Chapter 3
Chapter Three
DANI
There has to 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 after the 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 did look at 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 from The 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 of Opium perfume.
“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.
“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 the Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat look 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 says I 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 heart and life, 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.
After hiring me, Evelyn insisted I live rent-free for the summer to test out winery life before sourcing a permanent place. Every perk and advantage she’s offered without hesitation.
But too much reliance on generosity can become a crutch.
I came here to stand tall in a new life.
That means accepting the good, the bad, and the ugly.
And the occasional night of brutal hell.
In my tiny bedroom, I peel off every article of clothing that clings to me like a lost child. Unclasp the Tiffany watch Mom and Dad surprised me with before they left town on their South American adventure.This week, they're deep in the Colombian jungle on a trek to Cuidad Perdida. Out of the cell zone for two weeks. We’re a chatty family, so the radio silence has been unusual.
But my younger sister, Amelia, more than makes up for the silence. And she's calling me right on time. Eight p.m. is our magic hour, when my godsons, Alex and Elliot, are passed out full of breast milk, and her husband, Dean, is at the gym, sweating out the stress of stockbroker life.
I’ve barely said hello when she blurts out: “Give it to me straight. How hot is Rhys in person?”
“On the perfection scale of one to ten?” I ask. “Two million.”
“Every detail please,” she moans. “I am an endless vessel of gossip need. Feed me.”
The thread of desperation in her voice is real. Before her pregnancy, Amelia flirted with low-level stardom as a celebrity gossip podcast host. For an ADD chatterbox fixated on dishing dirt and rumors, Easy A Gets the Scoop was a near-perfect vocation. And, continuing the annoying trend of being the first at everything—periods, boyfriends, kids—Amelia discovered Rhys long before he infiltrated my world.
“He seems pretty down to earth,” I say. A little flirty, I don’t say.
“Did you two vibe?”
Amelia white-washed over her jealousy when she found out I would trump her in the meeting-Rhys department, but I hear the slight edge that has crept into her voice.
“I’m his boss,” I say. “Will we become besties? I highly doubt it. After his five-week tour of duty, he’ll be on the first plane out of here. Paycheck cashed.” I stare down at the swollen slabs of flesh supporting me. “Woman with two pieces of plywood for feet long forgotten.”
Amelia makes a frustrated sound. “First of all, get over your feet. Secondly,I will trade you six ways to Sunday for my giant ass.”
“Men crave a big booty,” I counter, although I’m secretly glad she has some flaw. “No guy ever said square and arch-less size-ten pontoons gave them all the feels.”
“Speaking of crave.” Her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. “Any idea if the rumors are true?"
Men make up fifty percent of Rhys’s fan base, and they shamelessly post cringe-inducing comments on his feed. My gaydar is far from bulletproof, but he did not give off those vibes in the slightest. Not when the fire of his obvious head-to-toe reduced me to ashes.
“Uhm, sorry, sis. You and Just Jared are barking up the wrong tree.”
“We have no idea what happens off camera,” she flips back. “Sixteen years of posting and not a single pic or video with a girlfriend? Doubtful that a hottie influencer in his sexual prime chooses celibacy.”
The sun has started to set, casting a golden hue outside the “clothing optional” Dani Rialto Resort. My skin feels clammy from sweat leaking out of every pore. I pace around the couch, afraid to sit and getting stuck to the pleather.
“Is it a big deal either way?” I ask. “And why do you care so much?”
I know the answer she will inevitably skirt around. Rhys represents a lifestyle Amelia aspired to as a teen—luxury, the high life. She started her podcast to be one step closer to that fantasy world. Permanent hiatus be damned, the burning need to spread hearsay like butter rages endlessly within her. I’ve often wondered how she sustains her marriage to Dean, her nerdy high school sweetheart and the quintessential guy next door, who considers Family Guy reruns and changing diapers the height of a Friday night.
“I don’t really care,” she says, backpedaling like I knew she would. “But we have discussed this, and you have on-the-ground intel.”
Her bruised tone lands heavily like the ferocious heat my one struggling fan in the bedroom can't keep up with. I need airflow, or Dani will melt into a puddle. Me and my nakedness beeline for the barn-style door that acts as the east-facing wall. It swings out instead of in, and because of its age and lack of use, the wood has tightened against the frame. It takes serious beef to wedge it loose.
Another thing Zachary said he would fix and hasn’t.
“I will suss things out,” I say, appeasing her. “And I promise to report back.” Pressing the phone between my shoulder and ear, I turn slightly and prepare for contact with ancient wood. “But the odds of Rhys and me hooking up are tinier than an atom,” I add. “And remember what happened with?—”
“Do not utter the name that shall not be repeated in our lifetime,” Amelia interrupts. “And on that slimy note, I have a great story to share."
Before another batch of gossip rolls off her tongue, I bang my raw, athletic ability against the door. But instead of the defiant squeak of resistant lumber, the door flings open.
It all happens so fast after that.
I hear a dull thud, followed by a cry of surprise, and then, “Ow! Shit.”
The phone slips out of my outstretched hands, disappearing into the abyss of the wide-open space I fall into. My stumbling ass lurches into a shell-shocked Rhys as he staggers on the frazzled grass with a crimson stream gushing from his nose.
Then we're both falling, the ground rushing to meet us.