Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
DANI
Alcohol and bad decisions. A marriage made in hell. And I'm deep in purgatory, locked in the poolside bathroom. Face red and hot from shame and sun. A sloshed Roman tramp perched on a toilet seat, unable to herd my thoughts into anything coherent.
Dear god.
Looking back, none of it feels real. But now I have to brave a table full of actual people waiting for me to join them for lunch. I stagger to the sink and stare in the mirror at my messy, mediocre self. Since when has Dani Rialto acted like an outlaw?
I dry-humped Rhys like a common tart.
Even worse, I liked it.
The control.
His lack of it.
My mind starts caving in on itself again. I hear Rhys's urgent words. See that beautiful face scrunch up before the tension flooded out of him. How do I explain my behavior away? That Luca screaming about power cracked open the memory vault and plunged me into darkness. Into the black hole better known as Brett Winn, who had promised me the moon—a pay raise, an upgrade to our most exclusive client account, to be his plus-one at the prestigious Cannes Lions advertising event—with the small caveat of blowing him at his every whim.
I run cold water and splash my face, buying time to think. Can I claim a rosé blackout as my defense? Blame the wine for fueling every reckless grind onto a helpless and confused Rhys?
Sorry for the twisted vengeance! You know how it goes…
My brows pull together in a fraught now-what-have-I-don e look. The truth is, I allowed the dark souvenir of Brett’s manipulative behavior to cloud my judgment. How can Rhys look at me and not think I’m a first-rate psycho?
I fantasize about reversing course, running to my truck, and peeling out of here, but five stressed-out minutes later, I creep out to face my council of judgment. On the patio, several sun umbrellas shade a long table heaving with colorful Spanish tapas. Evelyn and Yvette have claimed the king and queen seats on either end. A besotted Vigo has camped beside Rhys. The lone seat is mercifully next to Luca.
With traces of Rhys's DNA clinging to my skin, how much closer do we need to be?
Evelyn tracks my approach with a critical eye. All the light chatter trails off, and the uneasy silence wraps around me like a blanket. I’m still vibrantly and vividly out of sorts.
“There you are,” she says. “We were just discussing who should check in on you.”
I tuck a lock of hair nervously behind one ear and plant myself beside Luca. “I, uh, I just needed to cool down.”
Yvette smirks, reaching for her bottomless wine glass. “I bet.”
The air feels thick and heavy. I can sense Rhys’s eyes across the table, scanning me through my core. And me, Textbook Drunk, too ashamed to look at him.
Vigo pushes a bowl piled high with fragrant saffron rice in my direction. Something in his face tells me I’m being pitied. “Eat, darling. You’ll feel better.”
Despite a grumbling stomach and a glorious feast, I have zero appetite. But I go through the motions, spooning rice onto my plate while Luca scrubs through photos on his camera.
“Magnifico!” he beams. “You two nailed it.”
He angles the viewfinder to me, and my throat thickens to the point that swallowing becomes impossible. Luca captured the moment when Rhys’s fingers clamped against the chair, the world collapsed into a pinhole of black, and I left reality, entering a heightened state, oblivious to everything.
But I cannot show my face anywhere if that photo goes public.
I smile through the terror. “Powerful stuff.”
“Can I see?” Rhys asks.
Luca hands off the Leica to Rhys, who studies the photo, magnifies it, and scrolls onward. If our lack of communication is a red flag, no one has the bad manners to address it.
“Well?” Evelyn prods after a few seconds of focused silence. “How would you describe those photos?”
Rhys glances up to lock eyes with me in a wordless exchange. I feel my chest tighten like it did as I battled the big O and every instinct to melt into bliss.
Does he know? Was it that obvious?
Something like a shadow passes over his face before he returns the camera to Luca and says, “ In vino veritas .”
Evelyn squeals her appreciation. “Eloquently said, Rhys! And may I suggest a toast to that ancient wisdom?” She lifts her wine glass, and we all follow suit. Well, I reach for my water glass. Any more wine and I’ll slide off this chair into a puddle of regret.
“What exactly are we toasting?” Yvette asks. “I’m horrible with languages.”
Rhys is the first to clink my glass, the unmistakable sound of a challenge in his voice when he says, “ In wine, there is truth. ”
My hope of Rhys hopping a ride back with Evelyn dies on the vine because she and Yvette have a function tonight in Kelowna. After a flurry of air kisses and promises to absolutely connect in Marbella over Christmas, Rhys untangles himself from the Luca and Vigo hug fest to join me in the truck.
