Chapter 5
Chapter Five
DANI
After Rhys leaves, I pour myself a glass of water, ring Amelia, and mentally prepare for the barrage of questions. And the volume at which they will be shrieked. Sure enough…
“Way to keep me hanging!” Amelia shouts into my ear. “What, where, when, how? All of it. Details, puh-lease.”
I wince, pulling the phone away from my ear. “Geez, Ames. Indoor voice.”
“Don't you dare 'indoor voice' me,” she huffs. “Spill!”
I take a deep breath and stare out the kitchen window, my eyes tracing the path that leads to his villa. The last twenty minutes feel like a pixelated blur, a whirlwind of emotions and revelations. I’m still reeling, my brain haywire from being laid bare in front of Rhys. His eyes lasered to my womanhood, and if intercourse could happen with a glance, he fucked me slow and dirty.
“Rhys came over to borrow some coffee cream.”
“Cream?” Amelia's voice drips with disappointment. “That's all you've got for me?"
I nod, then remember Amelia can't see me. “What do you want me to say?”
“How about the truth? I can hear your voice,” she says accusingly. “You’re holding back.”
We are finger-pinky swear besties and keep no secrets from each other. And who else but my sister can cherish the carnage of a near-legendary blunder that left my heart a tattered wreck? My entire world sharpened into focus in that quiet moment when all my secret spaces felt exposed under the blazing intensity of Rhys’s gaze. It felt private and incredibly intimate. It left me feeling unraveled. And not unbothered. From the question that floated within his eyes, Rhys sensed it too.
And the sexy had come off him like perfume.
If I needed proof of how unprecedented this incident falls within the spectrum of my existence, Exhibit A is Amelia’s concerning state when I wrap up: one of dead silence.
Then: “After a full naked takedown, with bloodshed, you nursed him in cut-offs?” Her voice leaks with disbelief. “You heroic little skank.”
I wait for her to say more. In the history of the Rialto Sisters, the undisputed fact is this: Amelia will grace me with her opinion/advice/counsel whether I want it or not. Being around my baby sister turns back the clock. I become the girl who needs validation.
An old habit that defines us.
In school, I struggled to get B’s. She breezed through a master’s in education. I was on a mission to get fired from every waitressing gig in Vancouver. She turned down a prof gig at The University of BC to start a podcast and, eventually, make babies. She is blonde to my dark. Spunky to my steady. The Disney princess to my gnarled witch.
(Yes, sometimes it feels like that.)
She hopped from boyfriend to boyfriend like there was a never-ending supply of mesmerized men willing to fall at her feet. I wrangled my beach volleyball body into classy suits and sat alone all night at the bar, watching drunk guys fawn over petite giggling blondes in Juicy Couture sweats.
And then, cherry on the sundae of her one-upmanship, she scores an interview with Rhys for her podcast. Every word, every laugh, every thoughtful pause of that interview lives permanently in my head. Rhys sounded so sweet. So kind. I was half-certain the universe Amelia has wrapped around her finger would have sent her jetting off to Corfu to canoodle with her new Trenton Bae had she not been happily married.
So, the butterflies I’m feeling right now are not just Rhys-induced. A bit of pride is involved.
Little old me scooped my baby sister for once.
Amelia clears her throat. “So? Now what?”
“Nothing. Other than business as usual.”
She snorts a laugh. “I can guarantee you he is not thinking that.”
“Just because I toppled onto him naked doesn’t mean I’ve become sexually fearless,” I counter. “Or that he’s even interested. It was an accident. Plain and simple.”
Although, it feels like anything but. Something fundamental shifted between us during my Nurse Rialto session. A flash of emotion had moved over his face and the effect of his proximity shimmered on my skin. The question is, do I risk my newly minted career on a summer fling? With one of the most recognizable humans on the planet?
“And he lives in Greece,” I say, firming it up in my mind.
“Not for the next five weeks,” she flips back. “I mean, I’m not encouraging anything,” she continues. “But?—”
“But you are.”
She heaves a sigh. “You could position it as spiritual cleansing of a former douchebag.”
I squirm around a familiar feeling. Just when I think I’ve packed away all the debris of my crushed self-esteem.
As if she can read my mind, Amelia’s voice dips. “Can I tell you my story now? I ran into him at Starbucks the other day.”
Something cold blooms in my chest. “And?”
“He pretended not to recognize me until I snagged his mochaccino and confronted him.”
