Page 22 of My Grape Crush
Rhys clocks my satisfaction. “Worth it?”
“Five stars. Exactly what you should be drinking in that bed.”
“Wearing a crown and ordering my servants around?” he teases.
I laugh at the image—so unlike his stripped-down vibe. “Something like that.”
“Consider Café Corfu officially open for business,” he says. “We also deliver.”
I feel the intensity of his eye contact. I was hoping the power of his attractiveness would lessen overnight—flaws would surface, or jerk behavior—but none of those things are true.Now he’s confirmed as considerate and thoughtful.
It scares the hell out of me.
I look down, heart thudding, until the feeling of being lost in our own private world passes us by.
Rhys is first to break our companionable silence. “I made a killer road trip playlist. Do you mind if I connect?”
“Did you whip together some punk rock classics just for me?”
Rhys slides his thermos between his muscled thighs and tugs out a phone from bold flamingo-print board shorts. “I like clatter as much as the next guy, but…”
“What?” I ask in mock-offense. “Furious howls and shredding jams do nothing for you?”
An air of amusement lights up his face. “I could get used to it,” he stretches out the wordcould.“If someone were willing to convince me.”
The unspoken innuendo makes something flip inside me.Rhys is famous for many things, chief among them being unafraid to dance on camera like no one is watching, to a steady stream of house music he adores. Would he survive if I dragged him into a mosh pit filled with punkers and their safety-pinned clothing?
But if he’s willing to give it a shot, maybe he’s not the music snob I am.
I snug my thermos into the cup holder and reverse down the hill.
Within seconds, Rhys has connected into my system. “Do you want me to set the GPS to Yvette’s address?” he asks.
After straightening out the truck, I shift into first. My eyes flicker to his. “You read my email.”
“You did hire a professional,” he says without sounding arrogant. “Who plans to ease you into the beauty of house music. All you need to do is drive.”
As we bump down the winery road and sultry beats start to flow out of the speakers, Rhys opens up the sunroof. Bathed in the golden glow of a new morning and his infectious mood, the tight ball of stress in my stomach that’s been grinding overtime since last night slowly unwinds.
I rescued us from disaster at the eleventh hour, and my well-deserved prize is kicking back poolside at a stunning mansion while Rhys frolics in a toga.
I can already taste the chilled rosé sliding down my throat.
It all turns to shit ten minutes later.
I turn onto the highway, ready to hammer the accelerator and open up. Rhys is busy explaining the merits of DJs with très cool names like Hot Since 82, The Avener, and KiNK, when a slew of incoming texts lights up my phone. I eyeball the screen and feel my stomach sink. It's Heather, our female model. She's either pocket-dialing me endless SOS emojis or faces a real crisis.
The sharp sting in my chest tells me it's the latter.
Rhys turns down the music. He has a front-row view of my emoji-packed screen, the phone cradled in a holster on my dash.
“It’s your counterpart,” I say. “The other model.”
“Uh-oh,” he says, legitimately concerned. “If you need to pull over and deal with this, go for it.”
“Hold on.” I type in my password, one eye on the road, praying tragedy is not imminent. After the screen unlocks, I ask Rhys to read the texts.
He pops the phone from the holder and scans the messages. “She missed her flight. An emergency with her dog. She can’t make the shoot.”
