Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
RHYS
How do I describe the most amazing sex of my life? The list virtually writes itself: Life-altering. Seventh heaven. Better than oxygen.
Dani is all killer, no filler.
No wonder I’m humming like a love-struck fool.
While I silently thank everyone from Santa to Santeria for last night’s miracle, my morning espresso ritual unfolds. Dani brings the fuzziness of my interior world into sharp focus, as precise as the burr grinder pulverizes the beans. Tamping down the grounds recalls my assault and her beautiful gray eyes, blurry and fevered from the damage. The rich scent of brewing java warms me like she’s melting the protective shell around my heart.
Even the milk bubbling in the frother is a scandalous reminder of how she took all of me on the raft, blowing my mind while she blew me. It was over in a heartbeat, and I never had a minute to process how perfectly I fit into her mouth. Can it be this real, this early on?
It has to be. My usual instinct—to flee or crowbar a woman out of my bed—is nowhere to be found. And the physical reactions always tell the true tale. Her touch makes my pulse go haywire. I felt enormous and magnificent sliding deep into her fire, and the greedy response of her hips welcomed every inch of me.
And I could see the shift in her eyes the moment she released.
She let go.
Forgot about real life and remembered only me.
Lost in the enchanted memory, a loud, growling sound snaps my attention back to the here and now.
The bright light filtering in through the front blinds suddenly darkens. Is that a car? Strange. There’s no way the taxi driver made it here that fast. Suddenly my heartbeat sounds too loud in my ears.
I pad silently on bare feet to the window, slot two fingers into the blinds and spread them to view just enough of what can only be described as a pending catastrophe. Sawyer slides out of a monstrous SUV, rocking Dita sunglasses that I almost bought and gripping an enormous bouquet of red roses.
My stomach drops.
And not because I’m a peony guy.
For Sawyer, there is a correct way to do everything—from business deals to transactional dating to spontaneous visits. No way in hell he shows up here for no reason. He must have texted me multiple times about this surprise visit. But my phone battery was dying last night before Dani and I tilted the world off its axis. And I forgot to charge it.
I forgot a lot of things last night.
I'd like to forget this nightmare too. Because I think I know why my brother is here.
A chill settles over my bones as I dash for the door, swinging it wide before Sawyer knocks and alerts Dani.
“Hi,” I say. “Wasn’t expecting you.”
“Last-minute trip,” he explains. “I flew into Kelowna this morning.” That explains the rental GMC. Sawyer would rather eat deep-fried spiders than roll in a domestic. “I’m looking for Dani,” he continues. “Any idea where she might be?”
Shit, I knew it. He’s decked out in Tommy Hilfiger weekend warrior duds. Looking all spiffy for a reason.
“Is she not at her villa?”
He tilts his head in that irritated Sawyer way. “Would I be here if she was?”
“Was she expecting you?”
I need to deflect because my brother has shelled out precious money to deliver flowers on a Saturday to a woman he’s met once. The same woman I fucked senseless last night and is twenty feet away patiently waiting for a latte and for my tongue to slide into her again.
Not exactly what I'd call the best-case scenario.
“No,” he says. “I wanted to tell her the good news in person.” He pauses, for dramatic effect, I suppose, aware of the sun illuminating him like the Overlord he thinks he is. “We signed Gia. And JC agreed to the gig.”
I blink, suddenly unsteady on my feet. “No, he didn’t.”
Deep down, I know it’s happening. Sawyer, for all his shortcomings—he keeps a spreadsheet on when his condiments expire, for fuck’s sake—has made a name for himself. God forbid anything stands in his way of cementing his glory.
Sure enough, with clear-eyed finality, he says, “Yes, he did.”
I look up, drawing in a deep, controlled breath. The sky is clear blue with only a few puffy clouds lazily moving across it, and in this moment of tranquility, I feel rage building within me.
Maybe it's Sawyer's shitty, patronizing smile. Or hearing Dad’s voice in my head as he griped to Mom about me: Why can’t he get As like Sawyer? Or have a shred of talent like JC? He is nothing but useless trouble.
Or it could be that I’m overtaken by a clammy sweat.
The sensible thing to do is ask Sawyer to leave.
Which is exactly when I hear Dani’s voice behind me: “Rhys? Who are you talking to?”
There’s silence for a good five seconds. The thick kind that can be cut with a knife. The pluck in Sawyer’s stance melts away, and he whips off his sunglasses to glare into my eyes. It’s like having a flashlight shine into my face, but I won’t look away.
“I didn’t know you had company,” he says through a tight mouthful of teeth.
I glance over my shoulder to find Dani frozen in no man’s land between the bedroom and us. I’m acutely aware of everything: the terry cloth robe, wrapped and tucked and belted around her; her scent; her panicked eyes. I want to smash my mouth against hers, take her against the wall. Savor her hot and hungry kisses. Live out the morning from five minutes ago.
Instead, Sawyer steps to one side and gives Dani a good hard look. I suppose I should be grateful she doesn’t say , “ This isn’t what it looks like .”
Because it’s exactly what it looks like.
“Hi, Sawyer,” she says in a small voice.
My chest tightens, the automatic response of bracing for combat with my older brother. The idea of Sawyer letting this slide is unthinkable.
“Can you give us a minute?” I ask her.
“Yeah. Sure.” She eyes the roses in a confused way that twists a knot tighter in my stomach.
I lied to her about Sawyer and his intentions. And the truth is about to bleed out ugly.
Dani slinks into the bedroom and shuts the door. In the suffocating silence she leaves behind, the laser beam of Sawyer's fury burns a hole into me.
