Page 56 of My Grape Crush
“Hey. Everything cool?”
I glance up to find Rhys in the doorway, eyebrows pinched together. Something sparks in his expression, a quick flare that fades before I can grasp it. Shit. Did he see me cry? When I set them down, my glasses hit the desktop with a loud clatter.
“Of course,” I say, too bright, clamping my emotions down. “Come in.”
Rhys ambles in, taking in all the old money nonchalance with a curious look. How many winery offices have an original Frida Kahlo on the wall? Or Italian marble desks with a vintage Tiffany lamp to highlight just how much money grapes can make?
“So this is where all the magic happens,” he says.
I power on a phony smile. “Some days.”
He perches on the corner of my desk. Our gazes meet, and then we both look away. I fidget—tilting my monitor, rearranging loose papers—anything to ignore the pounding inside my chest.
“How are things going with Rita and Francis today?” I ask.
“Better,” he says, “in that I’ve only wanted to strangle them twice.”
“Are you on lunch break?”
“Yeah.” He scuffs the floor with the toe of his flip-flop. “I wanted to check in to see if you’re still down for a swim later.”
Dammit. I’d spaced on that. And by the way Rhys tilts his head at me, I can tell he knows I did.
“A swim sounds perfect.” My voice wavers and I hold on to my plastic smile for dear life. All I can hear is his silence. My chest feels like a washcloth wringing tight.
“Anything you want to talk about?” he asks, solemn as a priest.
His eyes are bright and full of caring. My breath comes out in shorter and shorter gusts, the freefall into emotion imminent.
Don’t lose it.
“How much time do you have?” I ask.
He pretends to look at a watch on his wrist. “Four weeks.”
A half-laugh, half-choking sound escapes my throat. For him to find humor at my lowest moment is nothing short of incredible.
“Have you considered a comedy career?” I ask, in all seriousness.
“Not this week.” His expression transitions from mild amusement back to concern. “But this,” he says, his finger circling in front of me to indicate what he means, “has to do with me, right?”
“No.” I bite my lip and gaze up at him from under my lashes, debating if honesty is the best course of action. “And yes.”
“Tell me about the no part,” he says, his voice quiet.
His compassion, the unvarnished sincerity of it, steadies my battered heart. I could do a one-eighty and brush him off, but the improbability of that likely speaks for itself. My body feels heavy as I lean back into the chair and his attention remains entirely fixed on me.
Bit by bit, I reveal the Brett files, minus the degrading sex and the correlation to what happened at the vineyard. And because embarrassment isn’t enough, I move on to Gail and Constable Davidson, ending with the shitshow of last night’s Wine Growers meeting, where Tomas threatened to run Evelyn out of town for being nothing more than a competent businesswoman to his drunken, saggy ass.
Rhys listens without interrupting, drumming his fingers across the square line of his jaw.I imagine it's too much for a random drop-in to confirm tonight's social agenda.
Then something dark flashes in his eyes.
And his voice sounds equally black when he says, “Your ex sounds like an idiot.”
I’m not going to lie. How Brett immediately becomes his enemy warms me. “Then I’ve presented him fairly.”
“How does it work with Photoshop?” he asks. “Is there a timestamp to prove you created those after the fact?”
