Page 8 of My Grape Crush
“The show must go on,” Evelyn states, touching up a snowy puff of hair styled into the beehive that’s as famous as her wines. “And speaking of that, how is our studly promoter? Aside from late.”
I slide my gaze off hers. Evelyn knows nothing about my crush. And I plan to keep it that way.
“He seems nice,” I say. “And he apologized for the runaround.”
“Typical Sagittarius,” she muses. “Head in the sky and a pain in the bloody ass. Assumes the world revolves around them. Frank’s a Sagittarius, so I should know,” she adds, continuing the disturbing trend of referring to her fourth husband as if he’s still alive, instead of cryogenically frozen somewhere in the California foothills.
“I mentioned brunch tomorrow, and he’s fine.”
Her clear aquamarine eyes taper onto mine with a scrutinizing look. “Tomorrow is Sunday; loosen it up a bit. I mean, nice suit but so serious. The black and the glasses—it’s all a little Cruella de Vil, don’t you think?”
“Maybe I borrow one of your caftans?” I tease.
She sniggers quietly. Despite her closet full of swirling rainbow-hued dresses, we both know theJoseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoatlook would drape on me like a potato sack. “You are a riot, dear. Somewhere in your closet lives a flirty sundress. Spaghetti straps, your cleavage tucked into a cute little ruched bodice—it saysI still own your ass no matter what I wear.”
I bite back a smile. “Okay, then. Skimpy cotton flying in.”
She presses a hand onto my desk, the ropey blue veins on the back the only evidence of her age. Evelyn plays doubles tennis four times a week and can polish off a twelve-ounce ribeye. Her next adventure is a springtime trek in the Himalayas.
Fierce is only the beginning.
“Thank goodness for you, my dear, dear savior,” she says. “I will milk you for what I can while you bide your time with me.”
“I like working here,” I say, defensiveness creeping into my voice.
“I know you do. But one day you’ll move on. All the good ones do.”
And all the bad ones, like my predecessor, Al Porter, get run out of town for good.
“My new life’s mission is to put Pink Pearl on the map. You’re stuck with me until that happens,” I half-joke.
“Dani,” she says, waving off my sad warning. “The heavy lifting is done. The labels you created are incredible. And that sunscreen brand Rhys promoted a few weeks ago? Sold out worldwide. His reach is incredible. I’m in good hands.” She eases out of the chair with a small grunt. “On that note, I better press the flesh and say hello. And it’s quitting time, dear. Time to shut it down.”
“I might hang in here for another hour,” I say. “The air conditioner conked out in my villa last night. It’s a bloody inferno.”
She gives me a long stare. “Did you call Zachary?”
Our winery handyman is known for pulling miracles out of his ass, but good luck trying to find a replacement part on a long weekend with potboiler temperatures expected.
“He’s on it,” I assure her. “But with the holiday, he said Tuesday is the earliest he can track down parts.”
“Be on him,” she says, pressing hard on the words.“Remember, make your voice and needs heard. You matter.”
I feel a lump spreading in my throat. Evelyn is the closest thing to a fairy godmother, and she arrived when I needed one the most. Not only has she forked out a hundred and fifty grand a year for my services—my highest salary ever—but after my former boss and lover did a number on me, she bolstered my bruised ego.
A note to career girls: please avoid the minefield of sleeping with your boss. Especially when he promises you the world and then proceeds to strip you of your dignity. Oh, and then gleefully enforces a draconian non-compete clause that makes it impossible to land another advertising job in Canada for two years. Through sheer audacity, luck, and a well-timed bottle of wine, I salvaged my career.
Point is, one workplace romance blew up my heartandlife, leaving me an island of a woman with a mind filled with doubts. Why create fresh havoc? Forget the butterflies that exploded in my stomach when Rhys and I shook hands.
He is a serious no-fly zone.
And only a fool makes the same mistake twice.
My villa, and I use that term loosely, is an old tractor shed Zachary converted into overflow housing for seasonal workers, a quaint and cramped five hundred square feet decorated with the best of IKEA. No one famous will ever set foot here. And the current indoor temperature feels like a tropical heat wave.
Jesus.
The still, heavy air smacks me in the face like a frying pan. I’d crank open every window for airflow, except there is none. While Evelyn schmoozes with Rhys, the profusely sweating part of me regrets declining her last-minute invite to bunk at her place for the night. But the other, determined part of me applauds the move.
