Page 37 of Fa-La La-La Land
I rest my chin on my knees. I can’t take my eyes off Rhys…or stop thinking about that last kiss. Barely a peck. But the familiarity of it still has my pulse sprinting.
As much as I thought I loved Rock star Rhys James, I think there may be something between me and therealRhys James. As hard as I’m trying not to, I think I like him.
Chapter Twelve
Rhys
When I come in from the wave, I feel Stella’s gaze on me, and I’m keen to get back to her. I tuck my board under my arm and take the last few steps out of the water, but a woman’s pointing her phone at me—doing a pretty poor job pretending she isn’t filming. Beside her, a muscle-bound bloke in a tank stands guard, his arms crossed over a chest the size of a small country.
Something about the mix of scorn and smugness on his face sets me off.
“You want me to make it easy and pose for your picture, mate?” I direct my question to him, even though his girl’s the one with her mobile pointed my way. I mean it to sound light, but it comes out sharper than I want. Danny’s warned me enough times about keeping my tongue in check.
The guy’s jaw tightens until his eyes almost disappear. “How about you singFa-La La-Lafor us, mate?”
I let out a short laugh and keep walking. No point giving him what he wants—and it’s not me singing. But he keeps at it,calling after me, while the woman films every second. Great. More footage that’ll get cut down to make me look like a jerk. Derek pushes up from his beach chair, but I shake my head. He stays put, eyes locked on the couple.
Before I reach Stella, she’s already on her feet, coming toward me.
“You okay?” she asks.
“Fine,” I growl.
“Good, because we’re going back over there.” Her voice is sweet, but her smile’s pure trouble.
“The hell we are.”
“Rhys,” she says through her teeth, still smiling. “Listen carefully. You’re going to turn around, and you’re going to take a picture with those people.”
“I don’t want pictures.”
“Wrong. You don’t wanttheirpictures showing up online. You do wantyours.”
I open my mouth to argue, but one look at her face—steady, calm, soft eyes—and I exhale.
“All right,” I mutter.
She loops her arm through mine and steers us back like she’s in charge, which, apparently, she is.
“Hey!” she calls out. “Do you mind if Rhys gets a photo with you? We’d love to put it on his Instagram.”
The couple light up as if they’ve been blessed by the Pope. I paste on a smile.
“Sure!” the woman says, elbowing her bloke.
Stella moves the three of us together like we’re her puppets. None of us resists. She’s talking so much, she wouldn’t notice if we did. She ignores my scowl when she asks Brianna and Chad—Stella already got their full names, including middles—if she can tag them in my post.
“Or do you have a business you’d want us to tag?” she asks brightly, like this is something I do regularly—tag strangers’ businesses in my Insta.
“Really?” Musclehead Chad looks from Stella to me, his face shining almost as bright as hers.
I give him a short, reluctant nod.
“I’m a personal trainer,” Chad says, grinning now. “This is outstanding, man.” He claps me on the back hard enough to knock me forward a step.
“Amazing,” Stella says, tapping on her phone. “I just need you to sign a release form.” She shows him her screen and points. “Put your name up here, then sign below. It’s a tap signature kind of thing.”
When he finishes signing, Stella pulls up a new doc and spins the screen toward Brianna. “What about you? Do you have a business?”
