Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
DANI
“Dani?”
Evelyn’s voice snaps me out of my daydream. I sit up in my desk chair, blinking fast. “Yes?”
Hands parked at her waist, Evelyn assesses my face and the signs of puppy love written all over it.“Dear, dear,” she clucks, her voice gentle. “Someone’s in a fog.”
“Sorry.” I crack a sheepish grin. “So much going on.”
She lifts a micro-bladed brow and why, why, why am I blushing? Because Evelyn has a way of finding cracks in your armor you never knew existed.
And because my brain is far away.
Lost in a summer’s night, bodies this close to letting go.
Out on the raft, in the fading light, I could feel my entire being responding to just a flicker of his brown eyes. There was nothing else I wanted at that moment but to kiss Rhys. Know the taste of his mouth and skin. But my heart went arrhythmic with fear. He is so out of my league.
How do I not end up hurt?
“What time does Sawyer arrive today?” Evelyn prods me back into the moment, reminding me of the upcoming meeting with Rhys’s older brother.
Sawyer reached out last week, angling for a tour of the amphitheater. Trenton Talent Management doesn’t just represent internet personalities like Rhys—they have actors and bands under their wing. Sawyer teased a couple of acts we should check out and slotted himself into my schedule for a meet and greet. He also pushed for my cell number, and I now regret caving. I eye my phone, bracing for another text to pile onto the five others Sawyer fired off since leaving Vancouver. The hourly barrage kicked off at eight this morning, which means Rhys wasn’t the first Trenton to light up my phone.
But the one text I keep re-reading came from him at nine-thirty, the dignified waking hour of an influencer.
RT: Thanks for last night. Official reboot?
With the goofiest smile spreading across my face, I replied,
DR: Sold.
And he responded with a photo of a barista-level cappuccino, complete with a heart drawn in the milky froth.
This mutual attraction can only end in disaster, but tell that to my brain. I’d lain wide awake in bed last night with my mind and body on fire. After Rhys raced me back to shore, no contest, I braced for a time-trial stair challenge. Maybe the desert night calmed his competitive edge because he insisted on walking behind me, the darkened pathway illuminated by his phone flashlight. Twice, his hand caught me when I stumbled.
The journey back felt three times longer than our meandering trip down.
On the doorstep of my villa, my heart thundered as he asked about the morning debrief with Nicole and the visit with Sawyer. He stood close. Too close. The warmth emanating from his body felt stronger than the heat of the day.
And then his lips pressed against my cheek, soft and chaste. “Peace out , ” he’d said before the night swallowed him whole.
I looked upward into the cathedral of the universe, a rush of heat where his mouth grazed my skin.
No wonder it took hours for my pulse to power down and my eyelids to shut.
I was properly scandalized for one day.
Evelyn clears her throat and observes me with a knowing smile.
Shit.
“Oh, uh,” I stammer, cheeks aflame. “His last update said two. I can give you a shout once he arrives.”
“You kick things off first. We can enjoy a tipple in the tasting room aprés.”
Evelyn smooths her immaculate hair, cutting a fine figure in her tailored Italian tennis dress and diamond statement earrings. Up before sunrise to make her bi-weekly doubles tennis match and happily working until sunset every day, she makes every other entrepreneur look like a freeloading sloth.
“And how is Rhys faring this morning?” she inquires. “Is he with Nicole?”
“Yes, they started at ten. So far, so good. They’re getting along like a house on fire.”
Her brow rises again. “Privy to a play-by-play, are you?”
“No. I mean, yes, he’s keeping me in the loop.”
“That’s the beauty of working with a professional,” she beams. “They know the little things matter.” But it's something altogether more complicated than that. And Evelyn is all over it, judging from her lingering stare. “Is it today or tomorrow that the film crew arrives?”
“Later tonight,” I say. “I checked in with them earlier.”
