Chapter 2
Chapter Two
RHYS
I’m not the details guy. Never have been, never will. Bettina takes her cut from my earnings for the hassle of sifting through the minutiae I can live without. She feeds me the critical stuff, but the ball got dropped somewhere along the line. How did I miss that Dani was a woman? And not just your standard female, like every other blonde out there.
Serious babe-town alert.
A suit, so technically not my type, but those surreal and mystical gray eyes behind hot-librarian glasses? Sign me the hell up.
Colin rolls my two suitcases inside and pauses, admiring the villa. It’s polished and sleek, with an open floor plan and furniture that’s all clean lines and rectangles. Lots of greige. The kind of space Marie Kondo would take one look at and say , “My work here is done.”
“You’ll do just fine here, Rhys,” he concludes. “Especially with a boss as pretty as yours.”
His eyes are bright and playful as he shoots me a buddy wink. My own laugh catches me by surprise. Pretty? Try jettisoned onto Earth from some alternate dimension where Glamazons run free. Have I ever seen a mouth that tempting? Cherry-red blasphemy on a flawless, pale face worthy of a shrine. The immaculate luster of her hair, black as sin and hanging halfway down her back, gave rise to treacherous thoughts that continue to swirl in my brain.
Is it wrong to visualize mounting someone you just met?
“Thanks, man,” I say. “And I appreciate you lending an ear.”
I fish a crumpled hundred Euro note from my pocket and hand it over. Colin tucks it into his slacks, examining me with a thoughtful expression.
“I hope you find the strength to sort things out,” he says. “We only have so much time on this earth.”
He steps in to hug me, and why the hell not? During the five-hour drive, I’d spilled my life story. That’s how it goes, right? It's far easier to vent your demons to a stranger.Well, slight correction. “Demons” make me sound rage-filled or unhinged. The trending PC word is “issues,” and I have plenty of them.
One of the reasons I agreed to this gig is its proximity to the issues that need sorting.
Man-hug in the can, Colin leaves me to scope out my temporary home. Bettina assured me the accommodations were five-star—paramount for a guy who spends most of his spare time in a hammock. I wander into the bedroom for a closer look at the damn bed she insisted on. All my counterparts were supposedly padding out their riders with outrageous asks, and since arguing with Bettina is like showing up at the Battle of Normandy with a butter knife, I sucked it up.
Now I wish I’d pushed back.
Under the vaulted ceiling and extravagant tiered chandelier, the “it” mattress, filled with horsehair and guaranteed to make me sleep like an immortal vampire, looks like any other bed.
Forty grand of stupidity for a five-week stint?
What a waste of money.
I'll ask Evelyn if we can donate it to Dani later. Anyone who survives seven hours of micromanaging me through Bettina deserves a reward. Plus, Dani surprised me—beyond just being a woman.Instead of acting all gaga, like an overpaid influencer is effecting real change in the world, she had no problem taking the piss out of me and my vast credentials. And some tall women are self-conscious about their height, but she held my gaze.
All five foot ten of her, give or take.
I wash my hands in the master bathroom, deliberating long and hard on her teasing. Friendly or flirty? I can never tell the difference. Maybe a distraction is what I need. Five weeks with a bunch of strangers worried me at first, but the nerves have dwindled. Dani seems normal. And with women and me, normal is a rarity.
I seem to attract all the unstable ones.
On cue, my phone buzzes deep in my pocket. I slide it out, skim the message, and white noise roars in my ears. How did Myla Borak wrangle my number?
MB: Hiii! Miss me yet? xoxo
I wouldn’t describe our time together as emotionally potent, and is it even possible to miss a first-class nut job? I shut my eyes and sink against the tiled counter edge, my mind tumbling backward into last week.
My buddy Dmitri tagged us all for a rager on his yacht, and it felt like a good idea at the time. A new house DJ would spin under the stars. Legendary refreshments. Plus, I needed a night out.
