Page 2 of My Grape Crush
“Happens to everyone, right?” I say, when in fact, I know a total of zero people who drop off the radar in an international airport while their agent unleashes fire and brimstone on me. Said agent—human Rottweiler Bettina Weber—grudgingly cut me some slack after I reminded her that she insisted on being the point person while Rhys traveled.
But whatever.
The warmth of his touch melts away the frantic afternoon. I’m dimly aware of pumping his hand beyond normal time limitations, buying time to trawl over his features that previously only graced my screen. The papercut jawline. Skin sun-darkened and glowing. Flaxen hair styled in the iconic feathered shag that spawned a worldwide craze—the male version of “The Rachel.”
Jesus, he’s breathtaking,
“I hope you didn’t wear the suit and heels for me,” he says, his faint European accent making him even sexier. “Aren’t you burning up? It's a furnace out here.”
I lick my lips, dry as the desert I’m living in. “You must be used to the heat living in Greece.”
He disconnects his fingers from mine, and my brain silently screams—No! Come back.Then he slides his hot-pink Ray-Bans down the straight slope of his nose and studies me as if a woman rocking leopard-print eyewear is an unknown species.
“This heat feels different,” he says, eyes fixated on mine. “More intense.”
I feel my lungs squeeze under my ribcage.
How many nights have I spent captivated by those cinnamon-tinted irises? The in-person effect is embarrassingly the same: weak knees and a staggering surge of desire.
There is hot, and then there is Rhys.
He’s taller than I imagined and adorably rumpled in a purple tee stamped with BLUE MARLIN, loose-fitting, like his board shorts. As the hypnotic music swirls around us, the song's name finally hits me. I bite back a laugh, thinking this is certifiably ridiculous.My internet crush stands before me with Donna Summer crooning “I Feel Love”?
Come on.
Like he’s just tuned into the sensual, driving beats, Rhys shouts into the open door of the limo, “Hey, Colin! Can you kill the tunes?”
Donna abruptly snuffs out, and the silence somehow sounds louder. The driver's side window lowers to reveal a round-faced boomer with mutton chops and big ole affable Canadian energy.
“Hello!” He gallantly tips the brim of his ten-gallon hat.“Where should I drop the bags?”
For the benefit of both men, I point at a standalone bungalow commanding the sloped hill to our left.“That’s your villa. Fully stocked and ready to go.”
“10-4,” Colin says. “Meet you up there, sir.”
He eases the limo around us, the tires kicking up tendrils of powdery dirt. Rhys hooks his sunglasses into the V of his t-shirt, scanning his new surroundings while I steal another glance at him. Rhys and I are the same age, born and raised in Vancouver, but the similarities end there. He shines differently. I can’t explain it. Is it his fame? His brand of oh-so-relatable charm? Or maybe the dust particles swirling around him like atomic streamers create the illusion.
“Do you need me for anything?” Rhys nudges me out of my private thoughts. “Or is it cool if I cut out? I need a shower big-time.”
“Nothing’s on the agenda tonight, but Evelyn hopes you can join her and Nicole for brunch tomorrow. Nicole’s our winemaker,” I explain, in case the Nero Vino information packet I FedExed to Greece two weeks ago ended up in his recycle bin unread.
His brow furrows. “But I’m not on the clock until Monday, right?”
I open my mouth and then quickly shut it. Bettina tortured me for days, grinding out the details of Rhys’s contract. Drilled into me are the terms: we have him ten to five, Monday to Friday. Weekends down. Five weeks of videos, photo shoots, vlogs, and posts in exchange for a million dollars.
Could he squeeze in one extra Sunday meal on the house?
“I’m joking.” Rhys knocks his elbow against mine with a grin, clearly seeing through my attempt to hide the “Are you kidding me?” expression.“Tell me where to be and when. I’m psyched to meet Evelyn. She sounds like a trip.”
That’s one way of describing Evelyn Maclaren, the madcap heiress and owner of Nero Vino. An opinionated and charismatic force of nature, she continues to milk every drop out of life at the tender age of sixty-nine.
“She’s a huge fan of yours,” I say, not that one more admirer moves the needle in his world. “Anyone who likes history is in her good books.”
I should mention that Rhys isn’t your run-of-the-mill influencer. A history buff with a reported 139 IQ, he left Canada at the age of fifteen to explore the mysteries of ancient Europe and never came home. In his videos, he rambles about the Greeks and Romans while hawking everything from beachwear to shampoo to his thirty million followers.
And he’s a thinking man. Stamped on a medallion that hangs from the gold chain around his neck is a profile of Seneca, his favorite philosopher. He never wears any other jewelry.
“And you’ll be at brunch?” Rhys adds, sounding hopeful, if I’m not mistaken.