Brett Winn is the person in reference. My ex-boyfriend, boss, and entitled loser. A cheater with a warped perspective of decency baked into his corrupt soul.
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “Tell me it ended without bloodshed."
“No literal blood spilled, but no one fucks over my sister without getting an earful.” Amelia's excitement is palpable even through the phone. “I tore a strip up and down him. Mini applause from the baristas.”
There is a threat to being in public with Amelia. She’s the person berating a chef if the meal sucks or shrugging off dirty looks when the clerk at the supermarket has to refund the ten cents he overcharged her.
“Was his assistant there?” I’m careful not to voice Lauren’s name. She’s the sleek, younger model Brett traded me in for.
“Queen of the Concubines stayed camped outside in his Maserati,” she says. “I spat on the sidewalk and pranced off with my latte.”
I rub my forehead, imagining the scene. “Jeez, Ames.”
“I believe it's, Thank you, dear sister, for humiliating a deserving creep. Oh, and the best part? The entire Starbucks groaned when I mentioned how he dumped you.”
“You didn’t?” I whisper-ask, knowing it’s a futile question. I can see her holding court as if she were the main attraction at The Globe Theatre. Mind you, it is Shakespearean and fucking tragic to casually inform your girlfriend of six months that I’m beyond your pay grade.
That sword to the gut still bleeds. If a hot but no-name executive can mash my soul under the heel of his three-hundred-dollar Italian loafer, conventional wisdom dictates that my attraction to the fabled Rhys can only end in disaster.
But his banter, poking fun at my coffee maker, threw me off. It felt real. Normal. For an influencer heavyweight, you’d think he’d have some kind of superstar affectation. Not fierce intelligence shining deeply in his eyes. Bald curiosity too.
And my entire villa had thickened with sexual tension.
Conventional? Not in the slightest.
Rhys Trenton saw me completely naked, and damn if he didn’t enjoy the view.
“By the way,” Amelia says, dragging me out of my thoughts. “You haven't said anything, right?”
I take a sip of water. “Of course not.”
Amelia swore me to secrecy. That I wouldn’t utter a word about her podcast to Rhys, or drop a single hint that my sister, current hausfrau and milk machine, was the infamous Easy A. Not that Rhys would cobble the pieces together. Amelia transformed into a wildly different persona for her podcast, from the spiky black wig to her posh British accent.
No one but her closest allies knew who she really was.
And when she ditched the podcast two years ago after her European honeymoon with Dean, I initially assumed pending motherhood was the cause. For someone whose life MO is balls-out, shoot first and ask questions later, it struck me as odd to bail when she was on the brink of success. But Amelia danced around my questions then, and she wants to bury her alter ego for reasons she continues to dance around.
So, I’m not surprised she wraps up the conversation with a brisk “good,” and we pivot to discussing our parents living their best retiree lives in the wilderness of Colombia.
Later in bed, naked and sweating through the sheets, I remind myself not to read too much into anything with Rhys. The problem with celebrities is that their attention can make you feel special. It's easy to get hooked on that fleeting warm glow. But what happens when the spotlight fades and you're left in a cold, Rhys-less world?
Better not to feel the heat at all.
Life officially changesat 10:38 on Sunday morning.
Lazing in bed with the blinds shut tight against the already fiendish heat, I power on my phone. Rhys had teased out his trip to Canada in a series of airport vignettes, and by tagging Nero Vino, our follower count had bumped up by a couple hundred. I navigate to Instagram, curious about what transpired overnight.
My private account loads first. I blink once, then twice, before a spacey feeling takes over my body. Wait. I must be hallucinating. It can’t be, but there it is—a friend request icon glowing red in the right-hand corner.
From Rhys.
I feel a feathering sensation at the back of my throat.
Are you shitting me?
I suppose using my actual name as a username and a real photo made it easy for him to track me down. Am I flattered? Any woman with a pulse would be. Rhys follows mega brands or fellow influencers—accounts teeming with tens of thousands of fans and spit-shined content. For him to acknowledge Dani Rialto and her dinky private account, currently stalled out at seven hundred and sixty-one followers?
I chew on the inside of my cheek, debating the ramifications of accepting his request. Not every human seeks worship and immortality on social media, and I’m content living with @Dani_Rialto as a speck of unimportance in the Instagram handle world. Do I need the added stress of having to curate my posts? Pose in full makeup and use filters to portray a fantasy life ten times better than my regular existence?
