Page 44 of My Grape Crush
“Just curious.”
Concern has leaked into his voice, and when I glance back,Rhys is eyeing the Corollas and Civics cruising past—windows rolled down, sharp-eyed females locked on the Beemer.Suddenly, I feel very conspicuous. We are the equivalent of the Hope Diamond in a sea of dime-store knockoffs.
Minutes later, we veer off the highway onto the back road leading to Nero Vino, and my spidey sense kicks into overdrive. Several cars tail us, but where are they headed? All the wineries along this lonely stretch have shuttered for the night.
The answer becomes clear as we crest the final hill before the winery. A bottleneck of cars parked helter-skelter blocks the entrance, headlights spraying eerie yellow beams across the desert. A cluster of young women in shorts and tank tops camped out front swivel in unison to zone in on us.
“Can you pin it, bro?” Rhys mutters anxiously from the back seat. “Get past this.”
“I can’t run them over,” Sawyer replies as the pack forms a semi-circle barricade on the road.
Hungry looks and unstable energy.
On the hunt.
“Fuck!” Rhys slides to the floorboard like we’re in a zombie invasion and he’s the last brain standing.
“What’s going on?” I squint at a splinter-thin guy with a shock of orange hair, arguing with a girl draped over the hood of his Cross Trek like some car mechanic calendar pin-up. She looks ready to leap up and feast on his throat at any minute.
“Piss off, okay?” he shouts. “I have no clue where Rhys is. And can you please get off my car?”
Ah, now I understand who he is. The appropriately named Francis Shutter looks exactly like his Facebook profile picture—eighty percent freckles and twenty percent geek.
“What the heck?” I mutter. “Stop the car, please. That’s our camera guy.”
“Don’t leave your door open,” Rhys warns. “I’m telling you, this could get weird.”
Sawyer pulls onto the shoulder and parks. I hop out and hear the softclunkof all the door locks engaging.Smart move, considering the herd of females surging forward to descend on the Beemer.
“Is he in there?” one cries.
“Is that him?”
A buxom redhead in a tube top mashes her face against the window and coos, “Rhys! I love yooou.”
Like an ant infestation at a picnic, they crawl around the car leaving sticky fingerprints and Revlon blusher streaked on Sawyer's immaculate windows. Not wanting to miss any action, the females in the cars that followed us stampede out to join their brethren, eyes wide with wonder. My quick head count ends at twenty-five.
“Dani!” Francis recognizes me from our Zoom call and storms over. “I’ve been trying to get up, but they won’t let me pass.”
Shit. He said my name. I was hoping to fly under the radar.
“Hi,” I say. “Let me handle this. Is Rita here?”
“Not yet.” He keeps a firm eye on the gum-snapping girls. “But I warned her about this zoo.”
With his weak chin and science nerd vibe, it's safe to say Francis is not a teenage girl's wet dream. But the girl he was clashing with stink-eyes me in a judgy head-to-toe sweep.
“Who are you?” she asks, all winged eyeliner and attitude.
“I work for the winery. This is a private road, and whoever owns these cars needs to move them. Now.”
None of them budge. If anything, they band tighter together in lip-glossed solidarity until a stout ponytailed girl steps forward. In a bright yellow onesie and combat boots laced tight mid-calf, she carries herself with the air of someone who runs the show.
“Is Rhys staying up there?” she asks. “We saw his posts about this place.”
Filled with families and retirees, Osoyoos is the most unlikely hub of celebrity stalking. And Rhys doesn’t court fame. He keeps a safe distance from it. But I recall the woman in the corner of the restaurant holding up her phone in our direction. After a long, hard stare from me, she set it down. Who knows if she, or Ponytail, contributed one of the hundreds of slightly deranged comments on his recent posts? All I know is that I need to protect Rhys. And brush these divas-in-training out of our hair.
“He’s doing some promotional work with us,” I admit because they know the truth. “But I have no idea where he’s staying.”
