Once everyone is seated and glasses have been filled with wine from the vineyard, Àvia looks down the length of the table and smiles. “La meva família.”
The room grows instantly silent, all eyes turning to the family matriarch.
“We have a very special guest with us tonight,” she says with warm serenity. “Some of you are just meeting her for the first time this evening. But I’ve known Emerson since she was a little girl. During our summer visits to New Mexico, the sight of her riding her bicycle up the road to the ranch always brought a smile to our faces. She was a ray of sunshine, bursting with energy and curiosity and endless questions. As nosy as she was, it’s only fitting that she became a reporter.”
I grin sheepishly as laughter sweeps the table and Reyes gives my hair a playful tug.
Àvia smiles as she continues. “Emerson was such a joy to have around. We all loved her—Nicolau, Natalia, Brooks. And Reyes, most of all. He loved her with all his heart, and she loved him equally in return. To my great sadness, they were separated by forces beyond their control. But they never forgot each other. Not for a single day.” She raises her wineglass to us, her eyes glowing with fierce pride and tenderness. “To young love that never dies. And to new beginnings.”
Tears mist my eyes as everyone raises their glasses and drinks to the heartwarming toast.
Reyes lifts my hand to his mouth and kisses my knuckles, making my insides go mushy.
I smile at him and then at Àvia. Thank you, I mouth earnestly.
She winks at me over the rim of her glass.
After her brother asks the blessing, the servants start bringing out platters of food—stew with mussels and clams, charred vegetables and beans, grilled fish and traditional Catalan tomato bread. The scent of spices, fragrant and exotic, fills the air.
Once dinner is under way, the table comes alive with conversation and laughter. The conversations are often loud and chaotic, a colorful exchange of ideas and opinions spanning a wide range of topics: this season’s grape harvest, tourism and the economy, Alejandro’s upcoming games, global politics and Catalonia’s ongoing fight for independence from Spain. The dialogue switches back and forth between Catalan and English. The more intense the discussion, the likelier that Catalan will be spoken.
I absolutely love this side of Reyes’s family. Despite their vast wealth, they’re warm, loving and down to earth—the polar opposite of the cold, aristocratic Malones. I can definitely see why Reyes feels more at home here than North Carolina.
The food and wine are glorious, the laughter and smiles abundant. At one point, I’m engaged in a spirited debate with Alejandro and Greer about the gender pay gap in sports. As my voice rises in pitch, I catch Àvia watching me.
“Sorry,” I tell her with a sheepish grin. “I tend to get a little worked up over certain issues.”
“Never apologize for your beliefs, Emerson.” There’s a twinkle in her eye. “We have very strong women in this family. You fit right in.”
“Yes,” Reyes murmurs, gazing intently at me. “She certainly does.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
EMERSON
In the morning we enjoy a scintillatingly erotic shower, making love under multiple jets of pulsing water. Afterward we get dressed and head downstairs to join the family for breakfast.
It won’t be a lingering affair like last night’s dinner. The children have to leave for school and the adults have important business to attend to. Àvia and Uncle Miquel have more meetings pertaining to the expansion project; Joaquim and Blanca are headed to the office to work on a new branding campaign; Greer is consulting with a travel management company to secure a new account for Knox Air; and Alejandro is off to Barcelona for fútbol practice.
Tia Alba—who retired from the family business years ago—has a leisurely day of shopping planned with her daughter, who’s currently on maternity leave. They invite me to join them.
“Some other time,” Reyes answers for me. “I promised to give Emerson a tour of the winery today.”
“Wonderful.” Àvia beams approvingly and pats my hand on the table. “You’re in for a memorable experience.”
“I can’t wait,” I tell her with a smile.
After breakfast there’s a flurry of hugs and kisses as everyone goes their separate ways. As an only child who grew up in a loveless home where hugs were rare, the natural displays of affection between the Galindos are both foreign and beautiful to me.