“Thanks a lot, asshole,” he hisses.
“Listen,” I capitulate instead of standing my ground because I might feel a morsel of regret, “it just happened.”
His eyes narrow on me. “Let me guess. It happened right after I told you I was interested in her.”
“If it’s any consolation, she’s not your type.”
He puffs out a bitter laugh. “Says the guy who lives on another continent.”
“Things might be changing.” I voice it for the first time, Sawyer uncaring, or rather, too incensed to care.
“Does Evelyn know?” he demands.
“Not officially.”
“You’re promoting her wine. What do you think the optics are if you’re sleeping with the head of marketing?”
His tone. Always that tone. Mr. Superior who knows best.
Not today, says the voice in my head. Not after last night. I am done being the Trenton whipping boy.
“Can something real happen in my life without being shoved through a lens of optics?” I fire back. “And why would it be okay if you slept with her? You’re now in bed with the winery as much as me.”
Sawyer chucks the roses, knocking into the chandelier before thumping to the floor. “I’m not touting Pink Pearl as God’s gift to wine, pocketing a million dollars, and shoving my dick into the winery marketing machine. Do you not see the conflict of interest?”
He pulls a face. Anger boils up inside me.
“You’re just jealous,” I spit out. “You’ve always been jealous of me.”
“Give me a break,” he scoffs. “Even as a kid, your calling card was doing the bare minimum. Why do you think Dad wanted to make you his gofer? Because you’d slay the day? You were a listless vagabond. He wanted to drill some common sense into you. And now you just flounce through life, swinging in your hammock, la-di-fucking-da. Zero idea,” he snarls, “of what real hard work means.”
Sawyer steps forward, his presence filling every inch of space. A flicker of something dark in his eyes tells me he is on the verge of going ballistic.
“You blew the entire family off because I didn’t fix your problem. Grow up, Rhys, and deal with it.” He jabs a finger into my sternum. “And if this shit blows up, you can kiss your reputation—whatever’s left of it—goodbye. Don’t expect me to clean up your mess.”
My heart is thundering now. Maybe I was stubborn. Maybe I knew my tiny talents would never change the world. But Sawyer glided down the gold-paved road that was his life. No one had to go to bat for him.
And he tucks his fifteen-hundred-dollar shades into the V of his starched shirt with all the smugness of Sawyer. Mr. Righteous.
Maybe that’s why I shove him. Hard. He staggers back in his pretentious Adidas Tiger sneakers, the rubber soles squeaking on the laminate.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I blaze back. “I’m good enough to pad out your profit margin as long as I remain a robot going through the motions? Maybe if you weren’t a twice-divorced miserable piece of shit who became Dad’s puppet without a fight, you might understand. Sometimes you need to follow your heart. Do what you think is right, instead of being a spineless yes-man.”
Sawyer doesn't speak, but I can feel the weight of his silence, and his face clouds with something I’ve never seen.
Hurt.
I just threw down a grenade with the pin pulled out of it. Worse, I smashed his ego. Pain, he can suck up, but he won’t stand for that.
Sawyer swings first, air whistling past my face as I dodge him just in time. He spins and flails, trying to recover, but I’m faster. A quick karate-chop to the back of his knee, and he goes down in a graceless swan dive. I slam into him, landing hard on his ribs.
“Fuck you, Rhys,” he growls, pushing against me.
He’s bigger and stronger, but I continue to punch him, so much anger fueling my fists. He rolls, trying to escape, but I go with him. We crash into a side table, toppling over a glass-bottomed lamp that shatters into a million shrieking pieces.
Seconds later, the bedroom door bangs open, and Dani cries, “Rhys! Don’t fight.”
But our old wounds have festered to the surface. No Band-Aid can stem the tide of our anger. Not with Sawyer, one arm lynched under my neck, trying to choke the life out of me.
“You have no idea what I’ve sacrificed for you and JC,” he huffs.
I twist and turn, rolling out of his grip, shards of glass biting into my skin. I wince, but the rush of adrenaline dulls the sting.
Bloodshed feels appropriate.
“Don’t guilt-trip me,” I lash back. “You’ve made a ton of money off the backs of your brothers.”
I kick at the sofa for leverage, trying to scramble away, but Sawyer thrives on an audience. With a gawking Dani frozen on the sidelines, unsure what to do, he crouches, then leaps—two hundred and twenty pounds of solid muscle pile-driving into me, knocking the air from my lungs. And he’s panting hard, sitting triumphantly on my chest like an alpha gorilla before he looks me dead in the eye.
“At least I didn’t destroy Mom.”
I blink back tears of frustration and struggle to breathe, an invisible pressure curling tighter around me. His comment is both cruel and correct. And it cuts deep, stinging more than the unfinished business crackling between us. Dani stands motionless in the kitchen, mortified, hand clamped over her mouth. Deeply immersed in the second-rate drama, none of us clocks the fourth person who has joined our party.
Not until the clank-clank of a suitcase rolling over the threshold snaps us back to reality.
Three sets of thunderstruck eyes swivel onto the five-ten ticking time bomb who sashays in on thigh-high, sequined platform boots and not much else, as if she confused noon in Osoyoos for midnight at the hottest club in Ibiza.
Sawyer squints at her like she’s a mirage about to swirl away into the desert once he blinks. Dani takes a startled step back, sizing up what she must think is a fangirl who breached security.
Me? The day morphing into something unfixable becomes a brutal reality when Myla lifts her oversized sparkly sunglasses.
Eyes aimed squarely at me and sheened with a scary kind of mania, she squeals, “Hiiii! I’m here!”