Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
DANI
“How will you fix this?”
Gail Stafford levels an arctic stare at me. She has too many teeth, her pale spring coloring does not support an orange blazer, and she is mighty pious for a civil servant. Unfortunately, bad news has done what it does best: spread. And in a town this size, where you have to leave to change your mind, her mind is made up: I better clean up this mess, pronto.
“We’ll restrict filming to the property,” I remind her for the second time. “Until the buzz dies down.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
The longer she stares at me, the more I think she’s trying to conjure a new me into existence.
One who will bend to her will.
“It isn’t a crime to hire an influencer,” I say. “Evelyn paid for his time, and we need to honor the contract.”
Gail smiles, although nothing changes in her cold blue eyes. “Osoyoos is more than one business. And Nero Vino has had plenty of concessions. Divine Debauchery already puts a massive strain on the community.”
“By strain, do you mean all the businesses making fortunes from the celebrities dropping cash? Or are you put off by all the media attention you become the face of?”
My sweetly delivered questions douse the room in silence. Her office is all corporate spartan, with tidy stacks of brochures, mandated furniture from Staples, and zero temptation of running wild. Gail squints at me, pressing her fingers to her temples, holding back a tide of righteous fury. As much as she wants to notch a black mark beside the Nero Vino name, she knows the gala adds a significant bump to the local coffers.
Rhys in town, however, offers no uptick in revenue.Only more glory, esteem, and press for Evelyn, who, in her opinion, has enough of all three, thank you very much.
“Miss Rialto,” she says, nixing the friendly Dani she started with, “I hoped you would be a team player. Evelyn has operated as a lone wolf for too long. She can only push her luck so far."
I clasp my hands together on my lap. Words cannot express how little I am enjoying this exchange.After Constable Davidson poked around yesterday, searching for invisible reasons to flag Rhys as an issue, I’m about done with locals sticking their noses into our affairs.
But there is no upshot to letting my frustration get the better of me.
Anger isn’t smart.
Still, that doesn’t make a witch hunt right. Vilifying Evelyn is just plain lame.
“Evelyn contributes over two hundred thousand dollars a year to the community,” I say, primed with the numbers. “She offers the locals free entrance to the amphitheater so they can enjoy the entertainment. When other wineries are desperate for more hands, she gladly shares her seasonal workers, no questions asked or hands out for compensation.”
Her coral-stained lips purse as if she sucked on a lemon. I half-expect her to drop mention of a kickback—would not put it past her pantsuit.
“Some might call that buying votes,” she finally says.
“And some might call it giving back.”
Gail studies me, rifling through the options: Friend? Foe? Another pain in the ass?
“Look,” I say, pleasantly agreeable now that I’ve got her cornered and squirming. “You and I both know the wheels need to keep turning. The wildfires hit all the wineries hard, and last year’s freak winter weather didn’t help. A boost in tourism benefits everyone.”
Gail opens her mouth to interrupt, but I silence her with a raised hand. “I understand your concerns. His fans are being invasive—calling hotels and prowling the campgrounds. But from my experience managing spin, this dies down when there’s no fuel. So we will do our best to keep his exposure in the community to a minimum. But he’s here to promote the winery. Unless someone coughs up a million dollars for him to leave, it’s business as usual.”
She glares at me like I’m a defective cog in her wheel. No one is bringing ten times her annual salary to the table to send Rhys packing.
And we both know it.
Underneath the milky skin of her throat, a spidery blue vein pulses her discontent.“I’ll speak with the hotels and businesses, sand down their concerns, and mention this could all die sooner rather than later. However,”she adds in her sternest you-won-this round-but-the-fight-is-still-on voice, “if anything involving Rhys brings shame to this town, Evelyn better be prepared to face the consequences.”
Disaster magnet is the term that keeps running through my mind. Gail, that is. She’d mistaken me for a pushover, and my pushing back rattled her. Granted, small sitcom troubles are the extent of her domain. A few drunken yahoos. Kids with contraband fireworks. The odd misdemeanor.
A rowdy battalion disrupting her idyllic Osoyoos summer?
Not on her watch.
So, her threat against Evelyn wasn't idle. Bureaucrats love wielding their limited power, and triggering Gail’s wrath is too easy in the dog days of summer. Deadly wildfires have been a serious threat in the past decade, torching vineyards, homes, and, most devastatingly, hopes and dreams. This summer has been quiet, but with the hottest August on record, the Valley is a bone-dry tinderbox, one spark away from catastrophe.
But that doesn't give Gail a free pass to be a snarky bitch.
Back in the office, I’m scrolling through a dense wall of emails when one stops me cold, freezing the blood in my veins.
From: [email protected]
Subject line: Did you create those labels on my time???
My shoulders slump with defeat, and for a long minute, I stare at his accusation. His pettiness knows no bounds. Brett is in a league of his own, a completely different species. Not a homo sapiens, more like a homo schmuck. Prince fuck face. I force myself to open the email, my stomach shrinking in on itself while I skim his latest attempt to tear me down.
Lawyer. Breach of Non-Compete. Sue.
Disbelief spills out of me in a sharp exhale. In a sea of negative words, those appear triple-sized. And more menacing because of it.
I know what’s happened.
The only thing he and I still have in common is a love of wine. He subscribes to Wine Spectator and follows several wine bloggers. The Vancouver Sun wine critic wrote a glowing feature on Nero Vino, and Evelyn insisted he show my labels in the article.
It was published three days ago.
Something breaks inside of me. A single tear escapes, and I swipe angrily at it. Yes, Brett ticks every douche cliché box on the list, but I will not give him the satisfaction. Screw him and his antics.
“Hey. Everything cool?”