Ignoring the request for now, I flip to his feed. Our deal with Rhys guarantees he posts a daily story or reel along with a carousel. Monday is his official start day, but the impression he left is that of a team player willing to do what it takes.
And my suspicion proves accurate.
The video story he posted last night is classic Rhys: swinging in a hammock—the one I spent two days sourcing online. But, for once, the POV is not of his face and the dramatic vista of the Ionian Sea coastline sparkling behind him. Instead, against the star-filled sky, are his crossed and beautiful feet while he holds up a glass of rosé.
The caption reads, Pink Pearl guarantees sweet dreams.
Winky-face emoji.
Two thousand-plus comments.
Holy shit.
Flipping to the Nero Vino account, our follower numbers have risen by over fifteen hundred. A giddiness stirs within me, radiating to my fingertips and toes. It’s a known fact that brands blow up with his involvement, but to witness his Midas touch playing out in real time feels surreal.
That, however, is only half the story.
I fight back the stupid smile that's growing wider by the second.
That cheeky caption he wrote?
I will bet a million dollars he was not talking about wine.
Evelyn and Nicole Tanner are deep in conversation when I join them on the patio overlooking the vast blue waters of Lake Osoyoos.
“Hi,” I say breathlessly. “Sorry I’m late.”
I ran here after losing track of time, fretting over Rhys's friend request. It didn’t feel right to show up without accepting it. Now we’re internet buddies, for better or for worse.
“Ah, here she is.” Evelyn beams, embracing me in a hug. “My secret weapon, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Your timing is perfect. The caterer set everything up. All we need is our guest of honor.”
Like everything Evelyn masterminds, the brunch spread looks incredible.
On a platter ringed with fat, ripe cherries, poached eggs nestle in little nests of steamed spinach. There's whipped butter, jars of peach jam, and wildflower honey. The tang of sourdough spikes the air, and toasted slices are artfully arranged in a basket, cut thick, like the crispy strips of bacon glistening in the sun. Add in the backdrop of Evelyn’s dramatic modern home and the gold-plated view, and our little tableau under the shade of a pergola screams the best of wine country.
As Evelyn buzzes around the table, adjusting everything, Nicole reaches into the front pocket of her faded overalls for a stick of nicotine gum. “I heard he kept you waiting yesterday,” she says, gruff and notably unimpressed as she unwraps and wads the gum into her mouth. “He better not pull that same bullshit with me.”
A former fast-talking tort lawyer, Nicole reinvented herself with viticulture, finding her true calling amongst tangled vines and an industry more prone to self-importance than the law. Tall and wiry, but deceptively strong, with slate-gray hair cut short, at a distance you might mistake her for a man.
But Nicole is a passionate woman when it comes to wine.
“By the way,” Evelyn says, “I had a lovely discussion with Rhys last night. So down to earth!” She removes her sunglasses, offering a pleased flicker of her eyebrow. “And he said you were very accommodating.”
“I did my job,” I say. “I’m glad he appreciated that.” But the thrill of hearing that he did warms my insides.
“Oh, yes,” she assures me. “He gushed on and on. How did it go with the coffee cream mission? He seemed eager to get that sorted out.”
“Oh?” Nicole perks up. “Is that why you’re late?”
“No!” I blush redder than the cherries. “I mean, yes, he came over. For the cream. Nothing more. I told him to reach out if he needs anything.”
Evelyn and Nicole share a look. I’m rambling, filling the space like I always do. The slow-spinning floor fans on the patio feel like soldiers designated to keep my pathetic denials from floating away.
Evelyn smooths the front of her emerald caftan. “I think he’s delighted to be under your watchful eyes.”
Her gaze falls onto my dress, and she nods with silent approval. The dark blue sundress clings nicely before flaring into a breezy A-line. I styled my hair into two thick braids and paired it with silver hoop earrings. The overall look says casual but classy— we are moving on from yesterday.
Or so I hope.
“I think he’s delighted to make a million dollars,” I point out. “That’s why he’s here. Let’s not fool ourselves. And, for the record, every woman knows you don’t fall for man candy like Rhys. He’s a guaranteed broken heart.”
Nicole clears her throat and straightens in the chair, chin lifting slightly. Evelyn stills, tipping her head side to side, like a bird. Or like someone who is trying to give me a clue.
Shit.
Too late.
Just when I think Jesus has decided I have humiliated myself enough in front of this man, a deep rolling voice comes from right behind me.
“Morning.”