“I know exactly how to make this work,” she said. Roman looked at her and she nodded. He let Aish go and the man shrugged out of Henry’s hold then turned around. For an instant, she met his sparkling gaze. “Follow my rules. Stick to the script.”
She caught Aish’s struggle with patience before she unfocused her eyes. She looked-not-looked at him in a move she’d perfected.
“The script’s not working, Sofia,” he said. She hated the way he kept repeating her name. “We can’t convince people of anything when we’re reciting lines and judging feet of distance and trying to remember which fucking elbow I can touch.”
How dare he be frustrated with her. “You haven’t once tried.”
“Yes I have.”
“No you haven’t.” Her voice wanted to rise, but she forced it cool, shoved it like a hot iron into ice water. “You won’t even follow the simplest of my rules.”
She pointed at his rolled-up sleeves.
Rule 8: Aish Salinger will wear full sleeves and keep his tattoos covered in all spaces outside of his private quarters. He will resist unveiling himself to ‘explain’ his tattoos. For the purposes of hygiene, he will maintain a long-sleeve shirt at all times.
When she’d seen the glimpse of him in the video, she hadn’t seen the details of his tattoos. But the ink running all over his torso and down his rangy arms had been instantly provocative, even when he’d looked too skinny and too pale. She didn’t want to be intrigued by what the ink drew across his velvety skin.
And she shouldn’t be confronted by it in her own fucking kingdom, she wanted to shriek and pound against her desk.
“It’s hot,” he said between his teeth. “Outside.”
Sofia breathed through her nose. “You show up late for my workshops dressed for a music video. Are you taking this seriously at all?”
“I show up late because I’m trying to memorize your script,” he said, voice rising. “And I’m working just as hard as everyone else even when I’m wearing leather. I’m doing my part, Sofia, and you’re still trying to punish me with your rules. They’re all stupid.”
She made herself ice against the surge of anger.
“I have been patient. I’ve asked politely. There were terms, and you agreed to them. So stop behaving like a child and do as I asked. Or we end this charade and I share my information with the press.”
“You can threaten me.” His large hands gripped his hips. “You can refuse to look at me and ignore me and sic your brother and your bulldog on me full time—”
“I’m more of a golden retriever,” Henry interjected.
“Whatever you do,” Aish growled, “it doesn’t change the fact that this isn’t working. That news story is my problem, too. And it just announced that we’re not convincing anyone of anything. If everyone goes home, I’m also fucked.”
His problem? How could he in any way compare his responsibilities to hers?
She raised her chin regally. “It’s working just fine.”
“Can everyone wait outside the office?” he asked.
Jolted, she met his gaze. His eyes were dark, bearing down on her, his hands still gripping those swaggery hips.
“Just gimme a few minutes,” he said. “Just stand outside the door.”
When she looked at her brother, already shaking her head, she was shocked to see that Roman was considering it.
“But the ground rules...” she said, heart racing. The most important rule.
Aish Salinger will only speak to Princesa Sofia de Esperanza y Santos when it will benefit the arrangement. Therefore, there will be no personal interaction unless the media, the intern corps, tourists, or other public influencers are present. There will be no private, one-on-one conversation.
Namrita, who Sofia had just begun thinking of as an ally, betrayed her. “Maybe it will be good for you to clear the air.”
In Spanish, Carmen Louisa said, “We’ll be right outside the door; we can see everything going on.”
She turned back to Henry, her only remaining support.
He studied her, rubbed a hand across his mouth, then turned on a heel.
Roman said, “You got five minutes.”
Looking more than a little guilty, both Namrita, Carmen Louisa and Devonte followed him. They walked out and closed the door behind them.
And then, for all intents and purposes, Sofia was alone with Aish Salinger for the first time in ten years.
She felt herself pressing back into her leather seat as he fell into the chair in front of her desk. He spread his knees, rested his elbows on them, entwined those long, tactile fingers. His hair glistened blue-black in her fluorescents as he stared at the floor. His scent reached her sensitive nose across the desk—seawater and sunlit air.
“My uncle says hi,” he said to the floor.
It was like he reached across the desk and took away her gun.
Aish’s uncle, Justin Masamune, was one of the top winemakers in California and a champion of wine innovation at his Laguna Ridge Winery. As a Japanese-American in an industry with few minorities in the United States, he enjoyed bucking the system. He’d written Sofia’s recommendation letter for the University of Bordeaux and had provided her some info as she was planning the winery, which was how Aish had probably learned about it.
Carmen Louisa was right; Aish did seem to know an uncomfortable amount about the wine industry. When they’d been together, he’d taken his uncle’s devotion and his easy access to a fascinating winery for granted.
“Um...” Sofia stuttered, staring at Aish’s black hair. “Tell him hi.”
“He’d love to come and support you but he won’t be able to get away. He’s doubled the number of vineyards he farms since you were there. He’s doubled the harvest crew, too. Asshole put bunk beds in the bunkhouse instead of enlarging the space.”
When Aish raised his head, his grin and his dimple were like a sword through the middle of her.
“He still makes me sleep out there when I piss him off. You can guess I
