As he left her office, her longtime friend and mentor met her eyes. “I can’t make this decision for them.” Carmen Louisa never shied away from what was hard. “I can ride out a couple of bad years. Not everyone can.”
Sofia would willingly cover the losses of her growers. But these were proud people who cared for their vines like parents. They would rather see a year’s labor go into something—even if it was Familia Pascual’s jugs—then shrivel away to nothing. And maybe, with the continued negative press about the winery and Sofia’s inability to fake #Aishia and the devastating effect of the heat wave, that’s what Carmen Louisa believed Sofia offered them.
Nothing.
“You still believe we can do this, don’t you?” Sofia whispered the words.
Carmen Louisa looked at her with troubled eyes.
Sofia’s office door opened again.
“I think I have an idea.”
At the sound of Aish’s voice, the habits of two weeks and the emotions stoked for ten years crowded in Sofia’s throat. But she gulped them down as he strode toward her in crisp black jeans, high-top Converse, and a black canvas work shirt.
“I think I’ve got something that can help,” he said, steepling his long fingers on her desk.
Contrary to her wishes and wants, he stole her breath when he was this close, looking at her in that eager, lightning-flash way.
“Help with what, Aish?” Speaking to him normally felt like learning a new language.
“With the heat wave. My uncle used something at Laguna Ridge.”
As Aish began to explain, it sounded impossible. Then unlikely. Then she thought that she needed Aish to talk to Mateo. And they’d need Roxanne’s plane.
For all the ways she’d publicly scorned him and privately abused him, Aish was still here. She’d taken her pound of flesh and he’d still shown up, every day, on time, and seemed to find as much relief in giving her space as she’d found in getting it. His own apologies—taking part of the blame for what happened in her cellar, showing real regret for exposing her in a song—had been a shock. The Aish she’d known had never taken responsibility for anything.
The hushed conversation in her suite had gone a long way to heal the wound of what she’d done to him, a fresh wound she doubted they could playact around.
“What I did to you was the worst mistake of my life.”
That wound still stung, despite the years of scar tissue, and they couldn’t go anywhere near it if they were going to successfully get through this month. That he finally seemed to get that wove a strand of gratefulness into her dark, complicated emotions for Aish Salinger.
They might actually survive this month and come out ahead. As long as they could save the crop.
When she looked at Carmen Louisa, she was watching him with amusement as he paced. It was the first time she’d seen that gentle, laughing-at-the-world smile on her friend’s face in days. Unaware, Aish continued to talk and strategize with flashing eyes and flying hands. He was equally mesmerizing in front of two as he was in front of two hundred thousand.
“Vale, chico.” Sofia stopped him short, putting her hands up. “It’s better than what we’ve got. Venga. Let’s go talk to my brother.”
Later, in the dying twilight of the still-hot day, Sofia swiped her sweaty forehead with a red bandanna as she stood on an open truck bed. Bodega Sofia workers, superstar interns, and—most importantly—growers stood in the dusty road that ran between vineyards and looked expectantly up at her. Her fifteen growers were gathered in a clutch, Carmen Louisa standing with them. As the sun’s last rays disappeared behind the Pico Viajadora, Sofia knew Carmen Louisa’s decision. She’d worked as hard as Sofia today making Aish’s outlandish idea possible. But it was time for the other fourteen growers to choose: secure a huge payout and a future for this year’s fruit by selling to the Consejo or spend a sleepless night implementing an untested last-ditch effort with no guarantee of success.
Namrita stood to the side of the road with a small clutch of reporters and cameras. The growers’ decisions would decide Sofia’s fate, and no amount of prettying it up in the morning would change that. They’d decided to allow the world to watch her fate unfold.
With one last wipe of her sweaty palms, Sofia stuck the bandanna in her back pocket and said the first thing that came to mind. “This is a crazy idea,” she said, loud in English.
There were a couple of awkward chuckles, as if people were as uncomfortable at her attempting a motivational speech as she was at giving it. Sofia didn’t do this. She didn’t give inspiring eleventh-hour speeches; she left those to her brother.
But facts and figures weren’t going to raise spirits, energize already exhausted people, and convince her growers to follow the rebel queen instead of the selfish but consistent rulers they’d relied on for years.
“Today, in my own office, I was accused of having lots of crazy ideas. And maybe I do. I don’t know.” She could hear the murmured translation for the few workers who didn’t speak English, causing Juan Carlos’s words to bounce back at her. She wanted to bat at them. “¿Sabes que? No. There’s nothing crazy in helping the Monte del Vino Real adapt and thrive rather than allowing it to slip away until it’s another lost village in the mountains.”
She shook her hands at the daunting peaks around her and looked out at the crowd. People watched her hesitatingly. She probably looked like the abuela who had boisterous chats in the pews of the village chapel with people who were not there.
Aish’s dark gaze felt like a touch.
“But what we’re about to attempt, it’s probably crazy.” She motioned her thumb in his direction and addressed head-on one of the concerns of the growers. “Yes, it came from the mind of a rock star.” Sofia pointed at herself. “It was approved by your party-girl princess. The idea was validated by the prince, who’s responsible for some of you having young, vulnerable vines, and we used a billionaire’s plane to fly to Bordeaux to get the materials we needed.” She heard how damning the summary sounded from her own mouth and said her inner thought out loud. “It sounds more like we’re putting on the world’s best rave rather than trying to save this year’s grapes.”
