Page 21 of My Grape Crush
He scopes out my candy-apple red Toyota Tacoma with an approving nod. “Nice ride. I didn’t figure you to be a truck girl. What year is this?”
“2015.”
He leans on the door without warning, poking his head in to admire the flawless interior. (I may or may not be addicted to Armor-All.)
“Vintage. Sweet. And stick, too.” His laser-beam gaze slides from the stick shift onto me, and he lets out a low whistle. “Damn, girl.”
His undeniable fragrance of heady spiced vanilla wafts over me, and the feeling in my chest is sharper than giddiness. Historically, I’m a pathetic mess around men this pretty. How am I not supposed to fall off the deep end with Rhys and his still-damp hair curling seductively around both ears?
“I have a present for you.” His grin is more angel than devil.
A little thrill shoots up my spine. “What for?”
“I promise you’ll like it.” He raps his knuckles in a one-two against the sheet metal. “Sit tight.”
Returning to the porch, he slings his knapsack over one shoulder and scoops up two Nero Vino-branded to-go thermoses perched on the railing. I crank open his door as he rounds the truck with full hands.
Before sliding in, he offers me one of the thermoses. “I made you a real coffee. Took a wild guess you are cream with no sugar.”
“Thank you,” I say, sweetly surprised.
Our fingers graze during the handoff, and a tingle of stars shoots up my arm. It’s a small, stupid thing. This isn’t on the scale of picking winning lottery numbers. He had a one-in-four chance of striking the right combo—black, with cream, with sugar, or with both. And yet, the kindness of his gesture feels like he handed me a million-dollar prize. Not even two days and he has me under his spell, and I haven’t the slightest clue how to escape.
Rhys drops his knapsack in the back seat and parks himself in the passenger seat. He shuts the door, sealing us in with the complex, chocolatey scent of his fine coffee.
“Cheers,” he raises his thermos, “for saving the photo shoot.”
After ditching the gang at brunch yesterday, my afternoon became a masterclass in groveling, begging for non-existent hotel rooms and twice-oversold business-class seats. Our female model, Heather, hemmed and hawed but agreed to cut short her long weekend in exchange for a small bump in her day rate. Come seven p.m., I had pulled enough rabbits out of my ass to deserve someone else cooking me dinner.
Rhys texted just as my lasagna landed on the table at Campo Marina, the local Italian restaurant.
RT: Wanna hit the lake? Sunset looks killer.
Since arriving in June, I’ve spent most evenings at the lake. With kids and families packed away for the night, the tranquility worked its relaxing magic. I swam to the Nero Vino private floating raft and bobbed, stretched out on my back, while the sunset exploded in fiery oranges and reds around me.
I loved the stillness, the air alive, expectant.
So Rhys’s text did tempt. The urge to dump my pasta and wine refill into my Coach bag and bolt back hovered near ninety-eight percent.
But then the other two percent took hold.
And I cursed my professionalism for holding sway over me.
DR: Sorry, tonight won’t work.I just sat down for dinner.
And because I didn’t want to come across as unfriendly, I followed up with:
DR: Rain check?
To which Rhys instantly replied:
RT: Sweet. Holding you to that.
And I know he will. There’s an efficiency behind his casualness. Rhys is a man of his word.
I tip my Thermos against his and smile. “All in a day’s work, right?”
I drink deeply, the balanced richness like liquid silk. Full-bodied and eruptive on the tongue. Heavenly.