Sixty-plus crew lurk on your average film set, but our tight setup consists of a duo—a camera operator ambitiously named Francis Shutter, and Rita, a sound/lighting/jack-of-all-trades. Sawyer told me Rhys balked at the idea of the crew—he favored the run-and-gun approach. But Evelyn wanted properly lit footage to repurpose, so Bettina, bless her dragon soul, insisted on it.
“Pity,” Evelyn murmurs. “I thought it might be a kind gesture to offer Sawyer a complimentary evening in their cabin.”
“I believe he drives back to Vancouver tonight.” Or I hope he is because good luck trying to find accommodations.
“He must be very keen on this concert arrangement. Such a long trip for a simple tour.”
We hold each other’s gazes for four little heartbeats. Evelyn smiles fondly at me, but it's as if she knows I know something critical and am not sharing it with her, which is partly true.
She strolls to the far wall, wiping a finger along the top of the framed map of Osoyoos, inspecting it for dust. Satisfied the cleaners are earning their keep, she asks, “Tell me, dear, has Luca sent the proofs from yesterday?”
Guilt spirals in my stomach at the solid wall of emails still to read, including one from Shania Twain’s manager. And, as of five minutes ago, Luca.
I blaze a smile. “Not yet.”
“Be a love and forward them ASAP. I need to select one to grace the cover of our invitations.” She moves to the door and pauses to scan my face. “Are you okay with that? You seemed a little out of sorts after the shoot yesterday. Did my enthusiasm for the extra creative push you beyond your comfort zone?”
Push beyond? More like smashed it through a concrete barrier. And I am nervous as hell about the pictures. How can I forget what I did when a constant reminder lives on in perpetuity?
And what will Dad think?
Instead of dwelling on those questions, I lie through my teeth, telling Evelyn I was proud to represent her brand. Then I bury myself in work for the rest of the morning, refusing to consider my imminent fame as a wine hussy.
Unlike his brother, Sawyer arrives early.
My office windowoverlooks the parking lot, and I know it’s him before he steps out of his Beemer. It’s one of thosesleek matte ones with custom rims and blackout windows. The sort of car Iron Man would drive. And Sawyer exits this glorified spaceship as if he’s Robert Downey Jr. about to walk the red carpet.
Graceful, alert, owning the space.
He’s handsome in a fireman way—square-jawed and gym-jacked. Dark hair cut short. Unsmiling and so pale. What a contrast to Rhys and his golden shine.
He struts across the gravel and pushes inside the tasting room. I touch up my lip gloss, text Rhys his brother has arrived, and make my way to the land of free-flowing wine. Early afternoon is the busiest time for tastings, and the room is thick with tourists and drunken chatter, our smartly dressed staff pouring with a heavy hand.Everyone looks happy and glowing, their crystal glasses filled with crimson or amber wine, the liquids catching the light like jewels.
The room exudes understated opulence: a rustic yet modern vibe that cost Evelyn a small fortune. Her vision started with heavy terracotta floor tiles and walls sponged the same warm yellow as the outside of the building. Priceless Basquiats from her private art collection hang impressively amongst the scarred antiques imported from Europe, and the arched windows set deep into the thick walls allow just the right amount of dappled sunlight in.
Add in the hidden diffusers that waft in a lemony-lavender scent while Vivaldi violins serenade quietly from the Sonos, it is dreamy and perfectly on point.
All designed to drain your wallet faster than you can say boo.
Draped in a beautifully cut suit, Sawyer is custom-made for this room, but he sticks out like a sore thumb amongst the sunburnt shorts-and-sandals crowd. I approach him while he scopes out a magnum of our flagship Cabernet Sauvignon priced to move at nine hundred dollars.
“Sawyer?”
He looks up, startled, and the tight set of his jaw relaxes when I smile and introduce myself. Whipping off his Matrix-style sunglasses, two piercing eyes the shade of ultramarine sweep over me.
“Dani,” he repeats like he’s trying out the sound of my name. “Nice to meet you.”
