Red Hot Rebel - Olivia Hayle Page 0,7

hi,” she says.

“Hi, bud.”

My nephew’s happy little voice rings out, more babble than words. I make out what sounds like row row row, and when I point it out, Lily laughs.

“We’ve been singing a lot of ‘Row Your Boat,’” she explains. “Hayden is keen on getting started on Jamie’s sailing.”

“Good man,” I say. He’ll have three uncles who’ll instill the very same thing.

“Are you coming back to Paradise soon?”

I run a hand through my hair. Summer is the best season for Paradise Shores, and the pull from my hometown is never stronger than now. But I have plenty of practice resisting the siren’s call.

“I’m going away for a few weeks, actually.”

“You are?”

“Shooting a campaign for a travel company. I can send you the itinerary.”

“Please,” she begs. “I spend all my time at home or in the gallery, and always with a toddler in my grip.”

“You can live vicariously through me.”

“Thank you,” she says. “You won’t miss Dad’s seventieth party, will you?”

I close my eyes. “I’ll likely be away.”

“Rhys…” she says. There’s no censure in her voice, just kind concern.

“You know I hate those things. It’ll be all status, no substance.”

Not to mention it’s an event celebrating my dad, who I haven’t wanted to exalt in over a decade.

“Don’t come for him,” she responds. “Come for us. For the family. You know we’d love spending time with you. And hey, Jamie always wants to see his uncle.”

“Lily, stop with the guilt.”

“Fine,” she responds. “I’ll just find a different tactic.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“At least think about it, okay? You know the seaside cottage is empty. Stay for a week. Stay for a month. Stay forever.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“That’s all I ask,” she says. “I miss you.”

I close my eyes. “Yeah, Lils. I miss you too.”

But as we hang up, and as the guilt she’d tried to instill sinks its claws deeper into me, I already know I’m not going to that party. I have a campaign to shoot, a model to argue with, and adventures to embark on. And solving the drift between my father and me is not one of them.

3

Ivy

Penny looks up from the giant, oversized, pre-packed suitcase to me. “Please,” she says.

“Absolutely not. The clothes in that one are steamed and prepped and if we take anything out, there’s no way it’ll fit again.”

My little sister runs her fingers over a piece of deep red silk. A dress? A shirt? I have no idea—and I’m not bound to find out until I’m in each location, struggling to find the correct outfit labelled Singapore, day two.

“I think I can fit in here,” Penny says. “I’m actually pretty sure I can.”

Laughing, I grab one of the pairs of jeans I’m packing into my personal suitcase and lob it at her head. She disappears in a huff, stretching out on my fluffy living-room carpet. “There’s no way foreign countries would let you in. You’re too big of a threat.”

She pokes her head up, blonde curls in every direction. “Me?”

“Yes. You’d be the one to finally knock over the leaning tower of Pisa. The Sphinx would lose another of its appendages if you come near.”

Penny sits up with a huff, but she’s grinning. “I’m not that clumsy.”

“Sure you’re not. Everyone breaks as many bones as you do.”

She lobs my jeans back at me and I catch them soundly, folding them up into a tight roll. I’m trying to pack for this monster of a trip like a pro. I’ve watched YouTube videos—I’ve ordered packing cubes on Amazon—there’s no way my suitcase will turn into a writhing heap of fabric by day two.

One can hope, at least.

Penny clears her throat and continues to read from the itinerary. “Paris. Rome. Singapore. Bali. Sydney—Ivy, you’re going to Australia!”

I look up from my careful roll stacking. “I know. Can you believe it?”

“No! You have to take pictures of everything.”

“That’s sort of my job.” But I grin at her as I say it. “I’ll buy you stuff, too. Treats from every destination.”

“God, that sounds so glamorous. But you know what my favorite thing is?”

I smile. “That you get to live through me?”

“Well, yes, but what else?”

“What?”

“It says you’ll be shooting with foreign models, too. In Rome.” Her eyes grow to two round saucers. “You know what that means. Some hot, Italian model will be feeding you pasta and wine in a cute little ristorante.”

“I doubt it’ll be like that.” And then, because I can’t keep up my big sister facade anymore, I squeal with her. “But I