Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
DANI
I cut through the parking lot, greeting the first wave of winetasters crawling out of their Carreras and Cadillacs. My head throbs. The irritation that crept over my skin has yet to disappear. The Francis and Rita show. Talk about a lesson in tediousness.
I felt my eyes cross as Francis painstakingly mapped out focal lengths, shutter speeds and filters, forgetting entirely the purpose of our meeting was not about him. Rhys thankfully cut him off, but then his waif sidekick Rita chimed in, all gloom and doom about capturing sound while battling groupies.
God, what a piece of work.
I found her morbidly fascinating. Young and dogged, all clothes made from hemp, because, well … earth. Five-feet-nothing of global activist lecturing Rhys on his dismal carbon footprint, flying halfway around the world to hawk booze.
When I gently reminded her about manners, she scowled at me like I clubbed baby seals for fun.
I feel for Rhys stuck with those two all day.
I swing into my office and decide to give it an hour before I call Bettina and ask what the hell she was thinking. I need my murderous thoughts about Rita to subside. If she pulls any warrior shit with Nicole, the firm plant of a Croc on her ass will be the next thing she feels.
And speaking of feeling…
Rhys posts shirtless all the time—who wouldn’t with those abs? But dayum. He made it impossible to concentrate. Board shorts slung low on his slim hips. A band of thick elastic stitched with POLO RALPH LAUREN snugged tight against his muscles tanned gold. Sitting two feet away from him in the kitchen, I could count the soft blond hairs guarding his nipples.
I’ve never felt emotions like that before, never felt that … covetous.
And here I thought his fangirls would be the death of me.
Barely a minute after I plunk behind the desk to collect my unpure thoughts, the office phone rings. An unknown number. My intuition says do not pick up . Trouble always comes in threes.
Fangirls. Francis and Rita. Is the universe saving the worst for last?
I chew the inside of my cheek before picking up on the fifth ring. “Marketing, this is Dani.”
“Miss Rialto?” a drawling male voice asks.
Right away, from his tone, I know this isn’t good. I clear my throat. “This is she.”
“Constable Davidson from the Royal Canadian Mounted Police calling,”he says, pausing after for dramatic effect. Law enforcement prides itself on intimidating you with title alone. And it's working, judging from the bloom of sweat on my lower back.
“What can I do for you?” Even over the phone, he sounds like a big dude on a mission. I power on my computer and load my email program.
“We had an incident last night by the lake,” he starts. “A group of young women acting drunk and disorderly. Apparently, a certain celebrity is in town doing some work for your winery?”
I feel my mouth go dry.An email from Shania’s agent claims the pole position of my email inbox, a frowny face emoji in the subject line.
“Yes, we’ve hired an influencer to promote one of our wines,” I say, giving him the basics and nothing else.
And because I’m an impatient masochist, I open the email.
“Influencer,” Davidson says in that slow, languid way of someone twirling a toothpick back and forth in his mouth. “I heard of those. And he warrants you hiring some security?”
I skim the email, my stomach sinking.
Deeply sorry!
Clashes with her holiday dates.
Next time?
I blink, re-reading in case I missed the Just kidding! Nope. Shania is out. The rejection feels personal, even though it should be completely impersonal.
“Miss Rialto?” The constable’s heavy baritone rings in my ear.
“Yes,” I say, shaking off the Shania distraction. “We had some fans at the winery last night, and they dispersed peacefully. But it felt prudent to hire security. As a safeguard.”
After a long silence, he asks, “Should we be concerned? This is our busy season. Not the time for any ruckus. And your winery already creates enough hubbub with that event.”
He says event like someone might say cancer.
“With security, I think we’re good.”
No sooner do those words leave my lips when my iPhone vibrates on the desk.
AR: CALL ME ASAP!!!!
AR: LIKE, NOW!!!!
As usual, my sister and her remarkable restraint with all caps and exclamation points.
I quickly text her back, hoping to calm her down.
DR: I’m on a call. What’s up?
AR: Uhm, hello??? The reel he just posted?
I feel a pinch in both temples. Now what?
“Can you give me this fellow’s name?” the constable asks. “Behooves me to do some research.”
A forceful swallow works my throat. Shit. Hard to sell a guy as harmless with a social media handle of @thetrentontroublemaker. “Rhys Trenton. You can find him on Instagram.”
If you even know what that is, I don’t say . Mr. Davidson sounds north of age sixty, and if he’s on Facebook, I’ll eat my desk. In the pause that follows, I quickly navigate to Rhys’s Insta account.
He threw together a behind-the-scenes vignette from the photo shoot. Snippets of Luca and Vigo. Yvette’s house. The lunch I barely touched. But the three thousand-plus comments are aimed square at the shot of me that made the cut.
