Page 22 of Star Rucked Lovers

“Security?” George blinked, confused for half a second before realization dawned. “Oh, no, I’m not…”

“Thanks,” the man interrupted, clapping George on the shoulder before walking off.

“Brilliant,” George muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Now they think I’m her bodyguard!” He glanced toward the stage, where Myst was powering through yet another round of critiques, her determination unyielding despite the strain etched into her posture.

For the first time since they’d landed in Paris, George wondered if he truly understood what being part of her world meant. Magic, Myst had called Paris. But right now, it just felt complicated.

The Seine shimmered under the golden glow of streetlamps, its rippling surface reflecting the lights of Paris in an ever-shifting dance. George walked beside Myst, their steps falling into an easy rhythm on the cobblestone path. The air was crisp but not biting, and her hand felt small yet warm in his as she leaned lightly against his arm.

“See? Magic,” she said softly, glancing up at him with a smile that tugged at the corners of her pale blue eyes. Her dark hair spilled over her shoulders, catching the light like silk as they passed beneath another lamp.

“Alright, I’ll give you this one,” George replied. “It’s got a bit more charm than Brisbane River.”

“‘A bit’?” Myst gasped in mock indignation, halting mid-step and pulling him to face her. “George Dennis, are you comparingthis,“ she gestured dramatically at the river, the skyline, the distant silhouette of Notre-Dame, “to... what? Muddy waters and mangroves back home?”

“Hey now, don’t knock the mangroves,” he countered with a grin. “Plenty of romance in dodging mozzies and watching mud crabs scuttle about.”

She laughed, a sound like wind chimes caught in a breeze, and it made something deep in his chest ache in the best way. He wanted to keep that laugh close, bottle it somehow for the moments when her world felt too far from his.

“Fine,” she relented, tugging on his arm to continue their stroll. “But Paris still wins.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, though he couldn’t disagree. Not with her here, wearing that soft black coat that flared slightly at her waist, the edges brushing against his leg every so often. Not with the way Paris seemed to bend itself around her, as if even the city knew how extraordinary she was.

They found a tiny café tucked away on a quiet side street, its entrance framed by flickering fairy lights. Inside, the space was cosy and intimate, the walls lined with shelves of dusty books and old records. A waiter greeted them with a knowing smile—one glance at Myst and he had clearly recognised her—but thankfully, he said nothing. Whether it was professionalism or Parisian indifference, George didn’t care; he was just relieved they weren’t being swarmed by cameras or fans.

“Deux cafés et... oh!” Myst paused, scanning the menu with a furrowed brow before pointing to something. “Crème brûlée. Trust me, you’ll love it.”

“Do I have a choice?” George teased, settling into the chair across from her.

“Not really.” She smirked, folding her arms on the table and leaning forward. The candlelight between them cast shadows that softened the tired lines he’d noticed earlier in the day. “I’m making it my mission to broaden your horizons.”

“Ambitious,” he said, lifting a brow. “What’s next? Teaching me how to sing?”

Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “Oh, absolutely. Can you imagine? My next album featuring George Dennis on backup vocals.”

“Yeah, no chance.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “I’d clear the room faster than a fire alarm.”

“Don’t sell yourself short! You’ve got the rugged athlete vibe, it could work. Like... rugby rock ballads.” She mimicked strumming an invisible guitar, her playfulness infectious.

“Right. And what would we call this groundbreaking genre?”

“Ruck and Roll,obviously.“ She grinned so wide he couldn’t help but laugh out loud, the sound echoing off the café‘s low ceiling. For a moment, everything else fell away, the chaos of her schedule, the weight of his own insecurities, and it was just them, two Aussies sharing a joke halfway across the world.

But then her phone buzzed, shattering the bubble. Myst’s smile faltered as she pulled it from her pocket, glancing at the screen. Even in the dim light, George could see the tension creep into her shoulders as her thumb hovered over the screen. Three missed calls. Five unread messages. Her jaw tightened.

“Ignore it,” he said quietly, reaching across the table to cover her hand with his. “This is our night.”

She hesitated, then nodded, turning the phone facedown on the table. But the shadow didn’t leave her expression, and George hated that he couldn’t do more to take it away.

“Sorry,” she murmured after a beat, her voice softer now. “I know things have been... overwhelming.”

“Hey,” he said firmly, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. “I get it. Really. You’re doing what you love, and I wouldn’t want to get in the way of that.”

Her eyes searched his, as if trying to gauge whether he meant it. He did, but part of him wondered if she could see the cracks forming beneath the surface; if she could sense just how out of place he sometimes felt in her glittering, fast-moving world.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her lips curving into a faint, grateful smile. Then, as if determined to lighten the mood, she added, “But I’m serious about the rugby rock thing. We’ll start rehearsals next week.”

“Not a chance,” he shot back, but his grin betrayed him.

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