My Grape Crush (The Trenton Troublemakers, #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

DANI

I, Dani Rose Rialto, thirty-one and of relatively sane mind, blame the internet. And if you say passing the buck is an annoying millennial trend you could live without, that’s fair. Own your shit, snowflake, right? The point is, no one asked me if an invention connecting humanity for better or for worse was a good idea.

I had zero say or control.

And now I’m a veritable case study on the dangers of doom-scrolling videos posted by beautiful and unattainable men.

Genuine social media addiction fueled by the World Wide Web is responsible for this tragedy. How else did I develop my all-consuming crush on influencer Rhys Trenton? The golden boy of Instagram lives halfway around the world on the Greek island of Corfu. He spends his mornings strolling the grounds of his cliffside palazzo flush with million-dollar brand deals and sipping craft espresso.

I drink drip coffee from 7-11. The only million I've seen is the price tag for a fixer-upper in the 'burbs that could double as a meth lab.Up until two months ago, my digs were a cramped East Vancouver apartment with the down payment funded by the Bank of Mom and Dad.

In no legitimate universe should the paths of Rhys and I ever cross.

And yet, here we are, summer thick in the air, fated together as boss and star spokesman in the sleepy summer wine town of Osoyoos, BC.

I squint into the early evening sun. Under the brilliant expanse of sky, the limo ferrying Rhys comes into focus. It snakes back and forth, switchbacking as it rises up the hill striped green with rows of neatly ordered grape vines. Welcome to Nero Vino—the Okanagan Valley’s most decorated winery and my current employer, who, in all honesty, hired me as the head of marketing because of the internet.

Maybe I'll hold off on the blame game.

Right now, I have other priorities—like trying not to melt.

It’s forty degrees in the shade and there is none in the winery parking lot where the August heat radiates around me like a sauna. My current mood is mildly irritated courtesy of Rhys being seven hours late. And he can’t hold the airlines accountable because his business class flights from Athens to London to Vancouver landed on time. Plus, he had two hours to make his connection at the Vancouver airport.

Who falls asleep in the Air Canada lounge?

By missing his final flight into Kelowna, I lost an hour of my life scrambling to find a car service willing to travel four hundred kilometers on a long weekend.

One-way.

Three grand and half a day later, the angelic face hired to promote our rosé rolls up in a glossy black stretch limo. Familiar disco beats thump from the open sunroof, syncing with my thudding heart.

He’s here. Like, six feet away from me.

I tell myself to play it cool, but my Ted Baker suit feels shrink-wrapped to my skin, and I'm chaos on the inside, chest pinched and pulse cranking higher.

And what is the name of that song? I know it. Before it comes to me, the limo door swings open, and a tanned foot in a white flip-flop lands on the sun-baked gravel, kicking up a puff of dust.

I feel a sudden, dizzying wave of swoon factor.

Feet factor heavily in my world, thanks to Gordon Rialto, my recently retired podiatrist father. Sadly, his Friendly Giant gene pool saddled me with flat, size-ten flippers that every dainty sandal runs screaming away from.

Rhys has flawless feet, of course. Arched and smooth with straight toes and trimmed nails. Why go to the trouble of creating the world’s most arresting human without head-to-toe quality control? His feet are the only body parts I haven’t memorized because he never films them.

But the rest of him? I can recite every detail with painful accuracy.

Or I could if he didn't step out of the limo and steal my breath away.

Dear god.

I blink and smile, literally digging my heels into the hot rocks to resist the force of his magnetism. Never before have I felt the desire to throw myself at someone so completely.

“Hey there,” he says. “Are you Dani?” His voice sounds quizzical but also rich and decadent—the vocal equivalent of whipped cream.

“That’s me. Dani Rialto, head of marketing. Glad you finally made it.” I thrust my hand out, and a small beat passes before his bronzed, elegant fingers twine with mine. Was he expecting a fist bump?

“Yeah, sorry about missing the flight.” He flashes a smile full of perfect white teeth. “It’s not the first time I’ve crashed in an airport lounge.”