He slams the door shut, and my stomach flips with anxiety. Welcome to the waking nightmare.
“Did you need any groceries?” I ask. “I can stop on the way.”
“I’m good.” He grips the handle above the window, silent and motionless as a tombstone. He gives me nothing, no indication of how far I dug my own grave.
I start the truck, if only to drown out the unpleasant stillness.
On the short drive to the highway, out of the corner of my eye, I clock Rhys’s jaw and how it grinds back and forth. His right leg shimmies up and down like it has a pulse all its own. I dream of a painless packing up of this afternoon, storing it deep in a locked basement.
But what can I say to fix this, aside from nothing?
On the highway, I gun the engine. The momentum feels liberating, and Rhys lets out a deep breath that sounds like it's been brewing for half a century.
“I don’t know how you process stuff,” he says, “but I need to talk this out.”
My heart starts to race, triggered by his words. I’ve never had to deal with anything like this.
“I’m sorry,” my voice is small, “I get a little adventurous after drinking.”
He glances over, an eyebrow cocked to high heaven. “A little?”
“That is not who I am in real life.”
“Interesting. What would the real Dani have done differently?”
“Found a legit model and spared myself a lifetime of embarrassment?” The question squeaks out, and I ignore the twist in my stomach that says this could all blow up because of me. “I’m not unbothered by what happened,” I add, pitifully aware of how lame that sounds.
He snorts a laugh. “Could have fooled me.”
The way he locks eyes with me says it all—my lunchtime avoidance didn’t win me any favors.Rhys tried hard to turn our fleeting eye contact into something lasting, and his ability to act unfazed while my insides raged? Tragic.
I gather my breath and what's left of my pride. “Look, I want to do a great job for Evelyn. This collaboration with you is important. Can we just…”
“Pretend it never happened?” he finishes.
I crack the tiniest remorseful smile. “Is that okay?”
In my mind, amiable Rhys replies with, No sweat . The next five weeks fly by, uncomplicated. I spend every morning power-meditating on how I never thought it was possible to hate Brett Winn more.But the longer Rhys says nothing, the more I think he might not answer.
Then, “Only if you promise never to pull a stunt like that again. Guys can also have their hearts broken.”
He searches my face, and I can see the naked truth of his words playing out in the tremor around his mouth. Heaviness settles in my stomach—fathomless, ceaseless guilt. I’m mortified it’s come to this.
“Understood.” There is no point begging forgiveness in a broken voice and making matters worse.
It’s a struggle to keep the speedometer under a hundred and twenty clicks per hour. My skin feels too tight. My mind is a disordered wreck. I try to focus on the orange sun and the blue sky without a single cloud, the light brown hills covered in scrub.This job was supposed to be my second coming. A reboot of my life. Are the wine gods working against me? Is it cruel fate that Heather bailed today? How did I allow this to happen? Because what went down today is not what I’d call taking the initiative.
The road winds and dips and climbs again.
Out of the blue, Rhys asks, “Did that turn you on?”
I go very still, while every second of that aching moment rushes through me. I can taste every beat of my heart, see his lips full and softly parted, and hear the heaviness of his breathing.
Why has Rhys asked an impossible question, kickstarting a conversation I’m not ready to have? Pressure builds in my lungs, all of me blowing up, doing everything in my power not to admit it. Despite my runaway drunken revenge train, being close to him felt natural.
It felt right.
But if I utter those words, then what?
“Do you need me to repeat the question?” he nudges.
No, actually. What I’d like is for this commute to be something other than a cringeworthy reminder that a wine-fueled woman knows no bounds.
Or boundaries.
“Even if it did,” I say, careful not to admit to anything, “that doesn’t make it right.”
“Then why go there if you know it’s wrong?”
I blow out a breath. Jesus. Why won’t he drop it? Why push harder on a darkening bruise? Because sometimes life is a dumpster fire of bad decisions is what I want to scream. Because I fell hard for my ex-boss, smug in his Armani suits and swaths of Paco Rabanne cologne. And because Brett abused his power, I sank to his dubious level and snagged the opportunity to lean into mine.
Of course it wasn’t right.
I momentarily lost my bearings in the vineyard because it felt fucking great to be in charge. Because charismatic and elusive men are my weakness, Rhys, and you are the gold standard.
“Can we talk about something else?” My voice is more cutting than intended.
After a very, very long silence, he asks, “How about those Canucks?”