Page 7 of My Grape Crush
I swing back and forth in the hammock, mulling it all over, the heady scent of ripening grapes dancing on the hot breeze.On paper, without any other context, I admit Sawyer is a better fit for her. But if I can rely on anything, it’s the old competition between us.
The sun is starting to slip in the sky.
My second wind kicks in with the coffee.
I could text Dani about the missing cream, but it’s not too late to wander over and ask to borrow some of hers.
She did make a point of telling me where to find her.
Chapter Three
DANI
There hasto be a hack to survive this: endorphins pumping so hard my ribcage aches, my supposedly rational and objective view of things washed away in a chaotic rush of pheromones.Twenty minutes afterthe encounter, I’m in my office chair, eyes shut, the air conditioner wheezing on overdrive. My body temperature has recalibrated, but how long will it take for my brain to chill with Rhys and his naked finery showering a mere thirty meters due east?
Irresponsible infatuation was safer with him on Corfu.Face-to-face feels like a losing battle. A massive distraction with high cheekbones and a playful smile that inspires all manner of inconceivable things? Rhys is the last thing I need.
Crush season starts next week. Divine Debauchery, the celebrity-studded Labour Day gala Evelyn lives for, is approaching fast. Add in the Pink Pearl new brand unveiling happening at the September Wine Festival, and, hello, packed schedule.
Evelyn expects me to deliver—not because this dream job saved my shattered confidence, but because, after the heartbreak of what happened two months ago, it’s my time to shine. But as I wrench off my patent leather stilettos to rub life back into ten squished toes, the sublime thrill rushes through me again.
Hotter than blood.
Rhys didn’t look at me with hearts in his eyes, but he didlookat me.
“Hello?” The distinctive warble of Evelyn Maclaren carries from down the hall. “Is my secret weapon still here?”
“In the office,” I call back.
I tidy my desk and brace for the equivalent of a Bell 212 helicopter about to land. Imagine Dorothy and Blanche fromThe Golden Girls.Dump both into a blender with a scoop of glitter, add a liter of moxie, hit FRAPPE, and, voilà, you have Evelyn.
She swoops in like the gale-force wind she is, tall for her age, hellishly fit, and regal-assed in a pastel vintage Pucci sheath. Elegance personified.
“Sorry to keep you, dear,” she purrs, designer kitten heels click-clacking on the tiled floor. “The traffic was horrendous. I forgot about the long weekend.”
“How was lunch?” I ask.
Evelyn sinks into the antique Bergère chair on the other side of my desk, and my nose wrinkles. As usual, there isn’t enough space in the room for both of us and her cloud ofOpiumperfume.
“Oh, we gabbed about the weather and wine,” she says breezily. “That our husbands are either dead or deadbeats.”
Evelyn spent the afternoon in Kelowna, lunching with her partner in crime, Yvette Van Ness. Both discarded multiple husbands over the years, racking up insane wealth and copious amounts of land after each divorce. Known as the Diva Dowagers, they are the most powerful duo in the Okanagan wine industry.
Is it any surprise that two clever, crafty, and successful female multi-millionaires have collected a few enemies along the way?
“Is Yvette thrilled to have Garth back?” I ask.
“Poor thing,” Evelyn tuts. “Just when she was getting used to the taste of freedom. He’s a bit clingy after his stint in that executive jail. You’d think they had him in solitary on Alcatraz!”
There’s a saying in wine country—if you want to make a small fortune, start with a large fortune. Yvette’s husband opted to give away none of his fortune, which is why he’s fresh out of prison for tax evasion.
“Is she still cool for the Friday photo shoot?”I ask.
To kickstart the Pink Pearl media campaign, we hired Luca da Silva, a high-fashion and high-maintenance photographer from Barcelona. He talk-shouted through a tedious Zoom call last month with flinging arm gestures about how he would convert Yvette’s sprawling lakeside manor into a Romanesque tableau.
We needed skimpy togas! Gold cuffs! Gladiator sandals and sex appeal for days!
I’m a teensy bit jealous of the willowy blonde model we hired to play Rhys’s foil. Not only is she pretty, but they’ll both be half-naked and getting cozy right in front of me.