“Happens to everyone, right?” I say, when in fact, I know a total of zero people who drop off the radar in an international airport while their agent unleashes fire and brimstone on me. Said agent—human Rottweiler Bettina Weber—grudgingly cut me some slack after I reminded her that she insisted on being the point person while Rhys traveled.

But whatever.

The warmth of his touch melts away the frantic afternoon. I’m dimly aware of pumping his hand beyond normal time limitations, buying time to trawl over his features that previously only graced my screen. The papercut jawline. Skin sun-darkened and glowing. Flaxen hair styled in the iconic feathered shag that spawned a worldwide craze—the male version of “The Rachel.”

Jesus, he’s breathtaking,

“I hope you didn’t wear the suit and heels for me,” he says, his faint European accent making him even sexier. “Aren’t you burning up? It's a furnace out here.”

I lick my lips, dry as the desert I’m living in. “You must be used to the heat living in Greece.”

He disconnects his fingers from mine, and my brain silently screams— No! Come back. Then he slides his hot-pink Ray-Bans down the straight slope of his nose and studies me as if a woman rocking leopard-print eyewear is an unknown species.

“This heat feels different,” he says, eyes fixated on mine. “More intense.”

I feel my lungs squeeze under my ribcage.

How many nights have I spent captivated by those cinnamon-tinted irises? The in-person effect is embarrassingly the same: weak knees and a staggering surge of desire.

There is hot, and then there is Rhys.

He’s taller than I imagined and adorably rumpled in a purple tee stamped with BLUE MARLIN, loose-fitting, like his board shorts. As the hypnotic music swirls around us, the song's name finally hits me. I bite back a laugh, thinking this is certifiably ridiculous.My internet crush stands before me with Donna Summer crooning “I Feel Love”?

Come on.

Like he’s just tuned into the sensual, driving beats, Rhys shouts into the open door of the limo, “Hey, Colin! Can you kill the tunes?”

Donna abruptly snuffs out, and the silence somehow sounds louder. The driver's side window lowers to reveal a round-faced boomer with mutton chops and big ole affable Canadian energy.

“Hello!” He gallantly tips the brim of his ten-gallon hat. “Where should I drop the bags?”

For the benefit of both men, I point at a standalone bungalow commanding the sloped hill to our left.“That’s your villa. Fully stocked and ready to go.”

“10-4,” Colin says. “Meet you up there, sir.”

He eases the limo around us, the tires kicking up tendrils of powdery dirt. Rhys hooks his sunglasses into the V of his t-shirt, scanning his new surroundings while I steal another glance at him. Rhys and I are the same age, born and raised in Vancouver, but the similarities end there. He shines differently. I can’t explain it. Is it his fame? His brand of oh-so-relatable charm? Or maybe the dust particles swirling around him like atomic streamers create the illusion.

“Do you need me for anything?” Rhys nudges me out of my private thoughts. “Or is it cool if I cut out? I need a shower big-time.”

“Nothing’s on the agenda tonight, but Evelyn hopes you can join her and Nicole for brunch tomorrow. Nicole’s our winemaker,” I explain, in case the Nero Vino information packet I FedExed to Greece two weeks ago ended up in his recycle bin unread.

His brow furrows. “But I’m not on the clock until Monday, right?”

I open my mouth and then quickly shut it. Bettina tortured me for days, grinding out the details of Rhys’s contract. Drilled into me are the terms: we have him ten to five, Monday to Friday. Weekends down. Five weeks of videos, photo shoots, vlogs, and posts in exchange for a million dollars.

Could he squeeze in one extra Sunday meal on the house?

“I’m joking.” Rhys knocks his elbow against mine with a grin, clearly seeing through my attempt to hide the “ Are you kidding me? ” expression. “Tell me where to be and when. I’m psyched to meet Evelyn. She sounds like a trip.”

That’s one way of describing Evelyn Maclaren, the madcap heiress and owner of Nero Vino. An opinionated and charismatic force of nature, she continues to milk every drop out of life at the tender age of sixty-nine.

