And why was she acting like some moony-eyed Juliet over a few missed hours when they still had two months? She tugged on her hair again.
This, this impossible high when he was looking at her or laughing with her or listening to her—better than anyone ever had—and this bone-deep low when he was away, this was love. She’d never felt it before but had known it, had understood it, the moment she’d met him. She loved him. It filled her until it made her float, it weakened and flattened her, it energized her to her fingertips in the morning, and it made her communicate love songs with her body when she was with him at night. She loved him.
She was certain he loved her back. Although, for all their talking, he hadn’t said so.
She gave a little pant she hoped couldn’t be heard over the laughter and flickering flames. That click of thought—maybe he didn’t need her the way she needed him—made anxiety prickle all over her body, and she sucked down half her beer to drown it.
Was this the sensation that had driven her mother to become the vain, adulterous, egomaniacal woman she’d become?
Sofia knew a secret about her, a secret she didn’t know if the queen remembered giving up. The queen had been drunk when she revealed it, miserable, crying, her face still beautiful in the year before she began her addiction with plastic surgery. Sofia had been seven. They’d both been so young.
The queen had been so young when she’d married Sofia’s father, only three years older than Sofia was now. So young. So stupid. Her mother had married a prince who would be king. Sofia had fallen in love with a boy who wanted to be a rock star.
Staring into the flames, she angrily wiped a tear from her cheek and cursed herself for ever comparing her beautiful boy to that cheating, vainglorious, self-involved man.
Like an autumn leaf thrown into the flames, all her ache and worry disappeared the instant she heard the rise of happy voices around the bonfire. Only one person had the power to elevate the mood of an entire group like that.
Sofia jumped to her feet. Looked through the roaring flames.
And saw Aish, lit by the glow and the moonlight, carrying his guitar toward the fire, fist bumping and hand clapping the people who greeted him, John trailing behind and carrying his little video camera. Aish never took his eyes off her.
She ran to him. And it was like no one else was there.
She jumped and his strong arm grabbed her around the waist and then he was kissing her and she gripped him with her thighs and he tasted warm and rich, he tasted like he’d missed her too, and she tangled her fingers in his hair and John laughed and said, “Fuck, man, she attacked you like that bug in Alien. Make she sure she doesn’t implant something.”
Without breaking her kiss, Sofia flashed John the OK sign behind Aish’s neck. In the Monte, she’d explained to him—because it was only useful if he understood—that symbol meant asshole.
The other interns hooted and hollered as Aish kept kissing her—wholly and wetly, as if they were alone and he was inside her—while he walked them both toward the firelight. She gave a muffled yelp into his mouth when he grabbed her ass and swooped down to take a seat on a log.
She stayed straddling him, nestled closer as his big hand stroked down her uncovered thigh. She’d worn her ripped-up jean shorts and a tank top. She’d never felt more confident in her body than when he was touching her.
“Mi fuego,” she breathed against his lips.
She opened her eyes to find his sparkling into hers. “Mi estrella. Estrellita.”
She’d been trying to explain to him that he couldn’t make every word diminutive but he did make her feel small. His demanding hands, his long body, his thick penis, he made her feel tiny and necessary, like a far-off, life-giving sun.
She put her hands on his face, on those glass-cutting cheekbones, and pushed back his hair. “Where were you? You took forever.” She pulled on his hair as punishment.
His eyes fell lazy with heat as he smiled. “With John. We finished our rounds then he wanted to hang out. He’s the reason—” He shivered as Sofia stroked his plush bottom lip and she grinned. “He asked my uncle to put us on the same crew today.” Sofia stopped stroking. “He missed me. When we were done working, we played for a little bit. He feels better. And he won’t do that again.”
Sofia looked up and saw John, a few feet away and in a circle of conversation, watching her. Sorry, he mouthed, then made a forlorn grimace with his big blue eyes. Sofia gave a nod. Apology accepted.
She knew when she returned her gaze to Aish that John would still be watching.
“Are you going to play?” she asked Aish, wanting to change the subject, wanting to shake off the weird certainty that, yes, John was going to do something like this again.
He nodded. “For a little bit. Not too long.” The look he gave her made her toes curl in her boots. “I promise.” They still had a few hours before they all were to report to their trucks at 3 a.m., to start driving out to the vineyards and picking up the grape bins that the vineyard workers filled.
They still had a few hours to find someplace dark.
With a soft nuzzle of his lips, she slipped off his lap and settled on the ground near him. She leaned back on her palms and stretched her legs out. His eyes took a
