one of those. If I were smart, I’d suggest he hire one instead of trying to pull things out of him myself.
But me being me, I keep pushing him like he’s stretched out on a couch in a psychologist’s office rather than standing in a pool with his arms crossed over his chest.
“I’ve seen that person while we’ve been in the pool,” I say. “I saw it last night when we decorated my tree. You’re fun and relaxed. Silly, even. Nobody’s paying you to be here.”
“You prefer that Rhys? The silly one?” he asks in a tight voice.