Aprofile shot of me flaunting enough side boob to feed a small family. He snapped it covertly, but the light was perfect. My skin looks flawless. And it was well before my soul-gutting moment, so my smile is relaxed.
The caption? Our Roman Queen. Five flame emojis underneath.
A nugget of angst pings my lungs. I’m flattered he snuck the pic, but talk about the wrong post at the wrong time. If any of the girls from last night see this, they’ll put two and two together. The only saving grace is that Rhys didn’t tag me.
“You sure you have things under control up there, Miss Rialto?” the constable presses.
No, I’m not sure. In fact, I’m one thousand percent certain this whole project is flying off the rails.
“Absolutely. We have all our filming permits, and everything’s by the book. You could do me one favor though.”
His tone shifts into something less friendly. “What's that?”
“We’d like to keep it on the down low that Rhys is at the winery. Your help is appreciated.”
Silence. My ballsy assumption that he will help hangs precariously in the air.
Finally: “You around later today? I might mosey my way up there to take a look around.”
Great. First whiff of a celebrity in town and everyone wants a look.
“Of course.” I fake a smile he can hear across the phone. “We’re open until six p.m. Come by any time.”
I hang up, feeling the walls close in. Shania’s out. The RCMP now has a shiny boot in our affairs. A gang of fangirls waits to sink their talons into Rhys, and our media team thinks they walk on water.
Can the day get any better?
My phone buzzes again.
AR: It’s been five. Just sayin’
In the interest of getting her off my back, I call Amelia right away.
“Since when did you get so hot?” she demands. “And you said nothing to me about this photo shoot.”
“It all happened in the blink of an eye. I can’t front-run every detail with you.”
“Have you read any of the comments?”
“A couple,” I admit. Who knew there were so many variations of Who’s that ho?
After a brief silence, Amelia says, “You’re handling this remarkably well.”
On another day, that comment might have rolled off my back. But the truth is, I’m on edge and uncertain where this is all heading. And lying underneath her observation is that I should be a wreck—that I can't handle pressure like she can.I exhale sharply. Jesus. Does it always have to be a competition? She even one-upped my birthday by a day. June fourth to my June fifth. It’s like she started her scorecard with me from the womb.
Before I say something I regret, Evelyn appears in the doorway.
“I’ll check in later, Ames. Gotta run. Hello,” I say to Evelyn with a ready smile.
“Hello, dear. You look a little stressed.”
She scans my palatial office, and I feel the weight of her scrutiny. My heart skips away, double tempo. I can’t unload all of this right now. I need to process.
“Just one of those mornings.”
Evelyn stares at me for three seconds before giving me the benefit of the doubt. “If the situation gets dire with those girls, let me know ASAP. Gail Stafford from Osoyoos Tourism texted me this morning saying it was important. Do you mind giving her a ring? I have a feeling she wants to stick her nose into this too.”
Oh god. Gail is the local chatterbox. Another prying local. “Will do.”
“So you know,” she continues, “Tomas plans to attend the Wine Grower’s meeting tonight. Don the armor. He will go off on Divine Debauchery and a million other things.”
Tomas Sato. A bitter black cloud with a vendetta against nearly every winery in the Valley. But especially Nero Vino.It’s a feud that stretches back to the seventies, after Evelyn married his brother, Hugo. They had a falling out, and things got worse when Evelyn had the nerve to step into the business Tomas thought was no place for a woman.
Evelyn knew little about winemaking, but with entrepreneurial parents, she knew how to make money. She pushed Hugo to snap up property right, left and center, establishing one of the biggest landholdings in the Valley.
Land she still owns.
Land Tomas believes he should profit from.
“Maybe I should talk to him,” I suggest. “If he hears things from a different perspective, that might calm him down.”
“His problem is that he needs to get laid,” Evelyn says with her usual shameless flair. “Not enough women young or foolish enough in this town for his liking. But, yes, try to walk him off his soapbox. And please remind Gail of Nero Vino’s generous support. Without my funding, half of this town wouldn’t exist.”
“By the way,” I add, “Shania just bailed. Am I good to run with plan B?”
“Really?” Evelyn's brows lift in surprise. “You can’t rely on anyone these days. Except you, of course. Yes, please talk to Sawyer and Rhys about their backups. The purse strings are wide open. We need entertainment. Work your negotiating charms.”
The last thing I want to lay on Sawyer is charm. He purred goodbye to me last night with intention. Elbow on the console, leaning in. Shania on the bill meant less contact with him— a chance to avoid the tricky It’s not you, it’s me conversation.
Or rather, It’s your brother.
Evelyn is halfway out the door when she stops and smiles at me over her shoulder.
“I’d say Rhys is turning out to be your savior. Be sure to let him know how grateful you are.”