To her surprise, there was true laughter from the crowd. It sounded like relief. It sounded like room to breathe. She pushed onward.
“I’m willing to try crazy if it will save us.” She angled and focused all her attention on the group of growers. That’s truly who this speech was for. “What I’m hoping and praying is that you are willing, too. We have the materials, we have the manpower, we have the equipment.” She motioned to the spotlights stationed at the end of vineyard rows. They would allow everyone to work through the night to save the grapes. “But if you don’t believe in me or this plan, I need to know now so that I can reassign workers. With the help of our interns—” She nodded at them. “We’ll have enough hands, but we’re stretched thin. If you decide to sell to the Consejo, they will supply you with their crews.”
Her hopes began to falter as she saw the growers murmur among themselves. What had she expected, blind obedience? The pride of tradition was the mother’s milk they’d been raised on; of course, they were going to question this untested plan.
A low voice hissed at her. She saw Aish standing at the edge of the truck, his fingers hooked around the bed.
“Tell them why,” he whispered urgently.
“What?”
“Tell them why they should believe in you and this plan.” He was dusty and disheveled from carrying the bolts of fabric off the plane and on to the trucks. The tip of a blue ocean wave could be seen on his wrist.
“He called me a delusional princess,” she called out in Spanish as she straightened and turned back to them. “All of you, you know me, the real me and not the princesa they talk about on the internet, for two weeks if not for my whole life.” Carmen Louisa moved closer to the intern group and began to trans
late for those who didn’t understand. Aish and Devonte moved closer to the group as well, and Aish tilted his head without taking his eyes off Sofia.
For the first time, she drew strength from all the eyes on her.
“As we harvested together in the fields or argued over blueprints for the winery or you listened to me ‘drone on’ about winemaking—” She gave a nod to Aish, which surprised a few laughs out of the group. “Have I ever seemed delusional to you?”
She’d spent the last two weeks terrified of the needs driving her decisions. But she didn’t have the luxury to doubt herself anymore. It wasn’t the amorphous pressures of public skepticism or her kingdom’s wariness bearing down on her, it was the sun, certain to circle around in about twelve hours and scorch everything in its path. Aish had given her a sure way to fight it, and she had to draw on her training, experience, intelligence, and royal destiny to make sure her people fought with her. For the first time, she was utterly confident that this was the right path.
“I created a multimillion-dollar product used by almost every winery in the world. Before I began building their competition, top wineries begged me to consult with them. I could get into this truck, drive out of the Monte, and never look back; my prospects would improve and my bank account would do better.”
The attention on her was absolute. “I lay these facts out for you to make one thing clear—I don’t ask you to do this for me. I love you, I love every hectare of this kingdom, but I am a wealthy, talented, and smart princess. I don’t need you to secure my future.
“I ask you to choose this for the future of the Monte del Vino Real.”
At that moment, headlights from a truck behind the crowd came on, lighting her up. Then headlights from another. Sofia realized then that only a slip of the day’s light was still available. It was now or never.
She pointed at the bolt of fabric behind her in the truck bed. “This is the only way forward. Yes, it will provide either sure success or epic failure, and we won’t know of either until the sun comes out tomorrow. But the old way, the Consejo way, leads to the end of the Monte. A few families will stay rich while the rest decline, our children will move away, and our way of life will be over. You must decide now. The possibility of a quick death or the certainty of a long, slow one. Aish?”
As everyone processed her words and Carmen Louisa caught up with the translation, Aish blinked like he was coming out of a daze. “Um...me?”
She smiled as he came closer into the light. “Yes, you. Could you organize our crew?”
“Me?” he asked again. He walked until the lowered tailgate stopped him; she moved forward until it supported her weight. He looked up at her as she looked down at him.
“Yes. You.” She grinned. “This was your idea and you have experience with the shade fabric. You should lead our crew.”
He looked up at her like she’d hit him with a mallet. His black hair was soft and mussed; there were fabric threads in it. She wanted to brush them out with her fingers. His eyes were deep and warm. He licked his plush bottom lip, and his Adam’s apple bobbed in his strong, tanned throat.
She’d seen this look on him before. It was dazzled. It was dangerous.
She stepped back and looked away, around, heart racing, and noticed Carmen Louisa rushing toward her. In that ten-second interaction, she’d forgotten that her kingdom’s future was being decided as the world watched.
She jumped off the truck bed and took a steadying breath as Carmen Louisa reached her.
“Vale. They’ll do it,” the grower said in a rush.
“How many?” Sofia held her breath. Half of the growers would be good; they could still pull a vintage from half the expected fruit. Getting eleven of these growers to reject Juan Carlos’s big payout would be a miracle.
“All of them,” Carmen Louisa announced with her eyebrows raised.
“All of them?”
Carmen Louisa’s smile told her she was shocked too.
But Sofia could waste time on shock later. They didn’t have a moment to spare.
