Page 103 of My Grape Crush
DANI
We made it—againstall odds.
The final edition of Divine Debauchery is underway, and what a spectacle. Evelyn transformed Osoyoos into ancient Rome, and no picture can do it justice. Ten-foot-tall Doric columns ring the outdoor theater, and actors clad in gladiator regalia prowl the property carrying thick shields and glittery sharp swords. The crowd is buzzing, high on life and assorted things, nibbling on the platters of Italian delicacies offered by servers in linen tunics and sandals.
The only thing missing is Nero himself.
But I have my own Roman god—debauched in his own, special way and looking mighty fine tonight.
After a solid hour of socializing, Rhys and I are soaking it all in from the stage where Calvin Harris will momentarily light it up. The lake behind us is dark and still under a dome of stars. The late summer air holds just the right amount of heat.
“You look amazing in that toga.” I adjust the crown of olive leaves tucked in his flowing locks.“And you are rocking the eyeliner. I told you it would look fierce.”
He fixes me with his pleased eyes, blazing bright with desire and sexy as hell rimmed in black kohl. Evelyn insisted we wear the same outfits from our infamous photoshoot—we’d kept them, for obvious reasons—and I felt very self-conscious strolling past a poster-sized ad capturing our most scandalous moment in the vineyard.
But I blushed harder during ice wine aperitifs last night when a tipsy Evelyn admitted they all knew what had happened.
“The polite thing was to pretend,” she’d said. “You were so out of sorts.”
Rhys had slid his eyes to mine and gave a hopeless shrug. Unbelievable. He knew they knew. I’d been the lone one out, hyperventilating in Yvette’s bathroom and praying for the earth to swallow me whole.
Not fair.
I could blame them for stretching out my agony.
But in a full circle moment, I, Dani Rose Rialto, have made peace with blame. And with the internet. Because, without it, my wine label designs would not have flown through cyberspace to spark Evelyn’s interest. She never hires me, and I don’t end up here, on a star-soaked night in Osoyoos, wrapped in the easy, masculine strength of Rhys Trenton’s arms.
“I better keep you on a short leash,” he murmurs, nuzzling my neck with soft kisses. “All these Hollywood players have been casting looks.”
The double bill of Calvin and Gia in dusty Osoyoos proved too iconic to miss, hence the star power on display. Half of young Hollywood wanders the grounds, their desperate agents promising me obscene amounts of money, along with their firstborns, in exchange for tickets.
I felt like a powerful wizard holding the cure to cancer.
“Dani! Rhys!” Unrecognizable in a hot-pink tinsel wig, Evelyn waves at us to join her at the champagne bar, where she holds court with a stately redhead dressed in sensible pumps and a knee-length skirt. “Let me introduce you to the princess!”
“A real princess?” I whisper to Rhys as we make our way over.
He scopes out the modestly dressed woman, far less impressed than my awestruck booty. “I think she’s from the Netherlands.”
While we gab with modern-day royalty, I spot Gia and JC huddled under a pop-up tent near the stage. Their conversation looks intense. Are they discussing the setlist? Or how to outdo Calvin? My money is on the latter.
Not that they have to try hard.
Rhys and I dropped in on one of their rehearsals in Vancouver and, holy shit. The noise was astounding. The cinder-block studio could barely contain the explosive energy. JC’s blistering solos acted like a fire starter to Gia’s flame, coaxing her throaty howl into earth-shattering octaves.
Passion seared into every note.
Hotter than lava.
Panty-soaking sexy.
What will happen when they throw down their incendiary heat onto this hedonistic crowd? I can hardly wait!
The stage lights suddenly illuminate, and a murmur of excitement ripples through the crowd. Kinetic humans swarm to the front, flowing, charging up. Ready to rock.
We say our goodbyes to the princess, and Evelyn shouts after us, “Enjoy! And thank you for the music.”
Hand tight over mine, Rhys shoulders his way to the front of the stage. Spotlights beamed up into the sky create dizzying circles as roadies blast dry ice, shrouding the stage in smoky mystery. The energy feels tightly coiled. My skin tingles. Anticipation times infinity.
