Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 25896 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 129(@200wpm)___ 104(@250wpm)___ 86(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 25896 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 129(@200wpm)___ 104(@250wpm)___ 86(@300wpm)
Rhys hung up, then turned back to the window and watched as person after person exited the bus. They shivered and quickly zipped their coats up and dug through their bags for their stocking caps. He glanced across the street at the bank. They had a small reader board that showed the time, and then switched to the temperature. It was a little over forty, but that didn’t account for the wind chill. Most people arrived unprepared, which benefited his business greatly. It was the first one they’d see, and subsequently flock to, to get out of the cold. Rhys had every confidence in the world that once they stepped foot into his store, they’d buy something, and their purchase turned into free marketing. The store had unique bags with rope handles and a prominent logo.
It was a rare moment when someone would refuse a bag, not that his staff ever offered. Each purchase would be wrapped nicely in tissue paper or a box—if jewelry—and set into the correctly sized bag. They also included a few free gifts with every purchase. It didn’t matter how much the patron spent. However, if they spent over a hundred and fifty, they’d get a free puzzle or whatever swag his marketing team had come up with that month. Regardless, the picture on the freebie was a photo he had taken. Everything was authentic as possible.
There was a knock on his office door. He told whoever it was to come in and spun in his chair to face his assistant. “Rhys, I was wondering if you could give me a ride home?” Phillipa had worked for him since he started and was his right-hand person. If he wasn’t there, she was in charge.
“They didn’t finish your car?” he asked.
Phillipa shook her head and sighed. “Nope,” she said as she popped her P. “They’ve promised it will be done tomorrow by lunch. Had I known, I would’ve taken them up on the rental, but it’s too late now to ask.”
“Of course,” he said as he locked his computer screen and patted his dog, Fenway, on her head. He likened his staff to family. Rhys never forgot a birthday, or an important event, and three times a year had employee appreciation parties. He was a good boss, and people liked working for him.
Rhys and Fenway followed Phillipa out of the office and down the staircase where he let one of the young women at the counter know he was leaving for the day and to call if they needed anything. On his way out, he greeted customers, told a woman that the bracelet she put on her wrist was gorgeous, and complimented the knit hat a man modeled for his wife.
Only as he walked out the door did he hear someone say, “That’s Rhys.” He was Instagram famous, but it took people a long moment to realize who he was, and by then, he was already gone or onto something else.
“I think we should set up meet and greets,” Phillipa said as they walked to his Range Rover. It was black, with tinted windows, black leather seats, and fully loaded with all the mod cons. He held the door open for Phillipa and laughed as he closed it. Once he was inside, he rejected her suggestion.
“No one cares that much.”
“Clearly not the case,” she said. “Maybe a kissing booth at the next festival.”
He laughed again and shook his head. “Can you imagine the headlines in the Coddington Daily? ‘Rhys Wainwright stoops to new levels to find true love.’”
While the headline would be funny, it would also be true. Rhys was the most eligible bachelor in New England—six states—and he didn’t even have a date for Valentine’s Day. Women, and some men, wanted to date him because of who he was and the dollar amount in his bank account. No one ever cared about his favorite movie or whether he wanted to take long walks on the beach. They wanted the socialite parties, the ability to tag him on their social media, or for the chance to appear on his Instagram. The latter would push their influencer status to a whole new level.
“You’re right,” Phillipa acknowledged. “I wish there was a way to find you someone who loved you for you.” She had tried, many times, but Rhys and relationships often hit a roadblock.
Except for one.
There was the one time he hooked up with someone at a bar who said she had no idea who he was. She ended up pregnant and now lived in a nice high-rise in Boston, thanks to his monthly child support payments for his son, Rhys Wainwright III and affectionally known as Trey, which Rhys absolutely hated. He hadn’t even wanted to name his son after him, but his one-night-stand-turned-baby-mama insisted. As much as he wanted to think Celeste did it for tradition, he often thought she did it for clout.