One of the family drivers takes Reyes and me across the sprawling estate to the winery. Headquartered in Penedès, Bodegas Galindo also owns wineries in Spain’s Priorat and Rioja regions.
As we pass a sleek glass building on our right, I point out the window. “What’s that?”
“The executive offices,” Reyes murmurs with his lips in my hair. “That’s where the professional employees work and hold meetings.”
“It looks brand sparkling new.”
“It’s five years old. Once Uncle Miquel became general manager, he recommended having office space on the premises. My grandfather was adamantly opposed to the idea. He didn’t want the winery turned into a corporate park. But Miquel promised not to put up any other buildings, and he gave Grandpa a corner office suite with panoramic views so he could look out and see the vineyard anytime he wanted.” Reyes chuckles. “That sold him.”
I laugh. “Wise man, your uncle Miquel.”
The driver pulls up in front of the large visitor center and lets us out. Even at that early hour, the place is buzzing with tourists taking guided tours, roaming the souvenir shop and picnicking in the gardens. The winery is a popular venue for weddings, social functions and corporate retreats. Curated events are hosted year-round for wine clubs and professional sommeliers.
Hung on the wall or displayed in glass cases are framed news clippings and numerous international awards. Bodegas Galindo has been featured in Decanter, Wine Spectator, Condé Nast Traveler, Drinks International, Wein Gourmet and just about every other prestigious magazine for wine connoisseurs.
There’s an old group photo of the extended family out in front of the vineyard—five generations of Galindos standing proudly on soil cultivated by their ancestors.
“You, Alejandro, Uncle Miquel and Avi Nicolau share such a strong family resemblance,” I marvel wonderingly. “It’s so amazing.”
“It’s called genetics,” Reyes drawls with dry humor. “I realize you weren’t pre-med like me—”
I jab my elbow into his midsection, making him laugh.
“Smartass,” I retort.
More laughter rumbles through his chest. He’s standing close behind me, his lips tickling my ear as he points to faces in the picture, identifying family members I don’t know.
Suddenly we’re interrupted by a minor commotion. I look in the direction of the noise to see a handful of tourists pointing excitedly at Reyes. Their stares and exclamations draw other people’s attention. The next thing we know, we’re swarmed by a mob of autograph seekers.
Reyes smiles warmly as he shakes hands, returns hugs, signs autographs and patiently poses for selfies. I’m dragged into a massive group photo taken by the visitor center manager. He and several other employees join the crowd in giving Reyes a standing ovation.
“You’re such a rock star,” I tease him as we’re leaving the visitor center. “Football god. Wine royalty. I feel like I should be bowing to you.”
He slants me a dirty grin. “When we get back to our room, you can bow—or kneel—to your heart’s content. Preferably butt naked.”
I snort. “In your dreams, Malone. I would never—” I break off with a squeal of laughter as he grabs me up in his arms and carries me off to the vineyard.
That’s where we begin our tour, strolling between rows of immaculately tended vines that have been bearing fruit for generations. Reyes inspects the vines as we walk, cradling clusters of grapes in his large hand and turning them this way and that as he checks their color and ripeness.
&nbs
p; “You look right at home,” I muse, watching him. “You could have been a vintner in another life.”
He smiles reminiscently. “I used to love walking these fields with my grandfather. Every morning we’d get up before everyone else and head out to the vineyard together. I’d trot along beside him watching his face and seeing the pride and joy in his eyes, the deep love he had for this land that inspired his art. He showed me how to check the trellis system to make sure the vines were properly supported. Later in the season, when the grapes were ripe for harvesting, we’d pick a few handfuls and eat them right off the vine. When we got back to the house with grape-stained hands, Àvia would be waiting with coffee and hot chocolate. She was an early riser herself, but she always pretended to sleep in so we could have those morning walks to ourselves.” Reyes smiles at the memory, looking toward the distant mountains. “Everything I know about this vineyard, I learned from my grandfather.”
I reach up and stroke his stubble-rough cheek. “He taught you well.”
