Page 37 of My Grape Crush
Push beyond? More like smashed it through a concrete barrier. And I am nervous as hell about the pictures. How can I forget what I did when a constant reminder lives on in perpetuity?
And what will Dad think?
Instead of dwelling on those questions, I lie through my teeth, telling Evelyn I was proud to represent her brand. Then I bury myself in work for the rest of the morning, refusing to consider my imminent fame as a wine hussy.
Unlike his brother, Sawyer arrives early.
My office windowoverlooks the parking lot, and I know it’s him before he steps out of his Beemer. It’s one of thosesleek matte ones with custom rims and blackout windows. The sort of car Iron Man would drive. And Sawyer exits this glorified spaceship as if he’s Robert Downey Jr. about to walk the red carpet.
Graceful, alert, owning the space.
He’s handsome in a fireman way—square-jawed and gym-jacked. Dark hair cut short. Unsmiling and so pale. What a contrast to Rhys and his golden shine.
He struts across the gravel and pushes inside the tasting room. I touch up my lip gloss, text Rhys his brother has arrived, and make my way to the land of free-flowing wine. Early afternoon is the busiest time for tastings, and the room is thick with tourists and drunken chatter, our smartly dressed staff pouring with a heavy hand.Everyone looks happy and glowing, their crystal glasses filled with crimson or amber wine, the liquids catching the light like jewels.
The room exudes understated opulence: a rustic yet modern vibe that cost Evelyn a small fortune. Her vision started with heavy terracotta floor tiles and walls sponged the same warm yellow as the outside of the building. Priceless Basquiats from her private art collection hang impressively amongst the scarred antiques imported from Europe, and the arched windows set deep into the thick walls allow just the right amount of dappled sunlight in.
Add in the hidden diffusers that waft in a lemony-lavender scent while Vivaldi violins serenade quietly from the Sonos, it is dreamy and perfectly on point.
All designed to drain your wallet faster than you can say boo.
Draped in a beautifully cut suit, Sawyer is custom-made for this room, but he sticks out like a sore thumb amongst the sunburnt shorts-and-sandals crowd. I approach him while he scopes out a magnum of our flagship Cabernet Sauvignon priced to move at nine hundred dollars.
“Sawyer?”
He looks up, startled, and the tight set of his jaw relaxes when I smile and introduce myself. Whipping off his Matrix-style sunglasses, two piercing eyes the shade of ultramarine sweep over me.
“Dani,” he repeats like he’s trying out the sound of my name. “Nice to meet you.”
We shake hands, his grip firm, commanding, and appropriate for someone wearing a watch that can tell time, temperature, and if the water in the Maldives will irritate his skin. If money and power needed a single visual, he is it.
“Likewise. Welcome to Nero Vino. How was the drive up?”
“On the phone the entire time,” he says, a little tiredly. “This is an escape for me, so thank you.”
“Evelyn will join us for a wine tasting later if you have time. And Rhys should be here soon. He asked to come along.”
His brow furrows as if that is the last thing he wants to hear.“How are things going with him?” he asks but talks over me before I reply. “I gave him an earful about the airport situation. It is unacceptable to leave you in a lurch like that.”
From his tone, I gather he wants me to align with him—jump on the bandwagon and trash Rhys. He looks like the kind of guy who demands a lot of things.
“No complaints,” I say. “Rhys is very accommodating.”
Sawyer slowly nods as if waiting for the punch line. His skin is smooth and dewy like he mists himself with Evian.Or maybe stem cells.
“In that case,” he says, “bring on the wine. My assistant wrangled a room for tonight, but since when does a glorified broom closet in a motel go for five hundred dollars?"
I stifle a laugh, trying to imagine the grand figure of Sawyer huddled in budget accommodations, where the glasses come wrapped in plastic and mysterious rashes sprout after contact with the bedspread.
“Consider yourself lucky. Rooms are tough to come by at this time of year."
I fleetingly wonder why Rhys did not offer his sofa bed to Sawyer, but when he strolls into the tasting room, the answer might lie in how his sunny warmth noticeably shrivels as he approaches us.
Or how his chin nod in Sawyer’s direction reads more belligerent than bro. “I take it that Batmobile outside is yours?”
Sawyer stares Rhys down, unblinking. “Are you jealous of the doors?”
Rhys had a Jeep Wrangler shipped from Canada to Corfu, and he famously navigates the narrow hillsides with the doors off and house music cranking.