We shake hands, his grip firm, commanding, and appropriate for someone wearing a watch that can tell time, temperature, and if the water in the Maldives will irritate his skin. If money and power needed a single visual, he is it.
“Likewise. Welcome to Nero Vino. How was the drive up?”
“On the phone the entire time,” he says, a little tiredly. “This is an escape for me, so thank you.”
“Evelyn will join us for a wine tasting later if you have time. And Rhys should be here soon. He asked to come along.”
His brow furrows as if that is the last thing he wants to hear.“How are things going with him?” he asks but talks over me before I reply. “I gave him an earful about the airport situation. It is unacceptable to leave you in a lurch like that.”
From his tone, I gather he wants me to align with him—jump on the bandwagon and trash Rhys. He looks like the kind of guy who demands a lot of things.
“No complaints,” I say. “Rhys is very accommodating.”
Sawyer slowly nods as if waiting for the punch line. His skin is smooth and dewy like he mists himself with Evian.Or maybe stem cells.
“In that case,” he says, “bring on the wine. My assistant wrangled a room for tonight, but since when does a glorified broom closet in a motel go for five hundred dollars?"
I stifle a laugh, trying to imagine the grand figure of Sawyer huddled in budget accommodations, where the glasses come wrapped in plastic and mysterious rashes sprout after contact with the bedspread.
“Consider yourself lucky. Rooms are tough to come by at this time of year."
I fleetingly wonder why Rhys did not offer his sofa bed to Sawyer, but when he strolls into the tasting room, the answer might lie in how his sunny warmth noticeably shrivels as he approaches us.
Or how his chin nod in Sawyer’s direction reads more belligerent than bro. “I take it that Batmobile outside is yours?”
Sawyer stares Rhys down, unblinking. “Are you jealous of the doors?”
Rhys had a Jeep Wrangler shipped from Canada to Corfu, and he famously navigates the narrow hillsides with the doors off and house music cranking.
“I'm not jealous of anything you own."
Rhys smiles, although it doesn’t reach his eyes. With no hug, fist bump, or even a hello, my head is on a swivel, assessing their dynamic. Rhys’s stance is pure fire, but Sawyer, taller by a couple of inches, uses that slight advantage to peer down at his brother.
“I thought you were filming today, and now I hear you’re crashing our party.”
“We wrapped early.” Rhys shrugs then gives Sawyer the cold shoulder to address me. “I love Nicole, by the way. Super chill and knowledgeable. And the vineyard looks sweet on camera. I already have the vignette planned for later."
“Great! Our follower count jumped another thousand after your post yesterday. It’s amazing how people are responding.” I beam at him, aware that I’m gushing, but whatever. His body felt so warm against mine last night. The memory of it got me through most of the morning.
“The amazing thing is that my introverted baby brother makes a fortune by shoving his face in front of a camera,” Sawyer chimes in with decidedly less enthusiasm.
It’s cold in here. The central air clutches my bones. But it just got one a hell of a lot cooler.
Rhys crosses both arms over his chest. “What can I say? Some of us are naturals in the spotlight. And some of us were born to push paper.”
Along with irritation, something eternal and unmoveable hangs in his voice. This is not the picture of brotherly warm and fuzzies I imagined. This is a conversation that feels like it will need a fast exit.
“Dani and I plan to push lots of paper while we discuss the bands and talk shop. Nothing that ever interested you before,”Sawyer replies, a bit testily if I’m not mistaken.
“What interests me is the amphitheater,” Rhys emphasizes. “Becoming intimate with every inch of this place.”
I lift my chin, shaking off the strange hot-cold rush that’s come over me from Rhys’s steady stare.“Why don’t we make it a family affair?” Isuggest. “Any extra exposure Rhys gives us is a win.”
After a beat, Sawyer says, “Sure,” like it's the least interesting thing I’ve said so far. Then he levels an uncompromising gaze at Rhys, whose smirk brims with triumph.
Very suddenly, I see the problem.
These two are at war.