Page 78 of My Grape Crush
“Tell him I say hi.”
Myla purses her lips. Or tries to shape those injected skin flaps into something other than a bittersweet smile. There’s a sameness to the prowling Euro elite that makes me think they all went to the same school and drank the same Kool-Aid. Myla has cheekbones like sharp knives. Hard eyes. Implants that could survive nuclear war. Running so hot and cold, how did I ever miss it?
“Have fun with your new girlfriend. And fuck you,” she adds for good measure. “You’re so overhyped.”
She trundles out, and the settling of my rapid-fire heartbeat feels like an acre of space suddenly opened up. I fight the urge to slam the door and engage every lock, standing guard on the porch until the taxi arrives and Myla slips inside.
Chapter Twenty-Five
DANI
Sawyer dropsme back home after breakfast. The feeling in my chest is dull and formless, a giant sprawling ache. Rhys texted to say he kicked Myla out and wanted to talk, and I should feel relieved. It shouldn’t hurt so much. But the lusty magic of our morning has evaporated with the realization that seven days does not a forever guy make.
Still, part of my mind went there.
It’s only been a week, but it feels bigger.
When I look at Sawyer, I register that he’s been studying me. The gray hairs on his temple shimmer silver from the sun spilling through the sunroof, and I see the miles on his face, forty not so far away.
“I’ll be in touch about Gia and JC,” I say. “Thanks for breakfast.”
I gather my purse and open the door, but Sawyer halts me with his hand before I slide out. He revealed a different, softer side this morning. He fiercely loves his brother despite their dynamic. We even managed a few laughs sharing office politics stories over bitter drip coffee that would’ve made Rhys cry.
“It kills me to say this,” he starts. “But you might be the breakthrough Rhys needs. Go easy on him, okay? He’s more fragile than he lets on.”
“I will,” I say, my heart heavy. “I promise.”
Sawyer draws his hand away, the corner of his mouth twitching with an almost smile. “And maybe don’t tell him how surprised I am that he made it this far.”
As he drives off, I'm grateful for the clarity he brought to the Trenton family mess. He explained a lot. Explained everything except Myla—a choice Rhys cannot pin on troubled family history.
But then again, I remind myself he had a whole life before this. One that I hold no claims to. And who am I to judge? The woman who kneeled under Brett’s desk while he gripped my hair and set the tempo?
Not exactly Snow White.
And there’s the bigger issue about his father. Rhys has never once mentioned a trip to Vancouver. And I plan to ask him about that once he gets here.
Inside my villa, it’s fever-hot. I open every window, but the limp breeze only pushes the hot air around. Rhys suggested we meet at my place to talk, and I hated the first thought that flashed through my mind:because it's more neutral or less tainted?
I apply a fresh coat of lip gloss in the bathroom, my hand lightly shaking. I felt calm-ish on the drive here, but my world is now buzzing and popping. Rhys will explain, I listen, and a decision lies at the end. One that Sawyer insisted had Rhys on a plane back to Corfu.
I’m prepared for that. I think.
What I’m not prepared for is to find Rhys, right in my living room, simmering quietly in a wrinkled black t-shirt. Fists shoved into the pockets of his shorts.
Taller, somehow.
The beautiful chaos of last night rushes over me. How we both lost ourselves, melting into each other and coming undone.
My insides start to quake.
“Hey,” he says. “I let myself in.”
“I can see that.”
He shakes out his hair like it's a nervous tic. “Sawyer left, huh? He sent me a text.”
“We had an interesting breakfast.”