Reyes turns his face into my hand and kisses my palm, his eyes gleaming in the sunlight. “Ready to see more?”
I grin softly. “Lead the way.”
We leave the vineyard and commandeer a company jeep to explore the caves dug into the hillside by José Antonio Galindo, Reyes’s great-grandfather who founded the winery. When we get there, an elevator plunges us six levels below ground to a labyrinth of tunnels lined with untold numbers of corked bottles and stacked barrels.
As we roam through the modernized caves, Reyes explains how the wines are aged in oak barrels before bottling, a process lasting anywhere from a few months to several years. He’s so knowledgeable and passionate about the subject, his face glowing with pride and excitement. I could listen to him talk about fermentation all day.
When it’s time for our wine tasting, we head to the new cellar that houses Bodegas Galindo’s premium wines. Named after Reyes’s mother and painstakingly designed by her father, the state-of-the-art facility boasts an ultramodern glass facade with a waterfall fountain in front. It looks more like a cosmopolitan art museum than a wine cellar.
When we step through the glass doors, the first thing we see is a life-size painting of Reyes’s mother hung on the wall. It knocks the breath out of me for a minute.
“Wow,” I whisper, moving slowly across the bright atrium to have a closer look.
The stunning portrait features Natalia as a young woman enjoying a summer picnic in the winery’s gardens. She’s sitting on a red blanket, her bright yellow skirt billowing out around her as she savors a glass of white wine.
Her father’s loving brushstrokes captured the texture of her creamy skin, the sparkle in her tawny eyes, the bewitching allure of her smile.
I stand gazing up at the painting, awash with memories of the vibrant, beautiful woman who’d embraced me as her own from the very beginning.
“I miss her,” I say quietly.
Reyes threads his fingers through mine. “Me, too.”
I look at him. He’s studying his mother’s lifelike image, pain shadowing his eyes. It’ll always be there, lurking just beneath the surface.
I watch as he kisses his fingertips and presses them against the painting. He then leads me away, across the sunny atrium and down to the cellar rooms where we find row after row of neatly stacked barrels filled with aging wine.
A young employee greets us enthusiastically and escorts us to a glass-walled private tasting room that overlooks a maze garden. There are tables covered with bottles of wine, tasting glasses, and platters of cheese and ham and bread.
With soft classical music playing in the background, we spend a lazy hour sampling a collection of premium wines. We swirl-sniff-sip-swish-and-spit while our knowledgeable sommelier talks about the different grape varieties used to produce Galindo wines, which are one hundred percent organic and sold around the world.
When Reyes gives the sommelier an approving wink to let her know she’s doing a good job, she beams like she’s just been praised by the pope. I grin as she gushingly informs me that Natalia de Sol—named in honor of Reyes’s mother—is the company’s most acclaimed white wine.
I take one sip and swoon, making Reyes laugh as I totally ignore etiquette and drain the glass, then ask for more. It’s so delicious that I want to smuggle a whole cask home to share with Zoe. I’ll settle for two or three bottles, which Reyes generously promises to provide.
By the end of our tour, I’ve learned more about the winemaking business and Cava production than I ever expected to learn. I never knew viticulture could be so fascinating.
After our wine tasting, we have lunch at Bodegas Galindo’s Michelin-starred restaurant, which serves farm-to-table local produce and traditional Catalan dishes.
Tucked away in a private corner with sweeping views of the valley below, we dine on delicious tapas paired with an excellent Tempranillo from last season’s harvest. We drink a bottle and a half, barely noticing because we’re so absorbed in our food and each other.
When we finish eating, I sit back in my chair with a sigh of pure contentment. “What a glorious day this has been.”
“Couldn’t agree more.” Reyes gazes at me, his lips curled up in a lazy smile. “Have you had enough walking? Should I send for a car to take us back to the house?”
I consider for only a moment. “No, let’s walk. The weather’s so beautiful—perfect for enjoying the scenery.”
He grins. “As you wish.”
We leave the restaurant and set out across the estate, our linked hands swinging languidly between us as we stroll along.
