“I don’t know. What villa are you staying at?”
He doesn’t answer.
Because he doesn’t know?
Because he forgot?
Because he fell back asleep?
He’s pointing his phone’s flashlight down now. Coupled with the morning light rapidly coming in, I can almost see him clearly.
Dark hair falls across his forehead. The strong nose. Rugged jawline. Stubble thick enough to make me wonder how long it’s been since he shaved.
Or was sober.
He’s bigger than I thought he’d be. Aren’t movie stars usually short? Underwhelming in person? But even hunched over on the porch, I can tell his shoulders are broad, and hehasto be tall. Maybe not six feet, but at least as tall as I am.
Maybe he’s not really Jonas Rutherford. Maybe this is his doppelganger.
That makes way more sense.
Yep. This is Jonas Rutherford’s doppelganger, who just happens to love Razzle Dazzle films so much that he quotes them in a hungover haze.
And who was saying Jonas Rutherford’s ex-wife’s name in his drunken sleep-stupor.
And who’s afraid of reporters.
“When did I get here?” he asks hesitantly.
“I don’t know.”
“Did you…see me…last night?”
“No.”
“So you don’t know how I got here?”
“No.” I squash the urge to addsorry, which is whatEmma who lets people walk all over herwould do, butEmma breaking out of bad habitsis tryingnotto do.
“Where…is here?”
“The Morinda.”
His gaze flies to mine, and a softoh, fuck, escapes his lips.
So Jonas Rutherford—or his doppelganger—doescuss.
That actually makes me smile.
He doesn’t say another word.
He’s too busy leaping to his feet, then swaying, and then—oh.
Oh.
Well.
Those bushes probably didn’t need that kind of fertilizer, but they’re getting it anyway.
