Page 29 of My Grape Crush
My mind starts caving in on itself again. I hear Rhys's urgent words. See that beautiful face scrunch up before the tension flooded out of him. How do I explain my behavior away? That Luca screaming about power cracked open the memory vault and plunged me into darkness. Into the black hole better known as Brett Winn, who had promised me the moon—a pay raise, an upgrade to our most exclusive client account, to be his plus-one at the prestigious Cannes Lions advertising event—with the small caveat of blowing him at his every whim.
I run cold water and splash my face, buying time to think. Can I claim a rosé blackout as my defense? Blame the wine for fueling every reckless grind onto a helpless and confused Rhys?
Sorry for the twisted vengeance! You know how it goes…
My brows pull together in a fraughtnow-what-have-I-done look. The truth is, I allowed the dark souvenir of Brett’s manipulative behavior to cloud my judgment. How can Rhys look at me and not think I’m a first-rate psycho?
I fantasize about reversing course, running to my truck, and peeling out of here, but five stressed-out minutes later, I creep out to face my council of judgment. On the patio, several sun umbrellas shade a long table heaving with colorful Spanish tapas. Evelyn and Yvette have claimed the king and queen seats on either end. A besotted Vigo has camped beside Rhys. The lone seat is mercifully next to Luca.
With traces of Rhys's DNA clinging to my skin, how much closer do we need to be?
Evelyn tracks my approach with a critical eye. All the light chatter trails off, and the uneasy silence wraps around me like a blanket. I’m still vibrantly and vividly out of sorts.
“There you are,” she says. “We were just discussing who should check in on you.”
I tuck a lock of hair nervously behind one ear and plant myself beside Luca. “I, uh, I just needed to cool down.”
Yvette smirks, reaching for her bottomless wine glass. “I bet.”
The air feels thick and heavy. I can sense Rhys’s eyes across the table, scanning me through my core. And me, Textbook Drunk, too ashamed to look at him.
Vigo pushes a bowl piled high with fragrant saffron rice in my direction. Something in his face tells me I’m being pitied. “Eat, darling. You’ll feel better.”
Despite a grumbling stomach and a glorious feast, I have zero appetite. But I go through the motions, spooning rice onto my plate while Luca scrubs through photos on his camera.
“Magnifico!” he beams. “You two nailed it.”
He angles the viewfinder to me, and my throat thickens to the point that swallowing becomes impossible. Luca captured the moment when Rhys’s fingers clamped against the chair, the world collapsed into a pinhole of black, and I left reality, entering a heightened state, oblivious to everything.
But I cannot show my face anywhere if that photo goes public.
I smile through the terror. “Powerful stuff.”
“Can I see?” Rhys asks.
Luca hands off the Leica to Rhys, who studies the photo, magnifies it, and scrolls onward. If our lack of communication is a red flag, no one has the bad manners to address it.
“Well?” Evelyn prods after a few seconds of focused silence. “How would you describe those photos?”
Rhys glances up to lock eyes with me in a wordless exchange. I feel my chest tighten like it did as I battled the big O and every instinct to melt into bliss.
Does he know? Was it that obvious?
Something like a shadow passes over his face before he returns the camera to Luca and says, “In vino veritas.”
Evelyn squeals her appreciation. “Eloquently said, Rhys! And may I suggest a toast to that ancient wisdom?” She lifts her wine glass, and we all follow suit. Well, I reach for my water glass. Any more wine and I’ll slide off this chair into a puddle of regret.
“What exactly are we toasting?” Yvette asks. “I’m horrible with languages.”
Rhys is the first to clink my glass, the unmistakable sound of a challenge in his voice when he says, “In wine, there is truth.”
My hope of Rhys hopping a ride back with Evelyn dies on the vine because she and Yvette have a function tonight in Kelowna. After a flurry of air kisses and promises toabsolutelyconnect in Marbella over Christmas, Rhys untangles himself from the Luca and Vigo hug fest to join me in the truck.
He slams the door shut, and my stomach flips with anxiety. Welcome to the waking nightmare.
“Did you need any groceries?” I ask. “I can stop on the way.”
“I’m good.” He grips the handle above the window, silent and motionless as a tombstone. He gives me nothing, no indication of how far I dug my own grave.
