Rhys pulls the villa door open, cutting off whatever he was about to do, and freezes completely the second his eyes land on you and your suitcase.
Four years. Apparently not nearly long enough.
"No."
It's flat, quick, and entirely uncompromising.
Before you can fire back, his phone buzzes in his hand. He glances down at the screen. A text from his sister:
"Resort screwed up their booking. They're staying with you. TWO separate bedrooms. Behave."
He reads it twice, a muscle ticking in his jaw, before his gaze cuts back to yours — dark, exasperated, and intensely sharp.
A glint of silver flashes against his tongue as he lets out a dry, humorless breath.
"Tell me you at least tried threatening the front desk before bringing your mess to my doorstep."