Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
DANI
I pull up to Rhys’s villa the next morning at seven. He’s waiting on the porch, earbuds in, grooving to the music. A tiny hit of adrenaline hits me when I stare at him. He looks like an ad for a premium Greek vacation, skin an impossible shade of creamy mocha. All that tanned glory showcased in a mesh tank top faded to a soft violet.
He is a living, breathing example of how to glow up.
A half smile plays around his mouth as I park and lower my window. He pops out his earbuds, pockets them, and glides forward.
“Morning,” I say.
He scopes out my candy-apple red Toyota Tacoma with an approving nod. “Nice ride. I didn’t figure you to be a truck girl. What year is this?”
“2015.”
He leans on the door without warning, poking his head in to admire the flawless interior. (I may or may not be addicted to Armor-All.)
“Vintage. Sweet. And stick, too.” His laser-beam gaze slides from the stick shift onto me, and he lets out a low whistle. “Damn, girl.”
His undeniable fragrance of heady spiced vanilla wafts over me, and the feeling in my chest is sharper than giddiness. Historically, I’m a pathetic mess around men this pretty. How am I not supposed to fall off the deep end with Rhys and his still-damp hair curling seductively around both ears?
“I have a present for you.” His grin is more angel than devil.
A little thrill shoots up my spine. “What for?”
“I promise you’ll like it.” He raps his knuckles in a one-two against the sheet metal. “Sit tight.”
Returning to the porch, he slings his knapsack over one shoulder and scoops up two Nero Vino-branded to-go thermoses perched on the railing. I crank open his door as he rounds the truck with full hands.
Before sliding in, he offers me one of the thermoses. “I made you a real coffee. Took a wild guess you are cream with no sugar.”
“Thank you,” I say, sweetly surprised.
Our fingers graze during the handoff, and a tingle of stars shoots up my arm. It’s a small, stupid thing. This isn’t on the scale of picking winning lottery numbers. He had a one-in-four chance of striking the right combo—black, with cream, with sugar, or with both. And yet, the kindness of his gesture feels like he handed me a million-dollar prize. Not even two days and he has me under his spell, and I haven’t the slightest clue how to escape.
Rhys drops his knapsack in the back seat and parks himself in the passenger seat. He shuts the door, sealing us in with the complex, chocolatey scent of his fine coffee.
“Cheers,” he raises his thermos, “for saving the photo shoot.”
After ditching the gang at brunch yesterday, my afternoon became a masterclass in groveling, begging for non-existent hotel rooms and twice-oversold business-class seats. Our female model, Heather, hemmed and hawed but agreed to cut short her long weekend in exchange for a small bump in her day rate. Come seven p.m., I had pulled enough rabbits out of my ass to deserve someone else cooking me dinner.
Rhys texted just as my lasagna landed on the table at Campo Marina, the local Italian restaurant.
RT: Wanna hit the lake? Sunset looks killer.
Since arriving in June, I’ve spent most evenings at the lake. With kids and families packed away for the night, the tranquility worked its relaxing magic. I swam to the Nero Vino private floating raft and bobbed, stretched out on my back, while the sunset exploded in fiery oranges and reds around me.
I loved the stillness, the air alive, expectant.
So Rhys’s text did tempt. The urge to dump my pasta and wine refill into my Coach bag and bolt back hovered near ninety-eight percent.
But then the other two percent took hold.
And I cursed my professionalism for holding sway over me.
DR: Sorry, tonight won’t work.I just sat down for dinner.
And because I didn’t want to come across as unfriendly, I followed up with:
DR: Rain check?
To which Rhys instantly replied:
RT: Sweet. Holding you to that.
And I know he will. There’s an efficiency behind his casualness. Rhys is a man of his word.
I tip my Thermos against his and smile. “All in a day’s work, right?”
I drink deeply, the balanced richness like liquid silk. Full-bodied and eruptive on the tongue. Heavenly.
Rhys clocks my satisfaction. “Worth it?”
“Five stars. Exactly what you should be drinking in that bed.”
“Wearing a crown and ordering my servants around?” he teases.
I laugh at the image—so unlike his stripped-down vibe. “Something like that.”
“Consider Café Corfu officially open for business,” he says. “We also deliver.”
I feel the intensity of his eye contact. I was hoping the power of his attractiveness would lessen overnight—flaws would surface, or jerk behavior—but none of those things are true. Now he’s confirmed as considerate and thoughtful.
It scares the hell out of me.
I look down, heart thudding, until the feeling of being lost in our own private world passes us by.
Rhys is first to break our companionable silence. “I made a killer road trip playlist. Do you mind if I connect?”
“Did you whip together some punk rock classics just for me?”
Rhys slides his thermos between his muscled thighs and tugs out a phone from bold flamingo-print board shorts. “I like clatter as much as the next guy, but…”
“What?” I ask in mock-offense. “Furious howls and shredding jams do nothing for you?”
An air of amusement lights up his face. “I could get used to it,” he stretches out the word could. “If someone were willing to convince me.”
The unspoken innuendo makes something flip inside me.Rhys is famous for many things, chief among them being unafraid to dance on camera like no one is watching, to a steady stream of house music he adores. Would he survive if I dragged him into a mosh pit filled with punkers and their safety-pinned clothing?
But if he’s willing to give it a shot, maybe he’s not the music snob I am.
I snug my thermos into the cup holder and reverse down the hill.
Within seconds, Rhys has connected into my system. “Do you want me to set the GPS to Yvette’s address?” he asks.
After straightening out the truck, I shift into first. My eyes flicker to his. “You read my email.”
“You did hire a professional,” he says without sounding arrogant. “Who plans to ease you into the beauty of house music. All you need to do is drive.”
