Page 49 of My Grape Crush
“Constable Davidson from the Royal Canadian Mounted Police calling,”he says, pausing after for dramatic effect. Law enforcement prides itself on intimidating you with title alone. And it's working, judging from the bloom of sweat on my lower back.
“What can I do for you?” Even over the phone, he sounds like a big dude on a mission. I power on my computer and load my email program.
“We had an incident last night by the lake,” he starts. “A group of young women acting drunk and disorderly. Apparently, a certain celebrity is in town doing some work for your winery?”
I feel my mouth go dry.An email from Shania’s agent claims the pole position of my email inbox, a frowny face emoji in the subject line.
“Yes, we’ve hired an influencer to promote one of our wines,” I say, giving him the basics and nothing else.
And because I’m an impatient masochist, I open the email.
“Influencer,” Davidson says in that slow, languid way of someone twirling a toothpick back and forth in his mouth. “I heard of those. And he warrants you hiring some security?”
I skim the email, my stomach sinking.
Deeply sorry!
Clashes with her holiday dates.
Next time?
I blink, re-reading in case I missed theJust kidding!Nope. Shania is out. The rejection feels personal, even though it should be completely impersonal.
“Miss Rialto?” The constable’s heavy baritone rings in my ear.
“Yes,” I say, shaking off the Shania distraction. “We had some fans at the winery last night, and they dispersed peacefully. But it felt prudent to hire security. As a safeguard.”
After a long silence, he asks, “Should we be concerned? This is our busy season. Not the time for any ruckus. And your winery already creates enough hubbub with that event.”
He sayseventlike someone might saycancer.
“With security, I think we’re good.”
No sooner do those words leave my lips when my iPhone vibrates on the desk.
AR: CALL ME ASAP!!!!
AR: LIKE, NOW!!!!
As usual, my sister and her remarkable restraint with all caps and exclamation points.
I quickly text her back, hoping to calm her down.
DR: I’m on a call. What’s up?
AR: Uhm, hello??? The reel he just posted?
I feel a pinch in both temples. Now what?
“Can you give me this fellow’s name?” the constable asks. “Behooves me to do some research.”
A forceful swallow works my throat. Shit. Hard to sell a guy as harmless with a social media handle of @thetrentontroublemaker. “Rhys Trenton. You can find him on Instagram.”
If you even know what that is,I don’t say.Mr. Davidson sounds north of age sixty, and if he’s on Facebook, I’ll eat my desk. In the pause that follows, I quickly navigate to Rhys’s Insta account.
He threw together a behind-the-scenes vignette from the photo shoot. Snippets of Luca and Vigo. Yvette’s house. The lunch I barely touched. But the three thousand-plus comments are aimed square at the shot of me that made the cut.
Aprofile shot of me flaunting enough side boob to feed a small family. He snapped it covertly, but the light was perfect. My skin looks flawless. And it was well before my soul-gutting moment, so my smile is relaxed.
