Page 1 of My Grape Crush
Chapter One
DANI
I,Dani Rose Rialto, thirty-one and of relatively sane mind, blame the internet. And if you say passing the buck is an annoying millennial trend you could live without, that’s fair. Own your shit, snowflake, right? The point is, no one asked me if an invention connecting humanity for better or for worse was a good idea.
I had zero say or control.
And now I’m a veritable case study on the dangers of doom-scrolling videos posted by beautiful and unattainable men.
Genuine social media addiction fueled by the World Wide Webisresponsible for this tragedy. How else did I develop my all-consuming crush on influencer Rhys Trenton? The golden boy of Instagram lives halfway around the world on the Greek island of Corfu. He spends his mornings strolling the grounds of his cliffside palazzo flush with million-dollar brand deals and sipping craft espresso.
I drink drip coffee from 7-11. The only million I've seen is the price tag for a fixer-upper in the 'burbs that could double as a meth lab.Up until two months ago, my digs were a cramped East Vancouver apartment with the down payment funded by the Bank of Mom and Dad.
In no legitimate universe should the paths of Rhys and I ever cross.
And yet, here we are, summer thick in the air, fated together as boss and star spokesman in the sleepy summer wine town of Osoyoos, BC.
I squint into the early evening sun. Under the brilliant expanse of sky, the limo ferrying Rhys comes into focus. It snakes back and forth, switchbacking as it rises up the hill striped green with rows of neatly ordered grape vines. Welcome to Nero Vino—the Okanagan Valley’s most decorated winery and my current employer, who, in all honesty, hired me as the head of marketingbecauseof the internet.
Maybe I'll hold off on the blame game.
Right now, I have other priorities—like trying not to melt.
It’s forty degrees in the shade and there is none in the winery parking lot where the August heat radiates around me like a sauna. My current mood is mildly irritated courtesy of Rhys being seven hours late. And he can’t hold the airlines accountable because his business class flights from Athens to London to Vancouver landed on time. Plus, he had two hours to make his connection at the Vancouver airport.
Who falls asleep in the Air Canada lounge?
By missing his final flight into Kelowna, I lost an hour of my life scrambling to find a car service willing to travel four hundred kilometers on a long weekend.
One-way.
Three grand and half a day later, the angelic face hired to promote our rosé rolls up in a glossy black stretch limo. Familiar disco beats thump from the open sunroof, syncing with my thudding heart.
He’s here. Like, six feet away from me.
I tell myself to play it cool, but my Ted Baker suit feels shrink-wrapped to my skin, and I'm chaos on the inside, chest pinched and pulse cranking higher.
And what is the name of that song? I know it. Before it comes to me, the limo door swings open, and a tanned foot in a white flip-flop lands on the sun-baked gravel, kicking up a puff of dust.
I feel a sudden, dizzying wave of swoon factor.
Feet factor heavily in my world, thanks to Gordon Rialto, my recently retired podiatrist father. Sadly, his Friendly Giant gene pool saddled me with flat, size-ten flippers that every dainty sandal runs screaming away from.
Rhys has flawless feet, of course. Arched and smooth with straight toes and trimmed nails. Why go to the trouble of creating the world’s most arresting human without head-to-toe quality control? His feet are the only body parts I haven’t memorized because he never films them.
But the rest of him? I can recite every detail with painful accuracy.
Or I could if he didn't step out of the limo and steal my breath away.
Dear god.
I blink and smile, literally digging my heels into the hot rocks to resist the force of his magnetism. Never before have I felt the desire to throw myself at someone so completely.
“Hey there,” he says. “Are you Dani?” His voice sounds quizzical but also rich and decadent—the vocal equivalent of whipped cream.
“That’s me. Dani Rialto, head of marketing. Glad you finally made it.” I thrust my hand out, and a small beat passes before his bronzed, elegant fingers twine with mine. Was he expecting a fist bump?
“Yeah, sorry about missing the flight.” He flashes a smile full of perfect white teeth. “It’s not the first time I’ve crashed in an airport lounge.”
