He said he was going to the beach house to think about things.
I think his phone is off.
Yeah. He said he might do that, to get some mental space.
Code for: He didn’t want to deal with me or any of the other fallout from the wedding he just torpedoed. I growl again.
“Are you texting Paul?”
I glare at Rhys. It feels great. “It’s none of your fucking business who I’m texting.” It’s like a breath of fresh air through the desert of my heart. Who knew that anger was so cleansing?
A muscle ticks in Rhys’s jaw. “I’m driving you to an unknown destination,” he points out. “Plus, I’m your wedding planner and your wedding has just…unhappened. So technically, at the moment, itismy business.”
“Do you even care about my wedding at all? Do you evenbelievein marriage?” I demand. “Given that you spend your life destroying them?”
I know I’m ragey and unhinged at the moment. I just can’t…stop.
Am I hallucinating, or does the corner of Rhys’s mouth tick up? “It’s not a question of whether Ibelievein marriage. Of course I believe marriageexists. It exists like rattlesnakes and jumping spiders exist, whether we want them to or not.”
“Oh, there’s a romantic view.”
“I definitely don’t have a romantic view of marriage.”
“Shocker.”
“And for the record, I don’t destroy marriages. I facilitate the unwinding of people’s marital mistakes.”
I raise my eyebrows. “That sounds like a convenient personal fiction.”
He casts a quick glance my way. “Did I destroy your marriage?”
“No,” I say. “Just my life.”
He gets quiet, and for a split second, I feel a tiny bit bad. Then I quit that, because he doesn’t deserve my sympathy.
“He has my quilts,” I say. “Paul. He has seventeen quilts in his car—formerlyourcar—and I need them back.”
Rhys’s big hands, on the steering wheel, clutch tight enough that his knuckles whiten. “Is that where we’re going? We’re chasing Paul—to get quilts back?”
The way he saysquiltsis like the way most people sayliver. Oreggplant. Orcottage cheese.
“They’re supposed to be hung—preferably tomorrow, but as soon as possible—and go on display startingin five daysfor the entire world of quilt enthusiasts to fawn over.” My voice cracks, and I’m pissed, because he doesn’t deserve to know how much this matters to me. Or anything else about me. He already knows far, far too much.
He’s scowling as hard as I’ve ever seen him scowl.
“Look,” I say, biting the words out sharply, “the people who will come to this show buy tens of thousands of dollars from my shop online every year. Because I have a reputation in the quilting world as being someone who cares about the craft and supports it—who cares about and supports women artists. And right now, seeing as my romantic life has gone up in flames, my reputation in my industry, my ability to make a living, and my passion for my work are all I’ve got. I need this exhibit to go flawlessly. So you can either keep driving the direction I tell you or let me out so I can find another way to get there.”
Rhys makes a soft huffing sound. He’s quiet for a moment.
Then he says, “Well. It sounds like we’re going wherever Paul is going.”
I guess you could call that my first win over Rhys Hott. I only wish it felt like something worth fighting for.
“When we get to I-5, go north.”
7
Rhys