As we bump down the winery road and sultry beats start to flow out of the speakers, Rhys opens up the sunroof. Bathed in the golden glow of a new morning and his infectious mood, the tight ball of stress in my stomach that’s been grinding overtime since last night slowly unwinds.
I rescued us from disaster at the eleventh hour, and my well-deserved prize is kicking back poolside at a stunning mansion while Rhys frolics in a toga.
I can already taste the chilled rosé sliding down my throat.
It all turns to shit ten minutes later.
I turn onto the highway, ready to hammer the accelerator and open up. Rhys is busy explaining the merits of DJs with très cool names like Hot Since 82, The Avener, and KiNK, when a slew of incoming texts lights up my phone. I eyeball the screen and feel my stomach sink. It's Heather, our female model. She's either pocket-dialing me endless SOS emojis or faces a real crisis.
The sharp sting in my chest tells me it's the latter.
Rhys turns down the music. He has a front-row view of my emoji-packed screen, the phone cradled in a holster on my dash.
“It’s your counterpart,” I say. “The other model.”
“Uh-oh,” he says, legitimately concerned. “If you need to pull over and deal with this, go for it.”
“Hold on.” I type in my password, one eye on the road, praying tragedy is not imminent. After the screen unlocks, I ask Rhys to read the texts.
He pops the phone from the holder and scans the messages. “She missed her flight. An emergency with her dog. She can’t make the shoot.”
“What???” I clutch the steering wheel in a death grip, blood draining from my fingers.“We start shooting in two hours!”
His liquid brown eyes sweep over me. “She says to call her ASAP.”
Forget unruffled and composed—I’m immediately swallowed by a rush of chaotic thoughts. Luca needs to wrap at three to jump on a plane. And Kelowna is a far cry from New York. We are nowhere near a hotbed of replacement models who could save the day.
“You need me to navigate while you troubleshoot?” Rhys offers. “I’m here. Put me to use.”
Good god. What business does he have being formidably attractive and helpful? Still holding his eyes, I flight to maintain calm. But my instinct tells me this might be a bag of dynamite, lit up and barrelling straight for me.
With a reluctant nod of agreement, I say, “Let me talk to her first. Hang on, I’m pulling over.”
I downshift and ease onto the shoulder to park. Rhys hands over the phone, and I punch in her number, praying Heather likes a good prank.
She answers on the first ring, her voice scratchy with emotion. “I’m sooo sorry, Dani,” she sniffles. “I was running out the door to catch my flight, and my dog—he hates it when I travel—bolted from the house right into the street. He got hit by a car. I’m at the vet, waiting for news after the operation.” A hum of despair fills my ear before she dissolves into phlegmy tears. “I don’t know what’s going to happen. It doesn’t look good.”
A heaviness lands in my heart.
Pets are sacred. We lavish more love on them than our fellow humans at times. I still remember the empty pit in my stomach after our family dog died, and how it took weeks to fill in. How six-year-old Dani cried herself to sleep when Dad explained Chester was in doggy heaven and never coming back.
Heather has every right to flake out.
“It’s okay,” I assure her. “We can pivot to another solution.”
She suggests calling her agent; he might have a local connection. But he’s in Vancouver, and it’s seven-fifteen a.m. My skin feels cold, but my insides blaze. I know how this scenario plays out. It happened with every advertising agency I worked for. Talent no-shows always boned the shoots.
After we hang up, I dump the phone in my lap, and a resounding, unladylike fuck! flies out before I can stop it.
Rhys glances over. “Sounds like I’m flying solo?”
I take a deep breath and try to make my voice sound confident. “The tagline is Rosé for goddesses and gods . A female is kind of critical. And Luca is charging Evelyn an arm and a leg for this.”
I massage my temples, the beginnings of a headache creeping in. Rhys is a master improviser on camera, but he can’t conjure up another human being.
After a short silence, he lobs out what can only be described as Plan Z.“What about you?”
I stare at him for a moment, trying not to cringe. “Heather is a size two soaking wet. None of her wardrobe will fit me.”
He mulls that over. “Yvette has to have a white sheet somewhere in her house. On-the-fly Roman toga?”
“These images are going worldwide,” I remind him. “I’m the head of marketing. I can’t be plastered on a billboard.”
Cars whizz past us, and I’m seriously considering leaping into traffic. End this misery as roadkill. My sunny morning drive is now a solid hour of phone time to dig us out of a hole.
Maybe. Potentially.
“Let’s run it past Luca,” Rhys says, refusing to let it go. “He nailed your back against the wall. And it’s not your fault Heather bailed.” He runs a hand over his tousled hair, now air-dried into silky-soft waves that skim his shoulders. What it must be like to wake up and be a perfect knockout and never once battle the frizzies.
“Besides,” Rhys adds, “I think we’d look good together.”
I appreciate his optimism. I really do. And the reckless part of me screams, Yes! Throw caution to the wind. Let him melt me into a puddle with just a glance and plaster my lovesick face all over Times Square.
But I know what Luca has planned for this shoot.
Rhys and I in a vineyard acting as drunken lovers? After pussy-gate? There is no sheet large enough to shroud the violent surge of sheet-fisting animalistic vibes that thundered between us. Tempting fate feels like a bad idea.
Rhys unclicks his seatbelt and nudges me, broad-muscled shoulder to tense, in-desperate-need-of-a-massage shoulder. “C’mon. Let’s swap. I’ll drive, you talk.”
I search my blood for some vibration, even the mildest flutter of hope.Nope.
Too overwhelmed to disagree, I unbuckle with a sigh.“Get us there in one piece, please. I can’t afford to lose you too.”