Page 55 of Just What She Needed

"Do you know what it means?" She had driven herself crazy trying to come up with a gift for him. Clothes? No. Gift card? Definitely not. Music downloads? Ha bloody ha. She'd finally gotten on the internet and researched his name and discovered its meaning in Welsh. A local jeweler engraved the word brwdfrydedd, the Welsh word for ardour, on a silver bar, and then affixed it to a long silver chain Rhys could wear around his neck. If he wanted to.

"Actually, I do. My grandmother was from Wales, and she's the one who suggested my name to my parents. She always told me what Rhys meant, so I recognized it straight away." His smile widened. "I can't begin to tell you what a perfect gift this is. I just wish I could be there to give you a gift in return."

"I'm looking at you and talking to you," she said. "I don't need anything else."

His lips parted on a long indrawn breath at her words. "Christ, Rhett, I really do miss you." A different voice came through the phone, a woman's voice calling his name. He looked aside and nodded. "Yeah, be there in a minute." After a sigh of resignation, he looked back at Rhett. "My sister calling me to the table. I'm going to have to ring off now."

"I understand. I need to go wake up the lazy people here so we can have breakfast." She bit her lip again. "Rhys, I'm glad you called."

"So am I. And thank you for my gift." He touched his forefinger to his lips, then placed it against the camera lens of his phone. "Happy Christmas, Rhett."

Later that night after Lilith and Brendan left to return to Fort Worth, Rhett dragged herself into her bedroom. The post-holiday letdown left her exhausted, and she was looking forward to soaking in a nice, hot bath before snuggling into bed. But when she entered her room, her attention was caught by a slim, narrow package wrapped in red sitting in the middle of the bed.

"What in the world?" She sat down on the edge of the mattress and picked up the package. It wasn't very big, about six inches in length, and half that in width. It was light, and even when she shook it, it made no sound. All of a sudden, Mel's smug expression earlier made sense. Apparently, she'd been playing Santa for Rhys.

Smiling in anticipation, Rhett carefully removed the paper to find a plain white box. Opening it, she saw a black velvet case, and her breath stopped for a moment. This was the kind of thing she'd seen in movies. God knows she'd never received a black velvet jeweler's case herself before. With the same care she'd use to handle an armed explosive, she took the case from the box and opened it.

On a bed of white lay a delicate silver necklace. At its center was the word selog, and just under that and offset a bit to the right, tanllyd. Both words were spelled out in rows of tiny sapphires, and Rhett's hand went to her mouth in shock. She could tell from the spelling that the words were Welsh, but she had no idea what they meant.

As she reached out a finger toward the necklace, she spied a folded piece of paper in the lid of the case. With shaking hands, she removed it and spread it out on the bed. Rhys's smooth, flowing handwriting covered the page.

I was curious one night, so I looked up the meaning of your name online. Your name is Welsh, and it means ardent and fiery. Those words in Welsh are selog and tanllyd. I told you the day we met your name suited you. Happy Christmas, Beautiful.

Love,

Rhys

P.S. I also discovered that the name Rhett is a form of Rhys. I'd say that was a coincidence, but I don't believe in those.

She had to dash tears from her eyes before she could type a text into her phone.

I don't believe in coincidences, either. So what is this? A case of great minds thinking alike? I love the necklace more than I can say. Merry Christmas.

The next morning, she awoke to his reply:

Whatever it is, I like it. A lot. A whole lot.

21

I don't know how much more expressive you can get than being a rock and roll singer.—Robert Plant

Joints popped and cracked all down his back as Rhys stretched his arms up and out. It felt so good that he reached even higher, enjoying the pleasurable pull of muscles in his torso. A satisfied sigh passed his lips as he released the stretch. The old man still had it, even at forty-nine. His recent birthday hadn't rendered him decrepit. If he was being honest with himself, he'd wondered if he'd be able to endure the grueling tour schedule and the exhausting workout every night on stage. But he was not only enduring it, he was thriving on it, and felt better than he had in years.

He shed the dark blue shirt he put on after the show and stood in front of the mirror on the closet door. He not only felt good, he looked good, too, and wasn't ashamed to admit it. The taut, flat muscles of his abdomen moved and rippled as he twisted a bit to the side. Nice, trim waist, too. With a grin, he flexed his biceps in accepted Muscle Man fashion and was gratified at the cut bulges that appeared in his arms and chest. He ran a hand over the smooth skin over his pecs but stopped when he realized he was looking for chest hairs. Shit, were there any? Leaning forward, he inspected things with a close eye. The minute he saw one of those fuckers he'd start having his chest waxed like Drew and Ross did. A proactive wince creased his face at the thought of someone pouring hot wax on his skin, then ripping it off, taking the hair by the roots. To his relief, no errant hairs had grown, and his skin was still smooth and taut.

A jaw-breaking yawn reminded him that he had a plane to catch the next morning, and he tossed the shirt on top of the large shoulder bag he kept with him for his solo overnight stay in Chicago to visit his daughter. It was not the visit he'd anticipated, though, and his good mood evaporated.

Instead of the enjoyable meal he anticipated having with Sienna before the show, he ended up buying lunch for his ex-wife as well. Sure, Sienna was still in high school, so it was understandable that Hayley accompanied her to the concert. But why the woman thought she had to tag along before that was anyone's guess, horning in on their lunch and hanging off his arm as Sienna dragged them into the kitschy little shops she liked.

Rhys caught himself rubbing his arm in an attempt to erase Hayley's touch, and he made a sound of impatience. He had hoped that once Sienna turned eighteen, he could jettison any contact with her mother for good.

The knock at the door startled him, and he paused with one leg out of his jeans, the other foot lifted. Who the bloody hell would be knocking on his hotel room door at...He checked the clock on the nightstand. One o'clock in the fucking morning.

The knock came again, and he tugged his jeans back on. He strode to the door as he pulled up the zipper, his ire rising. If some fan found out where he was in spite of the fake name under which he checked-in, the hotel staff was going to get a good, old-fashioned Rhys James reaming.

He put his eye to the peephole and was astonished to see Hayley on the other side of the door. As she raised her hand to knock yet again, he unlocked the door and opened it.

"What is it? Is it Sienna?" Even as he voiced the question, he rejected it. If something had happened to one of the kids Hayley would have used the phone to tell him.