An hour into the party, I was buzzing from wicked tunes and smooth Stoli on ice when a blonde—more trashy-glam than pretty—plopped into the hot tub beside me and started talking my ear off.
Myla and Dmitri were supposedly an item , a term harder to pin down in the hedonistic trust-funder social groups I move in. (“ She’s not your girl; it's just your turn ,” is how they explain it.) Five minutes into our mindless conversation, I surmised Myla was one of those women in the Mediterranean famous for doing nothing but hopping from bed to bed. I also have a sixth sense for when people are a little off, and the arrow tilted into the danger zone with her.
Sure enough, when two in the morning rolled around, guess who staggered into the taxi with me for the ride home?
Sleeping with her was a giant mistake.
The next morning, I peeled out of bed at noon and found her watering my potted herbs in the kitchen. I did the polite thing and made us coffee. Then I dropped several hints about my busy day. But it went in one ear and out the other because she asked me if I wanted pasta or salad for lunch. Yup. An unmistakable Crazy. I forcibly had to eject her, and we most definitely did not exchange numbers.
My eyes pop open, and I stare at the wall, unblinking.
This all points to Dmitri.
He sailed off the next morning without Myla and sent me a thumbs-up emoji.
What a dick.
Deleting Myla’s text, I try to forget how ill I felt, succumbing to a one-night stand. But sometimes the dark, empty nights are too much. Life as a famous influencer has made relationships borderline impossible, and my daily DM bombardment is a banquet of questionable opportunities from the Crazies. Marriage proposals. Dick and pussy pics. The sheer volume of batshit weirdos is undeniably frightening.
To maintain my sanity, I refuse to look anymore.
Because there’s always another stan like Myla, who, after I gave her the boot, liked every single one of my posts, and that shit goes back sixteen years.
It takes a certain kind of woman to make me feel comfortable, and I’ve almost given up hope of finding her. But there was something about Dani that put me at ease. I felt a tenderness underneath the sharp suit. The odds of her being single feel slim, and even if she was, what buttoned-up career girl views a beach bum as a dream date?
And it’s not as if I captured her heart.
She has to be nice to me.
I sigh with my entire body, exhaustion creeping in. A good night’s sleep will help me reset, but adjusting to the new time zone will take even longer if I crash now.
Time to break in my shiny new espresso maker.
I hit the kitchen and pull a shot in no time. As I search the fridge for cream, my phone buzzes—a call, not a text. I have a feeling I know who it is. Sure enough, Trenton Talent Management flashes on the screen.
I’d rather not talk to my eldest brother, Sawyer, but it's better to face the music now and get it over with. I pop in my earbuds and answer with my most uninspired voice, “Hey.”
A perky female voice replies, “Hi, Rhys. It’s Janelle, Sawyer’s secretary. I’ll connect you.”
Oh yeah, silly me. Agents are too important to call you directly. And now that Sawyer has had the reins of our family business handed to him by our ailing father, he’s even more insufferable—if that’s humanly possible.
Ten seconds later, the sunshine of my life cuts through the lame hold muzak.“What the hell happened at the airport?” Sawyer barks.
“Hi. How’s it going?”
“Don’t deflect,” he saysin that big brother tone meant to put me in my place. Practical and perfectly over-achieving, Sawyer often comes across as blunt and sanctimonious.
Because, well, he is.
“One thing led to another. No big deal. I’m here.”
“Yes, it is a big deal,” he corrects. “It’s the optics. Act like you give a shit. They’re paying you a million dollars.”
I slam the fridge shut. No cream. Great. Black coffee sucks.
“Let me guess, you’ve never missed a flight.” Sawyer’s love affair with punctuality hasn’t hit OCD levels yet, but any day now.
“That’s not the point, Rhys. As surprising as it may seem, there’s more going on with this deal than just you.” His voice is very level, but there’s a sound in it like a warning.
“Meaning?”
“Nero Vino hosts a summer concert series. Their outdoor amphitheater is a perfect venue to showcase some of our up-and-coming bands.”