She jumped back on the truck bed.
“Okay, vale, excellent...” But then she had to stop. Because she had to wipe her eyes. She pinched her quivering lips together and raised one finger.
She just needed a second.
“Vale,” she said again, clearing her throat. She saw others in the crowd wiping their eyes. “Bien. Mil gracias,” she said with a hand over her heart as she looked at her growers. But then she clapped her hands together.
“Now we get to work.”
September 16
Part Two
Aish flipped on the generator and squinted away from the eye-searing spotlight as workers, interns, and growers gathered around him. Devonte, in jeans and the most casual business shirt he owned, picked up the corner of the long length of white cloth and handed it to him.
“So when you’re cutting the cloth, cut it two feet longer than your rows so you can cover fruit at both ends,” Aish told the group, holding up the open-weave cloth. He hooked a hole at the top of the cloth on to the trellis stake, just under the thick leaf canopy and just above the top of the grape clusters. Then he pulled the cloth to the next trellis stake and connected it.
He tugged on the fabric. “The goal here is to get a nice horizontal line that will keep out the sun without smashing the fruit.”
He looked up and caught Sofia watching him, an intent expression on her face. He’d done this tutorial earlier for her and her brother Mateo—who was already hard at work with his crews putting shade cloth up in his most vulnerable vineyards—but he never expected to be entrusted to show her people. This wasn’t rocket science; anyone could figure out how this shade cloth worked. But Aish was knocked out honored to be asked. She’d trusted his recommendation for this vineyard innovation that was still in the trial phase. She’d had him explain it to her brother. She’d sent him on the billionaire’s plane to Bordeaux to make sure they were picking up what her phone call had purchased. She’d put him in this position of responsibility, training everyone, directing her crew.
It felt like being in a band again.
“My uncle liked crews of three. One person cuts the cloth and lays it out in the row, another person hooks it at the top, and then your third person hooks it at the bottom.” Devonte, who’d also been part of the earlier demonstration, crouched down and belled the fabric under the fruit to attach it to the trellis stake. He stood, moved to the next stake, and crouched to attach it. Both knees cracked.
Aish said, “And make sure to switch off before the guy bending over wants to kill you.”
Everyone laughed.
Aish’s expertise with the shade cloth was pure luck. The cloth’s French manufacturer had contacted his uncle during the growing season before John’s death. They claimed their revolutionary fabric blocked out 50 percent of the sun’s rays while still letting the grapes fully ripen, and they wanted Justin Masamune—who could have had Non-Traditionalist tattooed on his forehead—to test it out in his vineyards. The Russian River Valley was dealing with the same warming temperatures as other wine regions, and the fabric had worked to preserve the grapes in his sunniest vineyards. Thank Christ, Aish had been there to help roll it out.
The only problem, he’d told Sofia in her office, was that the white, treated, mesh cloth was still in the developmental phase because it was prohibitively expensive. That’s probably why Sofia and Mateo hadn’t heard of it.
Once she’d had her brother’s buy-in—a buy-in that had come intimidatingly fast as Aish had tried to sound knowledgeable and confident standing in the man’s fucking castle—she hadn’t hesitated to buy all the material the thrilled manufacturer could provide at a moment’s notice. The euro amount when Aish had signed the invoice as they’d loaded the bolts into the plane had made his eyes pop. He knew she was rich. He was rich. But he wasn’t that rich.
Fuck, he hoped this worked.
Sofia stepped into the spotlight. “So you know your crew assignments and where you’re going. I’ve made recommendations on your sheets for rows or locations that are the most vulnerable. But growers, you know your vineyards best.”
The spotlight outlined her body in a white shirt and dirty canvas overalls. She’d tied back her hair with a bandanna and the brown-caramel-blond stood up in tufts and curls. Her pointed chin was high; her neck was long and sleek and perfect.
His fingertips tingled as he listened to her command her army.
“I wish we could protect every grape in the Monte, but we can’t. So please be mindful; this shade cloth is finite. Buena suerte and let’s hope tomorrow’s sunrise is kind.”
The manufacturer only had so much shade cloth to sell. So Sofia and Mateo had to prioritize which vineyards and rows would be getting it: young Tempranillo Vino Real vines first, then vineyards on the Monte’s eastern ridge getting the intense western sun, and finally, dry-farmed vineyards that couldn’t be irrigated.
Aish shook Devonte’s hand before the manager headed to the trucks with the growers, workers, and superstar interns who never thought they’d be participating in a life-and-death struggle for the survival of the Monte. Namrita had sent the press away after Sofia’s speech.
He and Sofia were left in the roaring spotlights with their crew of nine. They broke into three groups to cover this quadrant of young Tempranillo Vino Real vines, and neither Aish nor Sofia fought the assumption that they would be in the same group. As the vineyard worker in their group went to cut lengths of fabric, Aish held up the loose cloth in the example row. “Who wants to go down on their knees first?” he asked.
Sometimes, being an ass was the only way he could get through the enormity of his feelings for this woman.
“Definitely you,” she said, rolling her eyes with a smirk.
He could almost imagine they weren’t at each other’s throats a week ago.
Hate Crush (Filthy Rich) Page 16