I glance up to find Rhys in the doorway, eyebrows pinched together. Something sparks in his expression, a quick flare that fades before I can grasp it. Shit. Did he see me cry? When I set them down, my glasses hit the desktop with a loud clatter.
“Of course,” I say, too bright, clamping my emotions down. “Come in.”
Rhys ambles in, taking in all the old money nonchalance with a curious look. How many winery offices have an original Frida Kahlo on the wall? Or Italian marble desks with a vintage Tiffany lamp to highlight just how much money grapes can make?
“So this is where all the magic happens,” he says.
I power on a phony smile. “Some days.”
He perches on the corner of my desk. Our gazes meet, and then we both look away. I fidget—tilting my monitor, rearranging loose papers—anything to ignore the pounding inside my chest.
“How are things going with Rita and Francis today?” I ask.
“Better,” he says, “in that I’ve only wanted to strangle them twice.”
“Are you on lunch break?”
“Yeah.” He scuffs the floor with the toe of his flip-flop. “I wanted to check in to see if you’re still down for a swim later.”
Dammit. I’d spaced on that. And by the way Rhys tilts his head at me, I can tell he knows I did.
“A swim sounds perfect.” My voice wavers and I hold on to my plastic smile for dear life. All I can hear is his silence. My chest feels like a washcloth wringing tight.
“Anything you want to talk about?” he asks, solemn as a priest.
His eyes are bright and full of caring. My breath comes out in shorter and shorter gusts, the freefall into emotion imminent.
Don’t lose it.
“How much time do you have?” I ask.
He pretends to look at a watch on his wrist. “Four weeks.”
A half-laugh, half-choking sound escapes my throat. For him to find humor at my lowest moment is nothing short of incredible.
“Have you considered a comedy career?” I ask, in all seriousness.
“Not this week.” His expression transitions from mild amusement back to concern. “But this,” he says, his finger circling in front of me to indicate what he means, “has to do with me, right?”
“No.” I bite my lip and gaze up at him from under my lashes, debating if honesty is the best course of action. “And yes.”
“Tell me about the no part,” he says, his voice quiet.
His compassion, the unvarnished sincerity of it, steadies my battered heart. I could do a one-eighty and brush him off, but the improbability of that likely speaks for itself. My body feels heavy as I lean back into the chair and his attention remains entirely fixed on me.
Bit by bit, I reveal the Brett files, minus the degrading sex and the correlation to what happened at the vineyard. And because embarrassment isn’t enough, I move on to Gail and Constable Davidson, ending with the shitshow of last night’s Wine Growers meeting, where Tomas threatened to run Evelyn out of town for being nothing more than a competent businesswoman to his drunken, saggy ass.
Rhys listens without interrupting, drumming his fingers across the square line of his jaw . I imagine it's too much for a random drop-in to confirm tonight's social agenda.
Then something dark flashes in his eyes.
And his voice sounds equally black when he says, “Your ex sounds like an idiot.”
I’m not going to lie. How Brett immediately becomes his enemy warms me. “Then I’ve presented him fairly.”
“How does it work with Photoshop?” he asks. “Is there a timestamp to prove you created those after the fact?”
“You can add a timestamp. It gets prepended to the filename. I don’t know if that holds up as sufficient in the eye of the law.”
“If you need any help,” Rhys offers, “I have a SWAT team of lawyers. I try not to talk to them, butif you need an introduction…”
“Thank you,” I say, unsure if diving deeper into Brett’s pit of piranhas is the way to go. “I appreciate that. And sorry for dumping.” I give a shaky laugh and try to lighten the atmosphere. “I shouldn’t be telling you all these things.”
“Sometimes it’s good to vent,” he says, his voice softer, lower, as he crouches beside me. “People do weird things when they feel threatened. Your talent probably scares him.”
His eyes skate across my face. I shiver slightly at how it feels to have him watch me like this. Like he has secrets. And I do too, because I’ve watched him just as intently for years. How many times did I trace his features in my mind’s eye since then?
“Please don’t worry about all the other stuff,” I say. “It will sort itself out.”
“Hey. We're in this together.”
He touches my arm with a smile so endearing that my heart does a little flip in my chest. I feel the same way I did the first time I saw Rhys in the flesh—like my world has suddenly gotten a bit bigger and brighter.
I take a deep breath. “So, tonight….”
“How does eight sound?”
“Remind me again. Is it a swim or a race?”
He rises back to standing and offers a slight grin. “Both?”
“And we’re putting money on it this time?”
“I’m happy to win for free,” he says, and why not be carefree in his dismissal of me even standing a chance? I felt the water surge as he effortlessly passed me with his efficient, clean strokes and perfect flutter kicks. What rookie fool bets against an Olympian?
This one, apparently.
“Five dollars,” I suggest. “Just for the fun of it.”
He crosses his arms and chuckles, finding humor in what’s sure to be a losing proposition for me. “Wow. You’re the big league. I was going to order some pizza for dinner. We can make that the bet. Loser pays for pizza?”
I chew on the end of my pen, as good an outlet as any for my spiking nerves. “Deal.”
“What’s your favorite?” he asks, eyes skimming my office as if looking for clues.
I stop myself just before I say Greek . It is my go-to, but it feels too preciously on point. “Hawaiian.”
He snaps his fingers and points at me in a gesture of— Called it! No smugness or macho overkill, though. And I like him even more for that.
“You got it. Meet you at your place at eight, pizzas in hand.”
“The weather is supposed to turn this afternoon,” I warn him. “They’re predicting thunder and lightning.”
“I’m willing to risk it if you are.”
His smile deepens, crinkles at the corners of his light brown eyes. It shouldn’t be so devastating, this whole sexy-sweet thing he’s got going on, but it is. Nothing about Rhys Trenton coming into my life is quite the way I imagined it would be.