Page 3 of My Grape Crush
“I’ll be everywhere for the next five weeks. You’re my responsibility. I live in that villa over there.” I point west at a more modest building buried behind prickly pear cactuses and tangled clumps of sagebrush. “And Bettina said she sent you my cell number. We can communicate directly now that you’re here. Text me if you need anything.”
After a beat, he tilts his head. “Is that a twenty-four-seven guarantee?”
I feel my cheeks pink—something in his voice and how he gazes down at me, sweetly amused.
Holy shit. Is he flirting with me?
I dismiss it as sucking up. He knows what side his bread is buttered on. You don’t piss off your boss. But laying down ground rules never hurt.
“If you run out of jellybeans at midnight,” I say, “you’re on your own.”
He laughs, idly stroking his hair. “So, Bettina schooled you on my infamous rider. You probably think I’m some kind of high-maintenance idiot, huh?”
“Who am I to judge if you need a mattress imported from Sweden to sleep at night?”I ask with an innocent but slightly judgmental shrug.
He smiles through another laugh. “I’ll sleep on rocks as long as I have my coffee and jellybeans.”
Forgetting that maybe I shouldn’t slag his manifesto of demands, I roll on. “At a hundred dollars a bag, that Blue Mountain coffee better taste damn good.”
His eyes light on me. I like that he's loose and not getting offended. But then again, Rhys embodies carefree boho. And there is that million-dollar fee.
“Come over one morning for a cup,” he says. “Happy to host.”
In his voice, along with playfulness, there is kindness. But I don’t want to overestimate the importance of his offer. He is Canadian, after all—being nice comes with the territory, and I’ve lived through the wreckage of punching above my weight. Gorgeous celebrities like Rhys have sleek Monaco supermodels on speed dial. A tall and curvy punk-rock-loving wine marketer from East Van perspiring in a suit capturing his attention?
I’m not that delusional.
But is there something else behind the twinkle in his eyes?
“Speaking of beverages,” I continue, “enjoy the complimentary bottles of Pink Pearl in your fridge. You should become intimate with the rosé you’re here to promote.”
“Awww,” Rhys says, adding “precious” to the adjectives my sister Amelia and I use whenever we fervently and frequently discuss him. “You didn’t have to do that. Appreciate it, Dani.” In the pause that follows, he looks at me with a focused kind of warmth. “Is that short for Danielle?”
“No,” I say. “Just Dani.”
He regards me a second too long for normal, eyes traveling down to my legs and back up again. It's a boldly intimate gaze.
“Just Dani,” he repeats. “Got it.”
He cracks a big yawn, arms stretching overhead, his shirt hem riding up to show off his lightly muscled abs.All that smooth skin stretches down to the barest fuzzy trail disappearing into his shorts. I work not to break eye contact and continue to breathe deeply through my wildly raging and improper thoughts.
Can he tell I’m ten percent in love with him?
“Well,” he says, “as good as you look in that suit, I’m sure you’d rather clock out and change into something more comfortable.” And just as I think I’m not imagining there’s some heft to our flirty exchange, he flashes me his signature goodbye, index and middle finger shaped into a V. “Peace out, and thanks for the hustle getting me here. I owe you one.”
He jogs up the slope to his villa, graceful as an antelope, and, okay, the extra three grand it cost to deliver his rather fine and firm ass at my feet? Officially forgotten. But I can still feel the spotlight of his smile like a hot lance on my skin.
That's going to haunt me all night.
Chapter Two
RHYS
I’m notthe details guy. Never have been, never will. Bettina takes her cut from my earnings for the hassle of sifting through the minutiae I can live without. She feeds me the critical stuff, but the ball got dropped somewhere along the line. How did I miss that Dani was a woman? And not just your standard female, like every other blonde out there.
Serious babe-town alert.
A suit, so technically not my type, but those surreal and mystical gray eyes behind hot-librarian glasses? Sign me the hell up.
