Page 8 of Off Limits Mogul

It’s complicated between us.

Alas, beggars can’t be choosers, so now I’m stuck living with a guy I’m sure hates my guts.

Chapter 3

Rhys

No matter the time or the day, LAX is a zoo.

I’m stationed in front of the exit, awaiting Keira’s arrival. I’m sure she’ll be beat when she gets here. I’ve been keeping an eye on her arrival time all evening, so I knew she was delayed. The trip back home was rough sailing. She texted in Hong Kong, freaked out. Her flight departed late, causing her to miss her connecting flight. I cut to the chase by demanding she pass me to the airline attendant so I could buy her a new ticket. She was supposed to arrive at one o’clock this afternoon. It’s ten at night. Poor thing.

The doors open and another wave of people pours out.

I still don’t see her.

I hope she comes out soon.

She texted me when she landed on LA soil. That was an hour ago. Since she’s been out of the country for a while, I’m sure immigration must be a bitch.

“Oh, Rhys!” A loud voice pierces through the high decibels of the crowd.

My attention shifts to a tall salon-blonde wearing an inch thick of makeup, rushing towards me.

Philomena Tartersault.

She waves an animated hand over her head, while pulling a large suitcase behind her. She bumps into a few people without offering an apology in her determination.

I do a double take.

What the fuck?

The tech content creator is wearing a ribbed white tank top and from the way her nipples are greeting me, it’s clear she forgot to wear a bra. Her skin-tight jeans reveal a camel toe I don’t care to see. She’s a beautiful woman, but in my opinion, her uncanny knowledge and the way she brings down tech-talk to an understandable level are sufficient. The artifice is unnecessary.

“Philly,” I say as she approaches me. Without heels on, she’s a couple inches shorter to my six-foot-two.

“Rhys.” She grins wide.

I cringe.

My name comes out sounding like Reeeeeeeese.

She leans forwards to do that Euro air kiss thing on both cheeks.

I’m awkward at it, but I oblige.

Considering she’s from Oklahoma and she’s never set foot in Europe, it comes off as fake.

I distance myself from her.

“Did you come to pick me up?” She swats my chest. Her gaze rakes my body from head to toe. She was born with brown eyes, but thanks to contact lenses, today they’re green. The last time I saw her, they were blue.

“I’m afraid not.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Tsk.” She frowns. “Too bad.”