Page 16 of My Grape Crush
Later in bed, naked and sweating through the sheets, I remind myself not to read too much into anything with Rhys. The problem with celebrities is that their attention can make you feel special. It's easy to get hooked on that fleeting warm glow. But what happens when the spotlight fades and you're left in a cold, Rhys-less world?
Better not to feel the heat at all.
Life officially changesat 10:38 on Sunday morning.
Lazing in bed with the blinds shut tight against the already fiendish heat, I power on my phone. Rhys had teased out his trip to Canada in a series of airport vignettes, and by tagging Nero Vino, our follower count had bumped up by a couple hundred. I navigate to Instagram, curious about what transpired overnight.
My private account loads first. I blink once, then twice, before a spacey feeling takes over my body. Wait. I must be hallucinating. It can’t be, but there it is—a friend request icon glowing red in the right-hand corner.
From Rhys.
I feel a feathering sensation at the back of my throat.
Are you shitting me?
I suppose using my actual name as a username and a real photo made it easy for him to track me down. Am I flattered? Any woman with a pulse would be. Rhys follows mega brands or fellow influencers—accounts teeming with tens of thousands of fans and spit-shined content. For him to acknowledge Dani Rialto and her dinky private account, currently stalled out at seven hundred and sixty-one followers?
I chew on the inside of my cheek, debating the ramifications of accepting his request. Not every human seeks worship and immortality on social media, and I’m content living with @Dani_Rialto as a speck of unimportance in the Instagram handle world. Do I need the added stress of having to curate my posts? Pose in full makeup and use filters to portray a fantasy life ten times better than my regular existence?
Ignoring the request for now, I flip to his feed. Our deal with Rhys guarantees he posts a daily story or reel along with a carousel. Monday is his official start day, but the impression he left is that of a team player willing to do what it takes.
And my suspicion proves accurate.
The video story he posted last night is classic Rhys: swinging in a hammock—the one I spent two days sourcing online. But, for once, the POV is not of his face and the dramatic vista of the Ionian Sea coastline sparkling behind him. Instead, against the star-filled sky, are his crossed and beautiful feet while he holds up a glass of rosé.
The caption reads,Pink Pearl guarantees sweet dreams.
Winky-face emoji.
Two thousand-plus comments.
Holy shit.
Flipping to the Nero Vino account, our follower numbers have risen by over fifteen hundred. A giddiness stirs within me, radiating to my fingertips and toes. It’s a known fact that brands blow up with his involvement, but to witness his Midas touch playing out in real time feels surreal.
That, however, is only half the story.
I fight back the stupid smile that's growing wider by the second.
That cheeky caption he wrote?
I will bet a million dollars he was not talking about wine.
Evelyn and Nicole Tanner are deep in conversation when I join them on the patio overlooking the vast blue waters of Lake Osoyoos.
“Hi,” I say breathlessly. “Sorry I’m late.”
I ran here after losing track of time, fretting over Rhys's friend request. It didn’t feel right to show up without accepting it. Now we’re internet buddies, for better or for worse.
“Ah, here she is.” Evelyn beams, embracing me in a hug. “My secret weapon, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Your timing is perfect. The caterer set everything up. All we need is our guest of honor.”
Like everything Evelyn masterminds, the brunch spread looks incredible.
On a platter ringed with fat, ripe cherries, poached eggs nestle in little nests of steamed spinach. There's whipped butter, jars of peach jam, and wildflower honey. The tang of sourdough spikes the air, and toasted slices are artfully arranged in a basket, cut thick, like the crispy strips of bacon glistening in the sun. Add in the backdrop of Evelyn’s dramatic modern home and the gold-plated view, and our little tableau under the shade of a pergola screams the best of wine country.
As Evelyn buzzes around the table, adjusting everything, Nicole reaches into the front pocket of her faded overalls for a stick of nicotine gum. “I heard he kept you waiting yesterday,” she says, gruff and notably unimpressed as she unwraps and wads the gum into her mouth. “He better not pull that same bullshit with me.”
A former fast-talking tort lawyer, Nicole reinvented herself with viticulture, finding her true calling amongst tangled vines and an industry more prone to self-importance than the law. Tall and wiry, but deceptively strong, with slate-gray hair cut short, at a distance you might mistake her for a man.