I feel intoxicated, and not just from all the vino we’ve imbibed today. I’m intoxicated with joy and hope. Because I’m here with Reyes, the love of my life. My secrets have been laid bare, the lies exposed. He finally knows the truth about why I left him all those years ago. I told him everything, and he doesn’t hate me anymore. He uprooted his life to come after me because he never stopped loving me, and he wanted to see if there was still a chance for us to be together. I feel like the luckiest woman in the world.
I am the luckiest woman in the world.
As we start up the driveway to the mansion, there’s a shiny red Porsche parked out front.
When I feel Reyes’s hand tense against mine, I look at him.
He’s staring intently at the front door.
I soon realize why when a young blonde comes strutting out. She looks like a supermodel with bombshell curves poured into a skintight red dress.
I look back at Reyes, see the grim set of his jaw and feel my skin prickle with dread.
When the woman sees us approaching, her face lights up and then dims as her eyes land on our joined hands.
Reyes tightens his grip, his hand enveloping mine almost protectively as the blonde recovers her surprise and squeals, “Reyes!”
I watch as she rushes down the front steps, her perfect boobs bouncing in her low-cut dress. Her legs are super long, and strappy high-heeled sandals show off her pedicured feet.
When she hurls herself into Reyes’s arms, my stomach twists with jealousy.
“Oh, my God!” she exclaims in thickly accented English. “I can’t believe you’re here!”
“Hello, Vega,” Reyes murmurs, giving me an apologetic look over the blonde’s shoulder.
“You didn’t tell me you were visiting this month! As soon as I heard you were here, I rushed right over to see you!”
“Um. Yeah.” When the stunning beauty clings too long, Reyes grips her arms and gently but firmly sets her away.
She looks from him to me, her gorgeous blue eyes raking me from head to toe. “I see you brought home a guest.”
“I did.” Reyes wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me to his side. “Vega, this is Emerson, my girlfriend from—”
“Girlfriend?” the blonde repeats in disbelief. “Since when?”
“Since forever.” Reyes gazes down at me, his thumb caressing my hip. “We grew up together and were hi
gh school sweethearts. We recently reconnected.”
“Oh, really?” Vega sneers, her eyes skewering me with icy contempt. “If she’s so special to you, why haven’t I ever heard of her before?”
Reyes gives her a mildly amused look. “When have I ever shared my innermost thoughts and feelings with you? You know we don’t have that kind of relationship.”
Hurt flares in her eyes.
She’s in love with him, I realize, trying to squash the jealousy squeezing my chest. He’s more than just a fuck buddy to her. She loves him.
As if to confirm my assessment, Vega stares sullenly at Reyes. “You talk as if we mean nothing to each other. I know your family. I’ve watched you sleep in my bed. I gave you—”
“That’s enough,” Reyes says with a warning edge. As every muscle in my body stiffens, he tightens his arm around my waist as if to prevent me from pulling away. God knows I want to.
“Come on, baby,” Vega purrs cajolingly, running one of her long scarlet nails down the front of Reyes’s chest. “We’ve known each other for three years now. I always look forward to your visits, and we always have so much fun together. Remember all the times we went dancing and ended up—”
Reyes grabs her wrist. “I said enough.”
She stares into his hard eyes for a few seconds, then wrenches her hand away. “Why are you being like this? How can you just show up one day with a fucking girlfriend?”
He clenches his jaw, eyes narrowing. “We’re not in a relationship, Vega. I’ve never made any promises to you.”
She glares at him, her chest heaving with angry breaths. When she gestures to me and jeers something in Spanish, I don’t need a translator to know I’ve just been insulted.
Reyes fires back in Spanish, his voice low and savage.
Her face crumples in wounded outrage. “Bastardo!” she screams. “I was there when you won your first Super Bowl! I’m the one who flew all the way to America to celebrate with you and your family!” She stabs her finger in my direction. “Where was she? Huh? Dónde—”
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