Rhys insists we get to Evie’s school in his car, although it is barely a ten-minute walk from the diner.
The moment we get in, he orders, “Victor, drive!” without even allowing me or himself to settle. The engine roars to life, and we lurch forward, nearly throwing me against the seat. I glance at Rhys, his jaw set in a hard line, his knuckles white as he grips the door handle.
There's an urgency in his eyes that I haven't ever seen before, a flicker of something unspoken, driving him more than the short distance we need to cover.
Even though my mind keeps getting drawn back to the camera and the pictures that are going to be associated with who knows what juicy story, Rhys’ nervousness about meeting his daughter is a welcome distraction.
I think of it from his perspective, doing my
