Red Hot Rebel - Olivia Hayle Page 0,81

as Lily gives an excited whoop. I glance between them. “A sub-party?”

“It’s when you steal a few bottles from the open bar and find an abandoned room,” Rhys says. “Very useful in a pinch.”

“And very adolescent,” Henry says. “Ivy, it’s nice to see you again. Did you enjoy sailing?”

“Smooth,” Rhys says. “Not obvious you changed the subject at all.”

His brother gives him a level look. “Thank you.”

I bite my lip to keep from chuckling. “I did, yes. This town is beautiful. And I want to thank you for letting me stay in your cottage, Lily, and the hospitality. I know I’m an unexpected plus one.”

Rhys shakes his head, reaching for a glass from one of the circulating trays. “I invited you,” he says.

“Yes, well this is still a family event.”

Both of Rhys’s siblings look at me like I’ve misunderstood something, Henry with a raised eyebrow just like his younger brother, and Lily with a wide smile.

“Oh,” she tells me, “this isn’t just a family event. We don’t have this much family.”

“Not on this side of the sea, at least,” Rhys mutters.

“This is a conference masquerading as a cocktail party.” She raises her champagne glass. “Welcome to Paradise, Ivy. We’re happy to have you here.”

I let my glass clink against hers. “I’m happy to be here.”

“Where’s Hayden?” Rhys asks. “Not to mention Faye?”

“She’s charming the old man,” Henry says, nodding his head at the throng of people on the other side of the lawn.

Rhys smirks. “How does it feel to be replaced as the favorite by your own fiancée?”

Henry rolls his eyes, the gesture familiar. The two of them carry themselves in the same way, with their brightly shining sister in between them. “It feels great,” he says. “My shoulders were sore from the burden.”

Rhys snorts. “Not untrue.”

“Hayden’s with Parker, around somewhere. That’s my husband,” she tells me, threading her arm under mine. “Parker’s our third brother. I’m sure it’s all very confusing, and you don’t have to commit it to memory in one night.”

“You should,” Rhys tells me. “I might give you a Marchand pop quiz later.”

“Marchand Jeopardy, perhaps,” Henry suggests. “More dignified.”

“If it’s dignified we’re after, we should break out the Marchand Pursuit.”

Lily blows out a breath. “You’re both incredibly witty, but you can dazzle us with it later. Rhys needs to pay his respects.”

He takes a deep sip of his drink. “I hate genuflecting,” he mutters. But the smile he gives me is true. “Ready to meet the lions?”

“Never been readier.” The butterflies are back again, spreading their colorful wings in my stomach.

“Let’s go,” he says, still looking at me. “Henry, my man, start working on that sub-party.”

“You know I won’t.”

“Lazy,” Rhys throws over his shoulder, his hand finding my lower back again. “I expect more from you!”

There’s laughter behind us, but we’re already gone, weaving through throngs of people on the lawn. The sound of music intensifies as we pass by the small band, a group of musicians playing old-school classics.

“Crab cake?” a waiter asks me. I shake my head and smile, already pulled in the opposite direction by the force of Rhys’s momentum.

I put my hand around his forearm. “How do you talk to him?” I ask. “If you don’t, you know, talk to him?”

“Watch me work,” he murmurs back, stopping in front of a woman with neat, coiffed hair. She turns from the women she’d been speaking to, and a smile erupts across her face. “Rhys, darling.”

He bends to kiss her on the cheek. “Good to see you, Maman.”

“I’m so happy you came.” The sincerity in her voice is obvious, her hand curling around Rhys’s arm. “Henri told me you…. oh, hello.”

“Hi,” I say. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Rhys’s hand returns to my low back. “This is Ivy. We worked together on a campaign recently.”

My smile widens. The word recently feels like a bit of an understatement.

“I’m Eloise, Rhys’s mother. You’re very welcome here,” she says, but the look she tosses Rhys is heavy, with something like motherly chastisement in it. “Your dad is with Faye. They went to fetch a bottle of whiskey in the cellar.”

“He’s opening one of the vintage bottles?”

“It’s his birthday,” she says. “If not now, when?”

Rhys takes another sip of his drink. “What a shame,” he says. “Tell him I said happy birthday.”

His mother sighs. “He’d really appreciate it if you said it in person.”

“Sure he would.”

“He’s not infallible.”

“Oh, I know that.”

His mother shakes her head, manicured nails closing around a champagne flute. “I’ve given up mediating,” she says.