“She’s a huge fan of yours,” I say, not that one more admirer moves the needle in his world. “Anyone who likes history is in her good books.”

I should mention that Rhys isn’t your run-of-the-mill influencer. A history buff with a reported 139 IQ, he left Canada at the age of fifteen to explore the mysteries of ancient Europe and never came home. In his videos, he rambles about the Greeks and Romans while hawking everything from beachwear to shampoo to his thirty million followers.

And he’s a thinking man. Stamped on a medallion that hangs from the gold chain around his neck is a profile of Seneca, his favorite philosopher. He never wears any other jewelry.

“And you’ll be at brunch?” Rhys adds, sounding hopeful, if I’m not mistaken.

“I’ll be everywhere for the next five weeks. You’re my responsibility. I live in that villa over there.” I point west at a more modest building buried behind prickly pear cactuses and tangled clumps of sagebrush. “And Bettina said she sent you my cell number. We can communicate directly now that you’re here. Text me if you need anything.”

After a beat, he tilts his head. “Is that a twenty-four-seven guarantee?”

I feel my cheeks pink—something in his voice and how he gazes down at me, sweetly amused.

Holy shit. Is he flirting with me?

I dismiss it as sucking up. He knows what side his bread is buttered on. You don’t piss off your boss. But laying down ground rules never hurt.

“ If you run out of jellybeans at midnight,” I say, “you’re on your own.”

He laughs, idly stroking his hair. “So, Bettina schooled you on my infamous rider. You probably think I’m some kind of high-maintenance idiot, huh?”

“Who am I to judge if you need a mattress imported from Sweden to sleep at night?”I ask with an innocent but slightly judgmental shrug.

He smiles through another laugh. “I’ll sleep on rocks as long as I have my coffee and jellybeans.”

Forgetting that maybe I shouldn’t slag his manifesto of demands, I roll on. “At a hundred dollars a bag, that Blue Mountain coffee better taste damn good.”

His eyes light on me. I like that he's loose and not getting offended. But then again, Rhys embodies carefree boho. And there is that million-dollar fee.

“Come over one morning for a cup,” he says. “Happy to host.”

In his voice, along with playfulness, there is kindness. But I don’t want to overestimate the importance of his offer. He is Canadian, after all—being nice comes with the territory, and I’ve lived through the wreckage of punching above my weight. Gorgeous celebrities like Rhys have sleek Monaco supermodels on speed dial. A tall and curvy punk-rock-loving wine marketer from East Van perspiring in a suit capturing his attention?

I’m not that delusional.

But is there something else behind the twinkle in his eyes?

“Speaking of beverages,” I continue, “enjoy the complimentary bottles of Pink Pearl in your fridge. You should become intimate with the rosé you’re here to promote.”

“Awww,” Rhys says, adding “precious” to the adjectives my sister Amelia and I use whenever we fervently and frequently discuss him. “You didn’t have to do that. Appreciate it, Dani.” In the pause that follows, he looks at me with a focused kind of warmth. “Is that short for Danielle?”

“No,” I say. “Just Dani.”

He regards me a second too long for normal, eyes traveling down to my legs and back up again. It's a boldly intimate gaze.

“Just Dani,” he repeats. “Got it.”

He cracks a big yawn, arms stretching overhead, his shirt hem riding up to show off his lightly muscled abs.All that smooth skin stretches down to the barest fuzzy trail disappearing into his shorts. I work not to break eye contact and continue to breathe deeply through my wildly raging and improper thoughts.

Can he tell I’m ten percent in love with him?

“Well,” he says, “as good as you look in that suit, I’m sure you’d rather clock out and change into something more comfortable.” And just as I think I’m not imagining there’s some heft to our flirty exchange, he flashes me his signature goodbye, index and middle finger shaped into a V. “Peace out, and thanks for the hustle getting me here. I owe you one.”

He jogs up the slope to his villa, graceful as an antelope, and, okay, the extra three grand it cost to deliver his rather fine and firm ass at my feet? Officially forgotten. But I can still feel the spotlight of his smile like a hot lance on my skin.

That's going to haunt me all night.