Page 23 of My Grape Crush
“What???” I clutch the steering wheel in a death grip, blood draining from my fingers.“We start shooting in two hours!”
His liquid brown eyes sweep over me. “She says to call her ASAP.”
Forget unruffled and composed—I’m immediately swallowed by a rush of chaotic thoughts. Luca needs to wrap at three to jump on a plane. And Kelowna is a far cry from New York. We are nowhere near a hotbed of replacement models who could save the day.
“You need me to navigate while you troubleshoot?” Rhys offers. “I’m here. Put me to use.”
Good god. What business does he have being formidably attractiveandhelpful? Still holding his eyes, I flight to maintain calm. But my instinct tells me this might be a bag of dynamite, lit up and barrelling straight for me.
With a reluctant nod of agreement, I say, “Let me talk to her first. Hang on, I’m pulling over.”
I downshift and ease onto the shoulder to park. Rhys hands over the phone, and I punch in her number, praying Heather likes a good prank.
She answers on the first ring, her voice scratchy with emotion. “I’m sooo sorry, Dani,” she sniffles. “I was running out the door to catch my flight, and my dog—he hates it when I travel—bolted from the house right into the street. He got hit by a car. I’m at the vet, waiting for news after the operation.” A hum of despair fills my ear before she dissolves into phlegmy tears. “I don’t know what’s going to happen. It doesn’t look good.”
A heaviness lands in my heart.
Pets are sacred. We lavish more love on them than our fellow humans at times. I still remember the empty pit in my stomach after our family dog died, and how it took weeks to fill in. How six-year-old Dani cried herself to sleep when Dad explained Chester was in doggy heaven and never coming back.
Heather has every right to flake out.
“It’s okay,” I assure her. “We can pivot to another solution.”
She suggests calling her agent; he might have a local connection. But he’s in Vancouver, and it’s seven-fifteen a.m. My skin feels cold, but my insides blaze. I know how this scenario plays out. It happened with every advertising agency I worked for. Talent no-shows always boned the shoots.
After we hang up, I dump the phone in my lap, and a resounding, unladylikefuck!flies out before I can stop it.
Rhys glances over. “Sounds like I’m flying solo?”
I take a deep breath and try to make my voice sound confident. “The tagline isRosé for goddesses and gods. A female is kind of critical. And Luca is charging Evelyn an arm and a leg for this.”
I massage my temples, the beginnings of a headache creeping in. Rhys is a master improviser on camera, but he can’t conjure up another human being.
After a short silence, he lobs out what can only be described as Plan Z.“What about you?”
I stare at him for a moment, trying not to cringe. “Heather is a size two soaking wet. None of her wardrobe will fit me.”
He mulls that over. “Yvette has to have a white sheet somewhere in her house. On-the-fly Roman toga?”
“These images are going worldwide,” I remind him. “I’m the head of marketing. I can’t be plastered on a billboard.”
Cars whizz past us, and I’m seriously considering leaping into traffic. End this misery as roadkill. My sunny morning drive is now a solid hour of phone time to dig us out of a hole.
Maybe. Potentially.
“Let’s run it past Luca,” Rhys says, refusing to let it go. “He nailed your back against the wall. And it’s not your fault Heather bailed.” He runs a hand over his tousled hair, now air-dried into silky-soft waves that skim his shoulders. What it must be like to wake up and be a perfect knockout and never once battle the frizzies.
“Besides,” Rhys adds, “I think we’d look good together.”
I appreciate his optimism. I really do. And the reckless part of me screams,Yes! Throw caution to the wind. Let him melt me into a puddle with just a glance and plaster my lovesick face all over Times Square.
But I know what Luca has planned for this shoot.
Rhys and I in a vineyard acting as drunken lovers? After pussy-gate? There is no sheet large enough to shroud the violent surge of sheet-fisting animalistic vibes that thundered between us. Tempting fate feels like a bad idea.
Rhys unclicks his seatbelt and nudges me, broad-muscled shoulder to tense, in-desperate-need-of-a-massage shoulder. “C’mon. Let’s swap. I’ll drive, you talk.”
I search my blood for some vibration, even the mildest flutter of hope.Nope.