On one of our rambling FaceTimes two months ago, my middle brother, JC, a seriously talented musician also repped by the family biz, said the music division had taken a hit. Sawyer was on the prowl to sign the next big thing and leverage up the smaller players.
“So you’re trying to piggyback on me.” I pose it as a statement, not a question.
After a terse pause, he says, “Yes, of course. It’s all about you, baby brother.”
I irritate the hell out of Sawyer, mostly because I make twice the cash he does with eighty percent less effort. And because I abandoned Canada and left him to carry the burden of running the family business, he gets the joy of having to live up to the legacy of our father.
But Sawyer could have said no.
That’s the thing about my older brother—for all his whey powder and workouts, he’s a weakling. The world kicks out at him, and he kicks back, but not fucking hard enough.
“I’ve got to jump on another call,” he says. “But I’m coming up on Tuesday afternoon to tour the property with Dani.”
Tuesday. Damn. There goes my plan for avoiding him.
“And I was hoping you could do me a favor,” Sawyer adds.
He’s trying for casual, but within his usual flat and domineering delivery, I hear a sliver of uncertainty.
I slurp down some coffee. “I’m listening.”
“You met with Dani today, right?”
I try to deaden my curiosity. The truth is, I’m still feeling the echo of interest in my shorts. “Yeah. Why?”
“We’ve exchanged a few emails since Evelyn officially booked you. She seems on it. Professional. Her LinkedIn photo is cute.” He clears his throat. “Can you do some recon?”
Juggling the coffee in one hand, I use the other to slide open the patio door. “As in, suss out if she’s single?”
“Don’t tell her I asked,” he immediately says.
I step outside and, despite talking with Sawyer, my mouth twitches into a smile. Strung between two posts and overlooking the still turquoise water of my plunge pool is the one thing in my rider I care about. Bless Dani. She picked the perfect hammock.
I ease into it, legs dangling off one side. “Does this mean you’re officially out of your divorce mourning period?”
“After a year, it’s about time,” Sawyer admits, which, for him, is a floodgate of emotions opening up. “And, speaking of time, are you planning to visit Dad while you’re here?”
I finish my coffee, which now leaves a bitter taste on my tongue. “How’s he doing?”
“As good as someone forced to leave behind the only thing that matters to him can be.”
Dad had a stroke eight months ago. Sawyer took the CEO reins, and from what JC has told me, he’s doing a decent job of running the joint.
“I have to see what the schedule’s like.” I’m noncommittal as ever with the topic of my father.
“He asks about you all the time,” Sawyer says quietly.
My heart does this funny up-and-down thing. The great Peter Trenton. Self-made millionaire. Universally adored. Always the brightest smile and the coldest eyes.
“Really? Does he have dementia now, too?”
Sawyer sighs dramatically. I can see him pinching the bridge of his nose, strangled by his tie and relentless commitments, sitting in his cave of an office and wondering what happened to the best years of his life.
“Why do you have to be such a dickwad?” he asks. “Ditching the family not enough for you?”
“You know damn well why I left.”
“Despite what you think, Dad never hated you.”
The knot in my stomach tightens. Any psychologist armed with the basics of my life could lay down a surefire assessment of why my life unfolded the way it did—why I live alone on an island and make a fortune connecting with strangers. They say success is the best revenge, but when you wake up feeling hollow inside, how is that a win?
“Yeah, whatever,” I say. “Take your other call.”
“Don’t forget about Dani, okay?”
I hang up, the memories crowding in—blurry, yet sharp enough never to forget. I can still hear Dad’s voice drifting out of his study, laying out his genius plan to straighten out his youngest son. And Sawyer, he had the chance to back me up but didn’t. So, at fifteen, I bought a one-way ticket to London and left home with my heart falling apart.
And now he wants my help?
What I didn’t tell him is that I clocked the no ring on Dani’s finger—a long-standing and necessary habit. The married Crazies are the worst.
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.